by A J Grayson
State care, summed up perfectly.
Yet somehow Amber managed to function. She’d been given a volunteer post at the public library, which meant she could check in to ‘work’ when she felt up for it, and she seemed content when she was there. Despite her condition, she was functional enough to do what was required of her. Such volunteer posts were offered as a community service in any case – for the elderly who wanted something constructive to do, or for individuals with conditions that might require low-intensity surroundings – and so deliberately involved a light and lightly-enforced route: re-shelving books returned by patrons, tidying and cleaning the reading areas, and being permitted, when requested, to sit and read. What obviously drove her enjoyment the most were the quiet times when she could sit at the rack of newspapers the library kept in stock, devouring them like food. She soaked in the news. When the papers were exhausted, she browsed the Internet. It seemed to make her happy, or maybe not happy, but at least content. Happiness was too much to expect.
But the pattern of her days was useful. Seeing what she enjoyed, what calmed her. A plan of action began to take shape in my head.
In all the weeks I followed her, I didn’t see Amber make contact with a single person that might be called a friend. A few people in the library knew her, obviously, but their relationships were professional and distant, and in most cases unspoken. Amber Jackson was a loner. For my purposes, it was ideal.
After a couple of weeks I approached a teenager in a local café – the obvious neo-Goth hacker type with a laptop perpetually bound to his fingertips – and paid him off to hack into Amber’s email. The address from her medical files pointed to an obvious public mail system, and if I weren’t so eager for it to work I would have been disturbed by how quickly the young man was able to break through her password. He muttered something about how stupid people were with their privacy, and glared at me to make it clear that I was no exception; but he took the cash I offered him anyway, and disappeared back into his own world.
Once I was in to her account, I could track Amber’s thoughts as well as her movements. She received a few emails each week from predictable sources: a bit of spam, a few subscription notices, sale announcements from Macy’s – but her social life was as non-existent online as in the real world. She corresponded with no one. No one, that is, but herself. Amber used her email account more as a journal than a communications tool, and the vast majority of the messages in her inbox were addressed to herself. Little notes, thoughts, plans. Nothing deep, nothing overly revealing.
Except that she wrote about her love of the coast. Of the Marin Headlands in particular. Then, one day, she began to plan for an outing. A weekend walking trip north of San Francisco. First there were just brief mentions in her journal entries, little notes toying with the idea; but then came more concrete preparations – lists of paths through the Headlands, restaurants, hotels. Her dream started to take the shape of an actual plan.
And I knew I had my way in.
The details formed quickly in my mind. The coast would be our starting point, hers and mine. She would be alone, away, in a situation she loved. The perfect locale for creating a fairytale encounter to begin it all. Let her old life end and her new life begin in a setting that brought her peace.
I took note of all her preparations: dates of travel, her online booking reference for the old-world-style accommodation she finally settled upon: the Pelican Inn, just off Muir Beach. Her shopping list. And I shopped, myself. I’d never been one for hiking or for the Headlands themselves, but an afternoon out with the credit card had me geared up with the right sort of shoes, a puffed red jacket that I was assured was ‘just the sort of thing hikers like,’ though it felt a size too small for me; gloves, even a suitable shade of sunglasses. A day’s shopping and I looked like such outings were a part of my blood.
On the day she was set to depart, I did too. Not just from my little home, but from everything. If her life was to start over, then mine was going to have to change radically as well. I’d already listed my apartment and found a suitable couple’s home north of San Francisco, in a town called Windsor, outside of Santa Rosa – far from my past in LA County and Amber’s on the northern shores of Monterey Bay. I’d handed in my notice at the state hospital the same week I’d applied for a change of name. If you’re going to go, go all the way. A new name was just the extra step that seemed necessary to ensure there weren’t accidental overlaps with my past, or Amber’s, once we were together. I wasn’t ready to give up David – mostly out of fear that I’d forget, or slip up, and that would get her curiosity peaked. So I kept the first name I’ve always had, and just changed the remainder. My surname was linked to my parents, anyway, and there was certainly no romantic attachment there. So David Penske became David Joseph Howell. Joseph because I’d once had a friend of that name; and Howell because … well, I just liked the sound of it.
The Howells. A sweet sound, ready for a sweet life.
I managed to land an assistant’s position at one of the dozens of CVS Pharmacy branches in the Bay Area, which took a little doing. God knows I was qualified, but all my records were under my old name. Nothing, though, that a little forgery and document manipulation couldn’t alter – and that was part of the rationale of aiming low: an entry-level role at a massive chain. Background checks were not going to be as intense as they might be elsewhere. As long as the credentials looked right, the paper was thick and the seals convincing – all of which, I ensured, they were.
I couldn’t let Amber know where I worked, of course. My new job was another layer of buffering, but I didn’t want her provoked with any opportunity to draw out memories from the past. That one encounter in the ward was distant, but seeing me in a white lab coat, clipboard in hand … there was always the chance that memories could push through. But I also couldn’t play too multi-faceted a false life forever. So I settled on the idea of simply giving her a different pharmacy name for my employment. Something in the Sunset District of SF proper. Not like she’d ever have need to check. I could be honest about my work, without running the chance she’d stop by one day and see me in situ.
Then came finding a job for Amber herself. Something she’d be able to do once our new life began. Recognizing how much she’d enjoyed browsing newspapers and searching the Internet at her volunteer role in the library, and having made a few incognito trips inside to learn from the head librarian there that, despite everything, she was capable at the minor tasks put before her, I decided to build off that. A little local bookshop in Santa Rosa, not far from Windsor, had a ‘Help Wanted’ sign in the window, and the ethos seemed a perfect fit. Quiet, low-stress, surrounded by books and papers. Of course, the place had to be prepped. We’d be married by the time she applied, so I found the owner, a pudgy, friendly little man called Mitch, and simply lay a scenario out before him. My poor wife, who had gone through childhood trauma that had left her severely mentally disturbed, but who was now being treated and was able to work in society, wanted some little role in the workplace. She couldn’t hold down a normal job, of course; she needed something quieter, permitting her to withdraw into herself now and then. Her emotional state, I insisted with great personal sentiment, was as fragile as a butterfly. She could be sent back into her traumatized state by even slight mentions of her background, her past; yet she was making a new start, and all her doctors agreed she was perfectly capable of the kind of work the bookshop might offer, as long as they were willing to let her be a little … different, and keep her in the present, not the past.
I’d had the doctors’ notes to prove all this, of course. I’d already had to step into the realm of forgery for myself. It wasn’t hard to carry it further.
The man called Mitch had listened to the story with real compassion on his face. My poor, sweet wife, whom her doting new husband was trying to provide for as best he could – she was someone he said he felt his little shop could help. He was more than willing: he was eager to offer her a hand. His
staff, he assured me, were like a family, and they would all be ready to agree never to ask her about her past, never to question her emotional state. To let her have her space when and if she needed it. She would be their special case, and they would all feel noble and enlightened for taking her on.
So everything was organized. All was in hand.
It was time to start over.
The afternoon our new life began will be etched in my mind forever. Amber was hiking north, and from a distance I could see she was making good speed. A woman who did this often, who was accustomed to walking at a firm clip. She had walking sticks in her hands, the retractible kind that look like ski poles and which I’ve never been able to figure out the purpose of. She seemed more interested in the walk itself than in the scenery or wildlife along the path.
I opted to walk near a group of three others who were out together. Looked like a men’s weekend, off away from the wives, and though I wasn’t part of their ensemble, by walking just a few paces in front of them I figured I could easily be mistaken for a group member. It struck me this might be less intimidating than an encounter with a lone man out on his own.
I watched her approach as we moved – that face, that beauty, that haunting emptiness, all drawing towards me; until, at last, the distance between us was just a few paces.
By a stroke of luck, it was at a narrow section of the path.
‘Excuse us,’ I said with careful, casual politeness. The wind was blowing, so I added volume to my words.
She offered the edges of a smile and started to step to the side. This was the moment: the opportunity for a gracious, kiddish flirtation to set things in motion.
I watched her feet, and when I was sure which direction she was stepping, I matched it. An instant later our heads collided (knowing it was coming, I made sure it wasn’t too severely), and the motion of our bodies meant that they followed: chests and arms into the action, grasping hands at each other to keep from falling.
That’s how it all began. The perfect life. Salvation.
‘Oh hell, I’m so sorry,’ I muttered. I reached out to stabilize her, my script engaged. ‘That was entirely my fault.’
As was only predictable, she politely claimed the fault was hers, rubbing the soreness from her head. And then she looked up and our eyes met. They locked.
God, her eyes are mesmerizing. Like twin pools of the sea …
I let that moment linger, not too long, then looked away with rehearsed embarrassment. She apologized, and I assured her there was no need.
‘These surroundings … they can take you in.’ I smiled at her, and I could see in that instant that my plan had worked. She was caught. Her eyes clung to mine; there was something magnetic in her energy.
‘I’m David,’ I offered. With an extended hand she answered. ‘Amber. It’s lovely to meet you.’
I didn’t leave that encounter before Amber had shared the name of her lodgings with me – the little English-styled pub and inn up the way, whose address I knew full well from the research I’d done beforehand. She’d invited me, though – an important step. She was hesitant, unfamiliar with talking to people in this way. But I had practised being as right a fit for her emotional condition as I could manage, and humour seemed to play exceptionally well. We laughed, took in the scenery, and eventually she found the will to suggest I might want to ‘bump into her’ again.
It might have been a casual comment or merely a joke, but it was all the summons I needed.
I went the same evening. I could have waited another, even two. She was planning to be in the area for an extended weekend, and the option to let the expectation grow was entirely reasonable. But I didn’t know how long her boldness might last, and I didn’t want to wait. So I walked to the little Pelican Inn, pushed open its squat wooden door, and took Amber up on her offer.
We sat by a fire near the bar for a few hours, she on the red wine and me nursing a series of beers, talking through the delightful catalogue of nothings that two people peruse on a first evening together. A few hours in and I knew her favourite kind of music and which type of pasta sauce she preferred, and she knew I liked dogs more than cats and never missed an episode of Top Gear, despite the fact that I have otherwise no interest in cars. By the time closing rolled around it was conveniently too late for me to make my way elsewhere, and though Amber seemed entirely unsure of how the conversation should go from there, or what the right moves were to make, it was clear she didn’t want me to leave. It took her multiple attempts and a flurry of roundabout sidestepping, but eventually she invited me to her room.
I wanted everything, just then. All of her, the whole moment. But I couldn’t bring myself to do more than sit beside her on the bed, continuing our conversation. Listening to her laugh. Feeling the yawns grow until we were lying side-by-side, staring at the ceiling together, talking of beautiful trivialities in softer and slower voices until she gently fell asleep.
In that moment, lying there beside her, I felt the purest contentment I’d known in years. Maybe ever. My plan, my hope, was coming true.
The final step was the only one left. I had to make this bliss permanent.
I rose from the bed, moving as softly as I could, and went to my coat. In the pocket was a small plastic box in which I’d prepared the syringe. The needle was so thin the chances of it waking her were slight, but I was still set to be tender. I’d already prepped the drug. All the doses would have to be large, but the first one especially so. I’d calculated it against her body weight, her age, and the effects I needed it to have.
Amber’s lips were slightly parted as I knelt down beside her, her breath gently flowing between them. I leaned forward and kissed them softly, a buzz surging through my flesh at the first contact of our skin against skin. I slid the needle tenderly into her shoulder, keeping my eyes on her closed eyelids. I could almost visualize the last clouds of her past being eaten away by the medicine. Her old world, with all its torments, evaporating at last.
From that moment, there would be a new reality for a new woman. Amber Jackson, the girl who had suffered at the hands of abusers in her neighbourhood, who’d been coaxed by a wretched, pretend-friend to a torture no child should have to undergo, and who had been mentally destroyed by the act – that woman was gone. When morning came, out of this bed would rise Amber Howell, a woman with a good life … that’s what I would give her. A new home. Maybe a pet. A life without the memories of pain.
The drugs would have to come every day, forever. That was a cost, but it was manageable. There would be ways to get it into her system. I’d have the rest of our lives to ensure it was done well, without her ever knowing.
Who knows, perhaps I’d find she liked smoothies.
59
David
Now she sits opposite me, as broken as I’ve ever known her. All the pain I wanted to take away is back. The hollowness has gutted her again, and I’m not sure I can handle seeing her in this torment.
I’m angry, too. Furious that the hope of redemption has been stolen away from me, and from her. It had been such a noble idea. A truly worthy project. Yet it had come to nought. I had been correct at the beginning, in those first impulses after our meeting. The people who had done this needed to be punished, because, as I now know with certainty, they had done something irreversible. I couldn’t save Amber. They had made that impossible.
Now, the woman I love is a shell again, echoing what I’ve had to tell her.
‘I killed that girl.’ Amber repeats, but her face is impassive. She is overwhelmed by the information she’s being forced to absorb. There don’t seem to be any emotions left. ‘That’s not possible. I don’t even know her.’
‘No, you don’t,’ I answer. The tenderness in my voice is entirely unforced. ‘But the woman you were before, she does.’
‘I’m Amber Howell.’ She wags her head. ‘I’ve always been Amber Howell.’
I clutch her hands more tightly.
‘The woman in the water –
you knew her when she was just a girl, when you were too.’
‘The woman in the water.’ Amber says the words robotically.
I can’t bring myself to say more, and I don’t know what I expect her reaction to be. Tears? A sob of memory, of all the vile pain she’s undergone? Anger?
Instead, Amber pulls her face into a smile. It’s compassionate, as if I’m the one who needs to be consoled.
‘Oh David, you don’t need to lie to me any more. This story, it isn’t necessary. Reality is enough. You, that girl … just let it be.’
She holds out a hand and wipes a tear away from my cheek, and I know she will never understand.
60
Emma Fairfax
THREE DAYS AGO
I’m not sure how I convinced myself to stay away this long. I’ve done so much evil in my life. I thought I was done with it. There in the hospital, two-and-a-half years ago, I was ready to make amends, or at least come to grips with things. Told everything to that doctor. Confessed. Opened up about the girls, and what those assholes did to them.
What I helped do to them.
That’s still hard to accept. I don’t know how I’ve lived with it all this long. And I don’t fucking get why the docs in the ward chose to let me. Just to walk away, after all I told ‘em. Hell if that ain’t as criminal as what I did.
