Amends: A Love Story (9 page)

"What does intestate mean?" I ask, starting
to sweat myself.

"It's a legal term for dying without a will,"
he explains. "Practically speaking, it means we'll need a court
order to get you access to your parents' bank accounts."

I must look concerned, because he adds,
"Don't worry. This kind of thing happens all the time. We can get
it done in a week or two."

"What about the house and her father's
truck?" asks Gran, holding out a green folder filled with papers
she found in Mom's desk drawer.

Kost reaches out to take them. Even the pads
of his fingers are sweating. "The title transfers might take a
little longer, but your granddaughter has a legal right to all her
parents' property as the only surviving lineal descendant."

"What about their debts?" I place the printed
credit card and auto loan statements on his desk. Mom had a lot of
credit card debt, but not from shoes or vacations or anything fun.
She was just trying to get us from month to month without
defaulting on her mortgage, her car payment, or the hospital bills
leftover from my birth and Dad's detox. Each month's statement was
a relentlessly practical inventory—a car battery, a lawnmower belt,
a new water heater.

Kost makes an odd hissing sound like a
balloon deflating, and his little eyes narrow even more. "That's
where things get a little more complicated. I'm sorry to be the
bearer of bad news, but the insurance company representing the
other driver in your mother's accident is looking for a settlement
from the estate."

Gran's face flushes, and her voice drips with
sarcasm. "What do you mean they want a settlement? A monstrous Land
Rover smashed my daughter's car to bits and took her life in the
process. What do they want? A new paint job?"

Kost squirms in his seat as if he's being
scolded by his mother. "Actually, ma'am, that is exactly what they
want." He retrieves a paper from one of his folders and holds it
close to his face. "Twenty thousand dollars for a new custom paint
job, five thousand dollars for a new front left bumper, and two
thousand dollars for a new left rim. And forty thousand dollars in
miscellaneous medical expenses."

Gran rests a hand on her chest and breathes
heavily like she's sprinting after a thief. "Tell that insurance
company to go to Hell. The accident was not my daughter's fault.
She was on her way to work as a pediatric nurse, for God's
sake."

Kost fidgets even more. "I'm sorry ma'am, but
the settlement request came with a preliminary report from the
Medical Examiner. The results suggest your daughter was on some
kind of tranquilizer at the time of the accident."

Gran huffs. "That is a lie." Then she turns
to me. "Tell him," she says.

I look down at my hands and
remember that stupid email.
Wild and
jangled
. It all fits. It all fucking
fits.

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

Gran and I look down at the road from the
high cab of Dad's truck. Gran finally stopped driving his half-dead
Mustang when it became fully deceased in the parking lot of a Super
BigMart.

Gran is driving in angry silence while I tell
her about Mom's affair. Her face remains stoic, but the car dips
and swerves at odd intervals. I grip the door handle when she takes
a sharp curve.

Finally, I've made my case. "Isn't it
possible that Mom was on drugs again?" I ask.

Gran snorts. "Your father was a shambling
wreck, and your mother wanted a little happiness on the side. That
doesn't mean she was back on the pills."

I nod—I don't know what else to do—and wipe a
single tear from my cheek. I have learned too much in too little
time. I remember when the most important thing in my life was
getting into college.

Oh fuck,
college
. I received my financial aid
package from Adams—one that assumes two living, working parents—and
there's no way I'm going to be able to swing it. Kost was talking
about selling the house, so maybe—if I'm very, very lucky—I'll end
up with about four or five thousand dollars for my education. The
whole process, he said, could take two or three years.

My phone chirps. I'm half afraid and half
hopeful that Ethan is going to change our plans. But it's not
Ethan. It's Maggie.

Got my package from NYU, and it's sweet!
You'll have to visit me in the Big City. I can hardly wait!

Sad, pathetic tears of self pity pool behind
my eyes. I'd wanted to start over in college. I was going to become
a new person and leave the Amityville Horror far behind. I guess
that's not going to happen any time soon. I'll probably need to get
some kind of job, so I can keep up with my parents' mortgage
payments until the house sells. Maybe I can think about going to
college when I'm thirty.

"I'm going to get a job," I say glumly.
"College will just have to wait."

Gran's face shifts subtly from anger to
resolution. "Of course, you'll get a job. I wouldn't expect
anything less. But you can still go to college. Didn't you get into
the honors program at the University Extension? It won't be fancy,
but it will still be a degree."

Ah, yes, the University Extension...where
Ethan goes. I'm not sure if I'm pleased or terrified. I imagine
running into Ethan and his girlfriend in class. I bet she's small
and dainty and perfectly poised—everything I'm not.

Gran interprets my silence as sulking. "Don't
feel sorry for yourself," she says briskly. "Lots of people work
and go to school at the same time. Some even do it when they have
children."

"That won't be a problem for me!" I yelp.

"I should hope not." Gran chuckles for a
moment and then falls silent again. After a few moments, she says,
"You know, I don't feel good about leaving you here all alone to
fend for yourself. Not good at all."

"I'll be fine!" I reply in what I hope is a
sufficiently upbeat and convincing tone of voice. I don't want to
be alone, but I sure don't want Gran to stay because she thinks I
can't hack it.

Gran chuckles again. This time it's a louder
sound, something closer to a full-throated laugh. "Well, why don't
you let me stick around and make sure of that? Besides, I can help
you with the mortgage payments. I'd hate to see you lose the house
before it's sold."

I smile. "I'd like that," I say. "And I think
Mom would have, too."

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

Gran drops me at school to collect some
things from my locker—mostly books I've been meaning to read. I
haven't been to school since Mom died. My teachers said they'll
keep giving me As until I'm ready to come back, which may be never.
I'm thinking about taking my GED in a few weeks and then starting
at the Extension. I've always hated high school, and it's not like
I care about prom or graduation.

I pass through the hallways on the way to my
locker like I have a hundred times before, yet I have the strangest
feeling that something's missing. Then one of the guys from the
debate team mutters, "It's the Amityville Horror, back from the
dead," and I know what it is. The thing that's missing is fear.
After burying both my parents, I can no longer fear these children,
no matter how hard they try to hurt me.

As I fiddle with my combination lock, my
redheaded nemesis appears beside me, apparently conjured from the
thick, humid air. She taps my shoulder and then flinches away, as
if I'm a hot stove. I go about my business, loading books into my
bag.

"Excuse me?" Her voice is soft and
uncertain.

"Yes?" I look down at her from my full height
of five feet ten inches plus heels. I wonder how such a small, mean
person ever had such a big impact on my life.

She looks ashamed. "I just want to say how
sorry I am about your parents." She says it fast, as if reciting a
dangerous spell.

For a moment, I think about spitting on her,
or telling her to go fuck herself, or explaining in detail what a
miserable hell she and her friends managed to create for me. But
then I realize I feel nothing. And it's a good nothing, too. It's
not emptiness, it's freedom.

"Thanks," I say, right before I turn and walk
away.

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

Movie night, girlfriend? Pretty pretty
please?

It's Maggie again. I haven't really talked to
her since I got her text about NYU. I'm coming to terms with my new
situation—living in Triple Marsh indefinitely, getting a service
industry job, going to the Extension in my spare time—but it's a
gradual thing. I'm not really in the mood to hear Maggie warble on
about going to school in the big city, even if she is my best
friend.

I'm also avoiding her because I've been lying
to her about Ethan. She doesn't know I'm still seeing him, because
I've been too embarrassed to tell her.

Before I can reply to Maggie, Ethan grabs my
phone and tucks it into his jacket pocket.

"Hey!" I yelp. "I was in the middle of
something."

"Kid, don't you know that it's not polite to
text when someone's talking to you?" He runs a finger along my
neck, evoking the queasy excitement I've come to associate with
him.

I roll my eyes and stick out my tongue. "It's
not polite to lie to your girlfriend. Where does she think you are
tonight?"

He smirks. "I didn't lie to my girlfriend. I
told her I was going to a club with a friend. You're my friend. And
we're at a club. Sure, we may kiss a little and touch a little, but
that doesn't mean anything."

"Yeah, whatever you say," I mutter, looking
everywhere but into Ethan's eyes. This club, like all the others,
has dark walls and cool lighting that somehow make everyone look
smoother and slimmer. I see pretty people drinking and posturing
all around me and suddenly wish I was watching movies with
Maggie.

Ethan moves his chair closer to mine and
whispers in my ear. "If you're tired of being a virgin, just let me
know. I can show you the ropes in more ways than one. As a friend,
of course."

My head practically explodes with righteous
indignation. I open my mouth to release a stream of curses, but
before I can answer, a heavyset man and in an oversized suit
approaches the table and pulls Ethan into an awkward man-hug. Ethan
introduces us with an ironic smile. "Dirk, this is my friend,
Amity. Amity, this is Dirk. He owns the Kat Club."

When I stare blankly, Ethan adds, "That's the
strip club where you got scared and ran away."

I nod with recognition. I remember that night
very well. It was probably the last time I made a smart decision
regarding my non-relationship with Ethan.

Dirk sits down next to me and scoots his
chair so that he's just a few inches from my face. I can smell his
sour, minty breath, so like my father's. He has close-cropped blond
hair and a florid Germanic face. He takes my thin, cool hand in his
plump, warm one and squeezes firmly. "I'm sorry you were scared,
schatzi." I nod nervously. His gaze is intense, and he takes in
every bit of me that he can see.

"Stand up," he commands.

I glance at Ethan. He shrugs. "Do what the
man says." He voice is casual, but I know he means it.

I rise like the tall, gawky teenager I am
while Dirk takes my physical inventory. I expect him to say
something crude, or maybe mock my long limbs and small breasts. But
he doesn't.

"Such long, perfect legs and such lovely,
slutty hair," he sighs. "Do you know how much money you'd make at
my club, schatzi?"

I don't, but I want to know. I very much want
to know.

Chapter 10: Laird

It's Sunday. Dad is in New York City. Again.
I'm visiting Mom's mausoleum on a day so bright and lovely it mocks
death to its ugly face.

Like rich people throughout history, she
built a monument to her life and death, where family and friends
can visit, pay their respects and even, someday, choose to be
interred close by. It's a pretty, airy space with modern lines and
angles carved in classic white marble. I'm sitting outside the tomb
itself on a marble bench positioned between the entryway and a
waist-high wrought-iron gate.

Mom chose the highest point in the Jasper
Heights Eternal Home, so I have a panoramic view of the whole
cemetery. Gravestones sprawl for as far as I can see.

My phone vibrates. It's Ember.

In the mall parking lot, after my dance
class?

I shake my head. I'm not going to do it this
time. Every time I see Ember, I try to break up with her, and every
time I try to break up with her, we end up naked and sweaty.
Lately, our encounters have become frantic and desperate. We've
hooked up in cars, the girl's locker room, and even in a rest area
by Lake Everclear.

No time, Em. Visiting Mom.

That should shut her down for a while. Nobody
wants to hear about your dead relatives. It punctures their
illusion of immortality.

I put aside my phone and try talking to Mom.
I feel awkward speaking aloud to the air, so I have this one-sided
conversation in my head. I tell Mom how much I miss her and how Dad
and I are drifting apart. I tell her that Dad practically lives in
New York City now. I tell her I can't stop thinking about that
damned car accident or what's going to happen to the daughter of
the woman who died. I tell her I'm trying to break up with a girl
who just might be a little crazy.

And then I stop. This feels too much like
prayer, and I was never the church-going type. Actually, neither
was Mom. I turn my head to watch a black and white bird come to
rest on Mom's tomb and warble a few sweet, sad notes. Before I can
get any funny ideas about spirit animals or signs, it flies
away.

I hold my breath to keep from breaking into
sobs. I know Mom hasn't become a benevolent spirit or a songbird
sporting her favorite colors. She's simply gone. I decide this
visit was a bad idea. I should have waited until I had more
distance. More perspective. I wish I could fall into a dreamless
sleep the way I used to when Mom was still alive. I am so sick and
tired of my own thoughts.