Amends: A Love Story (8 page)

I feel a light hand on my shoulder. It's my
mother. She's wearing a deep blue, floor-length gown, the kind she
always wore to her charity galas. She looks younger than I
remember, and her hair is longer. She's also brought a friend: a
tall woman in a nurse's uniform with pale blue eyes set in a
strong, square-jawed face. I know it's Laura, but her capable,
robust appearance surprises me. Awake and alive, she looks nothing
like my mother.

"Why are you sitting in the mud?" asks Mom.
"Stand up, son."

I rise slowly, facing her and Laura. They
look at each other and smile.

Mom waves a delicate,
birdlike hand towards Laura. "I was just talking to my friend here.
She has a daughter about your age." I nod. Amity, the other
motherless child. The haunted, beautiful girl. The one I almost
wrote to like the complete, self-centered asshole I am. Thank God I
didn't send that email. I can hear Ember's voice in the back of my
mind.
It's always about you, isn't
it?

Laura regards me with an intense focus that
feels vaguely hostile. "Did you know she just lost her father?"

I nod. News of his death is all over the
local news sites.

"Anything to say, hero boy?" spits Laura, her
eyes contacting into angry slits.

My mother rolls her eyes. "Oh c'mon, honey,
he drank himself to death. Your daughter is probably better off now
that she isn't shackled to a barely functional alcoholic, who would
have needed help for the rest of his life."

Laura glares at my mother. "He was a
sensitive man who dealt badly with grief. He would have come out of
it, eventually. He loved his daughter very much."

My mother's about to respond when I hear
sirens. They're coming from everywhere. Laura yells for us to duck,
and then...I'm back in bed, slippery with acrid dream sweat and
fumbling with my alarm.

I take a long, deliberate breath. These
dreams are making me question my sanity. The line between what's
real and what isn't is starting to get a little hazy. I go to my
computer and look up Craig Dormer, Laura Dormer's husband. Yes,
he's still dead. I've known for a while. The news just popped up
one day while I was searching for information about Amity. Yet,
somehow, it doesn't feel real. I guess I can't quite accept that
one moment of inattention, one stupid fight between me and Ember,
destroyed someone's entire family.

I glance at the plastic prescription bottle
on my nightstand. The Ambien beckons to me with false promises of
restful sleep.

My phone vibrates, and I
feel instantly sick. It's another text from Ember.
Can I come over? Please?

I shut off my phone and go back to bed. I
skip the Ambien and shut my eyes, hoping to find a dark, silent
refuge from both dreams and reality.

/////////////////////////

I'm running alongside Lake Everclear, trying
to lose myself in the steady thud-thud-thud of my footsteps. I've
allowed myself to get out of shape since the season ended, so I'm
doing a brutal workout over a ten-mile course. If I can't fix my
mind or my conscience or my life, I can at least burn some of the
fat off my gut. My phone is constantly vibrating. Ember has sent me
about fifty texts. Some are pleading, some are wheedling, and some
are angry.

I keep running, accelerating and decelerating
at regular intervals. I'm starting to sweat—clean, healthy sweat,
not bitter dream sweat—and I focus on my breathing. I can see
sailboats on the lake out of the corner of my eye. Their simple
shapes and movements are soothing. I spot a tall mangrove tree
several hundred yards ahead. I speed up and hurtle towards it,
fleeing from a pack of demons called grief, memory, guilt, and
betrayal.

I slow down when I reach the tree. As I catch
my breath, I realize there's a car creeping along right next to me.
It's a pale green Maserati. Fuck. I stop and turn towards the car.
The passenger side door unlocks, and I get in.

"How did you know where I was?"

Dad's mouth forms a small, dry smile. "Your
phone has GPS, and it's on my plan. I can track it online."

"Oh," I say. I remind myself that I need to
start paying for my own phone.

"We need to talk," he says.

I brace myself for a sick-making conversation
about Ember. I wish he would just leave it alone. He's won. He can
have her when she turns eighteen. I don't want her anymore. It's
just that I don't want to have a Very Special Talk with my dad
about how he wants permission to bang my ex. Otherwise, it will be
very hard for me to pretend that I have a normal father who doesn't
fuck teenagers.

Dad's face turns solemn. "I want to caution
you again about having any contact with the family of Laura
Dormer."

I groan. The only thing I want to talk about
less than Ember is the accident. "I know Dad, alright? You told me
to let the lawyers handle it, so that's what I'm doing." So far,
I've signed a few forms and had a perfunctory interview with the
police. I have no idea what his problem is, but I'm sure he's going
to tell me.

"The IT guys were working on my network this
morning. I couldn't find my phone, so I borrowed your computer to
look up a few stock prices. When I opened the browser, it became
immediately clear that you've spent countless hours researching
Laura Dormer and her family. I even found a draft email to Amity
Dormer. Please tell me you haven't sent it."

I almost vomit. I should have changed the
password on my MacBook, but Dad is almost never here. "No, I
haven't sent anything. Yet."

Dad's clenches his jaw, and the car
accelerates. "I expect you're carrying around a lot of guilt about
this accident. You're a good boy. It's natural. But I see this
turning into an obsession."

"Of course, I'm obsessed," I fire back. "I
killed someone. I ruined her daughter's life. Made her an orphan."
I take a deep breath. It's time to confess. "The accident was my
fault. Ember and I were fighting. She was grabbing at the wheel,
and I was distracted."

Dad is quiet for a moment. "The toxicology
report came back from the Medical Examiner. There were traces of
benzodiazepines in Mrs. Dormer's system. I doubt that you and Ember
were entirely at fault."

He sighs heavily, something he almost never
does. "Of course, what happened with that woman's husband was
tragic. Although, if you ask me, he did his daughter a big favor.
Her life is going to be rough enough without having to take care of
a drunk."

I stifle a gasp. That's what Mom said in my
dream, even though it's the kind of thing I'm pretty sure she'd
never say. I reach my hand to my temple and rub it. The existential
vertigo is hurting my head. Everything is true, and nothing is. The
only thing I know for sure is that girl—Amity Dormer—needs some
kind of help.

"Are you sure we can't do something for her?
You're a billionaire. You could change her life with your fucking
lunch money."

My father frowns, and the car accelerates
even more. "I don't have time to explain to you how the world
works, but you already know why we can't simply write a check. You
are not going to tie this albatross around your neck."

Tires squeal as he pulls into our driveway. I
try to open the door, but it's still locked. I glance over at my
dad. He face is drawn, and there are new wrinkles around his eyes,
as if he hasn't slept for days. "Son," he says with an odd catch in
his voice, "I'm going to make this simple. You are forbidden to
have any contact with Laura Dormer's daughter. If I discover you've
disobeyed me, the consequences will be swift and severe."

He puts his hand on my shoulder and looks
into my eyes. "Do you understand?" he asks, his voice harsh with
grief.

/////////////////////////

I'm exhausted, and it's not the good kind of
exhaustion that leaves you sweaty, refreshed, and relaxed. As I
move slowly up the staircase to my room, my legs feel like dead
weights. I wonder for the first time how my father is handling
Mom's death. I thought he was fine—too fine, really—but now I'm not
so sure.

I open the door to my room,
wondering if it's too early to take an Ambien, and
holy fuck, Ember is lying on my
bed
. I've got to talk to Dad's security
guys. They can't keep letting her in.

She sits up, and I can tell she's wearing one
of my old football shirts that barely covers her ass. Her hair is
messy, her face is flushed, and her lips are slightly parted as if
she's just been kissed. Overall, she looks freshly fucked. She's
the only girl I've ever been with, and seeing her like this tears
at my heart.

"Get out of here," I say, praying my voice
won't crack. "And stop texting me."

She sniffles and tears flow freely down her
face.

"Please don't make me go," she begs, leaning
forward so the shirt slips down and exposes one soft, smooth
shoulder. "At least let me explain."

"There's nothing to explain," I say, trying
to sound hard. "I read the texts. You were flirting with my father.
That's fucked up!"

Her mouth quivers, and her eyes get bigger. I
want to take her in my arms and comfort her, but I know that's a
very bad idea.

"I'm so sorry. I know I fucked up, big time.
It was just texting. Stupid texting. It meant nothing. Your
father's a famous billionaire and his wanting me made me feel
important. But I never would have done anything with him. I
swear."

I shake my head, which is starting to hurt
again. "Look, Ember, maybe you're right. Maybe you wouldn't have
fucked my father. But you've already gone too far. It's too weird
now. I can't do it any more."

"So this is it?" she asks plaintively. "We're
breaking up?"

"Yes," I say, eyes stinging. "We're
over."

Now she starts sobbing in earnest. Big,
convulsive sobs rack her small, rounded body. Unsure what to do, I
sit next to her and rub her back. "You'll be fine," I say over and
over again. "You'll be fine."

Eventually, she quiets, and we sit silently
hand in hand, just like we did when we first started seeing each
other. She looks up at me shyly. Her eyes are swollen, and her nose
is pink, but the lines of her face are still beautiful.

"A kiss goodbye?" she asks.

I'm doomed the moment her lips touch
mine.

Chapter 9: Amity

"Any luck getting into your mother's
computer?"

"Just a minute, Gran!"

I try Mom's birthday. No luck. I try Dad's
birthday and mine. Nothing. After many more tries, I finally
combine Mom's birthday with the name of the little wiener dog we
had when I was little. I type Wienerschnitzel0507, hit enter, and
it works.

"I'm in!"

"Good," says Gran. "See if you can find any
of her financial information." She hands me a stack of notices from
the bank, several credit card companies, and a car loan company.
The sheer number of documents and the vaguely threatening quality
of the black lettering proclaiming URGENT and TIME SENSITIVE on
every page makes me uneasy.

I get started by searching for spreadsheets,
but there aren't any. Maybe, I think, she paid her bills online. I
decide to check her email for payment confirmations. I scan her
browser history and then click on her Gmail account. She saved the
password in her browser, so I get right in.

My phone chirps. Another text from Ethan. I
feel a jolt of adrenaline, and a twinge of nausea. I've been
avoiding him since he took me to that strip club. I've also been
missing him—or, at least, the hot, amazing kisses we shared. It
takes all the willpower I have to ignore this latest text, but I
manage it. Barely. I give myself a gold star and focus on the task
at hand—pawing through Mom's email.

I search for credit card companies by name,
and at least twenty automatic payment receipts pop up. I start
printing them off for Gran. We'll be seeing a lawyer this afternoon
to begin the process of untangling the financial mess my parents
left behind. The whole thing is surreal. I remember my parents
complaining about money, but it had seemed so abstract. The sheets
of paper flying out of the printer are shockingly real.

After I'm done printing the
receipts, I return to Mom's inbox. I tell myself I should stick
with my to-do list and search for her auto loan records, when a
conversation titled
I just can't do it
anymore
catches my eye. I spend a few
moments castigating myself for even thinking about reading it. Then
I decide I'm going to open it, anyway. After all, I reason, she's
dead. Privacy ends with the last breath, right?

My palms are moist when I click on the email
thread. I read quickly, clicking and scrolling while my heart beats
against my ribcage like a dying bird. When I've finished reading,
my worldview has changed forever. Mom was having an affair with a
heart surgeon—a married heart surgeon—and trying to break it
off.

It's too
painful
, she wrote the day before she
died,
to keep getting a taste of something
I know I cannot have. I need time and space to come to terms with
the limits of my life, and embrace them. You make me wild and
jangled. Loudly out of key. Nervous and mad and useless to those
who need me. I'm more sorry than you know, but this must
end.

I get another text from Ethan and decide that
I've changed my mind. For now, I don't care that he's an asshole
with a girlfriend. I want to feel his rough, hungry lips on mine
and forget everything but his strong arms and darkly thrilling
touch.

I guess I'm my mother's daughter, after
all.

/////////////////////////

"Your parents died intestate," says Mr. Kost,
fanning himself with a manila folder. He's a small, sweaty man with
a round face and tiny, close-set eyes. The air conditioning in his
office is broken. A fan blows stale air around the room. Papers are
piled everywhere, suggesting more than a touch of hoarding
disorder.