True Blend

by DeMaio, Joanne

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, really.”

  “Yeah. Right. Something’s keeping you from those gowns. Do you have coffee on?”

  “Yes.”

  “Food?”

  “Cranberry muffins.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Celia says, hanging up before Amy can argue. Before she even has a chance to wake Grace, Celia walks in her back kitchen door looking around the room for stalkers and shadows keeping her awake at night. She wears a seersucker pantsuit, her auburn hair is pulled back in a messy bun, thin silver hoops hang from her ears and a leather portfolio is pressed beneath her arm.

  “Here.” Amy sets a steaming mug of coffee on the table. She slices open a muffin, spreads a pat of butter in the center and warms it in the microwave. “I’m okay, Celia. Really. You’ll be late for work.”

  Celia picks up the white mug when Amy sets the muffin on her plate. “Well how did I know that someone wasn’t here holding a gun to your head making you cancel your gown plans?”

  “Oh, come on.” Amy sits across from her.

  “Come on? What are you saying? That it couldn’t happen? Like Grace couldn’t be kidnapped? And you can’t be stalked?”

  “Maybe I just don’t want to believe it anymore.”

  Celia raises a concerned eyebrow. “Listen. I talked to Ben last night.” She adds a dollop of cream to her coffee, stirs it and taps her spoon on the cup. “We both want you to consider something. And don’t answer me until you’ve given the question serious thought.” She pushes half the muffin into her mouth, chews and chases it down with coffee.

  Amy motions to the portfolio between them. “It’s not about that little ranch you showed me, is it?”

  “Partly.” Her fingers lace around the mug. “It could be the perfect home for you. The owners moved out last weekend, so it’s empty now. And they’ve dropped the price. Just consider it, okay? Being that it’s not so isolated, and it’s easier to take care of than this place.”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t want to move.”

  “Well think about it. Ben and I are worried about you here in this big old house alone and we also want you to consider spending only the nights with us. For a while.” She holds her hand up straight when Amy opens her mouth to speak. “No. Don’t answer me now. Talk to George about it. And maybe your parents. We’ve got room for you and Grace and hey, we’ve got a dog, too.”

  “You know how I feel about taking care of myself. It’s something I have to do.”

  “Right.” Celia slides her cup aside. “Except these are extraordinary circumstances you’re living under. The standard rules don’t apply this summer.” She stands to leave, taking first another long swallow of coffee, then nudging the ranch house specs closer to Amy. “Stalking doesn’t just go away. It gets worse. If you’re going to be responsible for Grace, you can’t keep your head in the sand. Remember, forewarned is forearmed.”

  Amy watches silently as Celia picks her keys up off the table, backing away while tipping the last of her coffee into her mouth. “I’m running late, but please think about it for me?”

  “I bought a gun.” Celia’s eyes close and Amy waits quietly for them to open, for Celia to process that information. “So I am forearmed now.”

  Celia sinks back into her chair and checks her watch. “Does George know this?”

  Amy shakes her head no. “I didn’t want to be talked out of it.”

  “Damn it,” Celia says, stamping her foot. “You see how it’s escalating already?”

  “No, it’s not. Dad told me I should have a gun after Mark died. So I got a gun.”

  “That’s different and you know it.” She takes an exasperated breath and another glance at her watch. “I have an appointment I really can’t miss. But you and I have some serious talking to do. When’s a good time? And I won’t take no for that answer, because I’m sure all your others will be no.”

  “Tomorrow, okay? There’s a gown at an estate sale I want to check out. Come with me and Grace, and we’ll talk afterward.”

  It felt good to commit to Celia and to her shop again. She’d been away from the tulle and lace and veils, and, well, and happiness, for too long. The gowns will be in her life again tomorrow. So she feels better waking Grace and giving her breakfast, saying small phrases to her over her cereal. She feels better pulling the stepladder from the pantry and opening it on the front porch. Her doctor had mentioned that after what she’d been through, it’s not uncommon to have exaggerated startle reactions. So the bulb was nothing, just a burnt-out bulb and she’d ridiculously panicked and gotten out her gun. Because any little thing can get her jumpy. She reaches for the light switch and flicks it to be sure it’s turned off before removing the old bulb. Then flicks it again.

  Okay, so maybe her reaction last night wasn’t exaggerated. Because when the old, burnt-out bulb illuminates, she knows someone had been on her porch the night before. Maybe now more than ever, she needs to trust herself.

  * * *

  Since she had taken the reins of control back by buying a gun and reporting the stalking to the police, Amy sees that to keep control, she has to pull back tight on the bit. That afternoon, she watches from the opposite side of a mirrored wall as Dr. Brina works with Grace, trying to trigger a response without Amy in the room. It’s like watching a silent movie, the doctor going through the muted motions on the other side of the wall. She shows her daughter pictures, encourages Grace to color, tries in vain to invoke anger, fear or sadness. Dr. Brina instructs Grace to hammer square blocks into square holes and Amy whispers “Whack it!” from behind the wall, wringing her hands together. “Get mad, Grace.”

  When Dr. Brina suggests that a speech therapist might be able to cull verbal sounds from her small patient, Amy makes an instant decision. Walking with Grace in the bright sunshine out to her SUV, she checks the door handles and looks inside, front and back, in her new security routine. Once Grace is buckled into her car seat, Amy carefully drives through the parking lot toward the exit, frequently checking the rearview mirror to see if anyone follows them. But the closer she gets to her destination, the less she thinks of stalkers. It’s the kidnappers who take over her mind.

  She’d never found it in her heart to return to the bank and subject Grace to any frightening memories there, but now she drives into the very parking lot where the kidnapping happened. Except she isn’t here to bank and she isn’t here for herself. She’s here to get her daughter to speak.

  Dr. Berg told her weeks ago that disturbing memories need to be processed and the crime put into proper perspective in the subconscious mind. Otherwise avoidance symptoms can lead to complete withdrawal. Grace is steps away from isolation. Angel is now her only link to this world.

  “Come on, honey,” Amy murmurs as she unbuckles Grace. She walks slowly past two stores, approaching the bank while holding Grace’s hand the same way she did that morning. Her fingers curl around her daughter’s small fingers and she says soft, encouraging words. The sun shines bright; the similarities between the two days are strong. In Amy’s mind, she pictures yellow crime tape wrapped around the parking lot. In her mind, she also pictures breaking through that tape and bringing Grace back, finally, once and for all.

  Grace walks quietly beside her and Amy feels when it starts, when her daughter resists, her feet slowing.

  * * *

  George closes up The Main Course and cleans the meat grinders. With a special wrench, he removes the nuts and bolts that hold the auger housing in place and sanitizes, rinses and sets out each piece to dry. He takes no chances. Just like he told Amy. Risk isn’t for him. He prefers the sure thing. Scrupulous attention to his specialty meat shop brings him steady business.

  As he goes through the careful motions of sanitizing the equipment, his thoughts are free to start planning the next day, considering what he needs to order, what special cuts he needs to prepare. Who will come into the shop? That thought is new. He recognizes the regulars. Th
ey talk about their kids, their golf swings, car trouble. “What’s good today, George?” they ask, trusting him to suggest only the best, from hamburger patties to the finest steaks. “What’s the special?”

  Then there are the folks he doesn’t recognize. He never used to think twice about them. Now he watches them differently, wondering if Reid sends them to keep tabs on him. A woman in her late twenties stopped in that afternoon. “I’d like four of the stuffed peppers,” she said, pointing to the meals-to-go case. Her accent had him look twice. It placed her from an eastern European country, maybe Ukraine or Poland. Is she a nanny? Or is she working undercover, watching him? Is she a live-in health aide here on a temporary visa to earn money to bring back home? Or is she a resident transplanted from the old country? Does she like it here? In the past, those interested questions would have been asked. Today, he didn’t want to know. He just made note of her fair skin, the light brown hair, the voice.

  After stopping at his condominium, taking a quick shower and putting on jeans and a casual tee, the woman’s face passes through his thoughts again. And again after he walks from his pickup along Amy’s driveway, up the stone path to her kitchen door in the back. When he knocks, finds no answer and the door unlocked, he walks in. Could her stalker be an eastern European woman?

  “Hello?” he calls out. A white coffee cup sits on the blue table. The cup is full, but the mug cool to the touch. “Amy?” He looks out the kitchen window, thinking she might be at the tire swing with Grace. But she would have heard him come in if she was in the yard.

  In the living room, pillows neatly line the sofa; a cotton throw is draped over a chair back; the lamps and framed photographs of Grace all stand precisely in place. There are no signs of a struggle. He stands at the bottom of the stairs with a hand on the banister, listening. After a second, he takes the stairs two at a time.

  Grace’s bedroom door is ajar. “Amy?” he asks, opening the door and squinting to adjust to the darkness behind it. Amy sits in a chair pulled close to the bed. She shakes her head back and forth without speaking. “What’s wrong?” he whispers, his hand on her shoulder. The curtains are drawn and Grace sleeps soundly with Angel curled against her leg. “Did something happen?”

  She stands and pushes past him to the bathroom out in the hallway, locking the door behind her. He turns and follows, trying the bathroom doorknob, jiggling it and pressing his ear to the door. The noise from the other side is muffled and sounds as though she’s sick. “Amy. Are you all right? Open the door.”

  The toilet flushes and tap water runs in the sink, but still no word from her. As soon as he hears the door unlock, he opens it and sees she’s splashed water on her face and neck. But more than that, he’s shocked to feel the weight of her when she walks into his arms.

  * * *

  “What have I done?” Amy asks. They sit on the couch and George hands her a tall glass of water. “It seemed to make perfect sense at the time. We want Grace to speak. To react. So I brought her to the place we want her to react to.” She takes a long, shaking breath. “What was I thinking? That I could play God?”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Grace is slipping further away each day. Any mother would try to reach out like that.”

  “Not my mother. Why didn’t I just make her soup? Or read to her and hold her?” She sips the water, barely swallowing a mouthful. George sits beside her and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “What’s wrong with me?” she asks.

  “What exactly happened, Amy? What did Grace do?”

  “I brought her to the bank, thinking it’s the one place that can get a reaction from her, even if it’s a bad one. But then, oh George, it was terrible.” Her eyes fill up again. “She tried to pull away, but I didn’t let her and kept walking to the bank. And then?” She stifles a cry, raising her hand to her mouth.

  “What? What happened?”

  “Her legs stopped working. Just like that. She crumpled to her knees on the parking lot pavement.” Tears stream down her face and George gets tissues from the kitchen, returning and blotting her cheeks. “My poor Grace,” she cries into her hands.

  “It’s okay, she’ll be all right. Don’t worry.”

  “No. No she won’t. I did her in. She couldn’t walk, George. I actually had to pick her up and carry her and she just hung limp in my arms. And I could see, oh God I could see, she wasn’t with me at all. I pushed her over some edge I didn’t know was so close.”

  Amy stands and goes to the living room window, looking out toward the red barn down the street. The corn crops are tall enough now to rustle in the breeze. A stone wall runs along the street to the farmland. The sun is shining bright on Celia’s yellow bungalow. All these pretty sights, and this. She turns to George. “I put her to bed and she hasn’t even moved in all these hours. She’s just gone, deep asleep.”

  “Why don’t you wake her up now? Easy, talk softly to her like nothing’s happened.”

  “I’m afraid to.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  She returns to the couch and sits beside George. “I’m afraid of what I did. The way her legs stopped working, it’s like I paralyzed her. And if I wake her up, I’ll know. What if she doesn’t walk? What will I do? What will I tell the doctors? That I took her therapy into my own hands? I’ll lose her, George. They’ll say I’m under too much stress. They’ll take her away from me.”

  “No they won’t. If she doesn’t walk, we’ll call Dr. Brina. She’ll understand. She’ll tell you what to do.” He looks around the room. “It’s awfully warm in here. Let’s get these windows opened and get some air in here first.”

  Amy watches him unlatch the new brass locks and lift the paned windows. He opens the front door and late day sunshine spills into the living room along with summer noise. Chickadees and robins serenade the evening. And it feels like she is watching an old home movie, remembering with aching fondness a life she once knew. A lawn mower moves in even paths across someone’s jewel green lawn. A car drives by, a neighbor coming home from work at the end of the day. Somewhere down the street a dog barks, wanting to come in and be with the people. And the same birdsong that reaches Amy’s ears reaches upstairs to Grace’s. It is a life she used to have before she waited for Grace to speak.

  She lies down on the couch, closes her eyes and purely listens. Is this what it feels like to lose a child? Life seeming like a home movie? A time past? George walks by her, lightly stroking her arm as he does. They say no pain compares to the loss of a child. Would you even call it pain? She lies absolutely still, eyes closed, trying to feel where it hurts.

  Eventually she hears George talking, not sure exactly what he is saying behind her closed eyes. It is more the deep tone of his voice that reaches her. He always understands. He always tries his best to make her life better. With her eyes still closed, she can’t picture him not being in her life.

  “Come on,” he says quietly, his voice distant. “Look who’s waiting for you.”

  Amy’s eyes open to see George coming down the stairs holding Grace. At the bottom step, he sets her standing on the living room floor and crouches beside her. Her arm curls around Bear, her ponytails are flattened from sleep, her cheeks flush with summer warmth. And her legs stand straight and strong.

  “Go see Mommy now,” George says. He looks over at Amy and winks.

  Grace toddles over to her mother. Even though all Amy wants to do is fly off the couch and sweep her child up in her arms, she waits, lying on her side, her arms open to her daughter. Grace climbs up and snuggles against her, Angel jumping up right behind her.

  He’s done it again, Amy just knows. Grace curls right into her body. He’s given her their normal back. “Thank you,” she whispers over to him.

  “Don’t thank me,” he answers, standing at the foot of the staircase still. “You need to take a lesson from your daughter. Move past it. What’s done is done.”

  Twenty-two

  IT’S AMAZING THAT THIS TYPE of thing happens daily, throug
hout the country. Lawyers and housewives and cashiers and pharmacists and librarians, people from all walks of life, learn, eagerly too, how to kill. Looking at the six other faces with her, Amy would never dream this of them if she bumped into them in the grocery store buying bread and orange juice.

  “Okay, people. I know you’re ready to learn to shoot. But at the same time, you have to know how to defend yourself. We’ve got twenty minutes left and a little more material to cover. Next class will have an hour of gun time.”

  The students sit scattered at two wooden tables in a small room at the firing range facility. Their serious expressions don’t waver as they learn how to defend their bodies from lethal bullets. Lenny, an insurance adjuster of about fifty, dressed in a business suit, raises his hand. “So we should bring our equipment next week?”

  “Yes. A handgun, ammunition. Eye and ear protection, if you have it. If not, we’ll provide. I’ll cover defensive tactics for a half hour, then we’ll move into the firing range. Now,” their instructor Ron says, walking to the chalkboard and drawing stick figures and arrows, “anyone can stand in a doorway and empty their bullets into an aggressor.” Ron has square shoulders and a wide girth. His blond hair is buzz cut and his voice grows raspier the more he talks. Amy notices the shoulder holster beneath his sport jacket when he tips up a water bottle. “But death is not instantaneous,” he continues. “Your attacker might get one shot at you before he drops. So all the training on how to fire that weapon is futile if you’re standing exposed in a doorway and his shot hits its mark. You’re both dead. That’s why you have to know defensive tactics as well, and find cover. Cover goes hand in hand with discharging your weapon.”

  As he speaks, he walks to his desk, swigs the water and gives a handout to each student. “It’s important to know the difference between concealment and cover. Concealment hides you but it won’t protect you from a bullet. Draperies. A chair.” He knocks on the hollow core door to the classroom. “Think that’s going to stop a bullet? Hardly.” He clasps his hands behind his back and walks to the center of the room. “Concealment.”