Amends: A Love Story

by E. J. Swenson

  Now, despite feeling like the worst, most disloyal daughter in the world, I wonder.

  "Not that I know of, Dad," I hedge.

  He is not satisfied. "C'mon," he says, wheedling. "You can tell me. Is it one of the doctors?"

  I shrink back into my pillows. I'm trying to think of something to say, when a Jasper Heights police car, sirens blaring, pulls in front of the house.

  /////////////////////////

  "More coffee, Mr. Dormer?" Dad nods while Chase McNaughton, the young male officer, expertly makes a fresh pot. Chase is movie-star handsome.

  I am lying on the couch wrapped in a blanket with my feet propped up. Nan Jacobs—the rounded, middle-aged female officer—takes my blood pressure. "A little low," she mutters, "you might be suffering from a touch of shock."

  "I thought that only happens when you lose a lot of blood," I say, confused.

  "No," she says. "Some people can have an extreme physical reaction to emotional trauma. It's a normal physiological response to an abnormal situation."

  I am silent for a moment. I feel strangely cold. My hands and feet tingle. What the officers told us just can't be right. There's got to be some kind of mistake. Maybe Mom really is having an affair, and she's run off with a bipolar plastic surgeon. Anything but this.

  "Are you sure it was my Mom?" I ask. "She's a very careful driver. She's never been in an accident before."

  Nan's face radiates pity, and the bottom drops out of my stomach. "We're sure," she says. "One of the doctors at the hospital identified her body."

  "But how did she die?" I can't help asking even though I really don't want to know.

  "Blunt force trauma," says Nan as gently as she can. "It's a fancy way of saying she hit her head and then bled into her brain." I feel my guts clench into a ball, and I'm suddenly glad I'm not a breakfast kind of person.

  I close my eyes for a moment and open them when Dad starts sobbing. His cries are primal and anguished: rough, shuddering barks that Nan and I can hear from the kitchen. I hear a loud smash and Chase urging my father to keep it together from his daughter. Me.

  Nan is frowning. She pulls a card from her pocket and hands it to me. It's a number for a women's shelter. "I'm not exactly sure what your situation is here," she says cautiously. "But, if you need someplace safe to go, don't hesitate to call that number."

  "Thanks, but I'm fine." I'm not sure if it's true, but it's my reflexive response. Dad keeps sobbing. He must reach for a beer or a bottle, because I hear Chase ask him to put something down. Things are definitely looking ugly.

  "I'm going to call my grandmother." I think of Gran, Mom's mom. If anyone can fix this, she can.

  "Good," murmurs Nan, keeping one eye on the kitchen. "I think that's a really good idea."

  /////////////////////////

  I watch my father snore the deep, stentorian snores of alcohol-induced unconsciousness. He's lying on the carpeted living room floor like a shaggy dog. I covered him with a blanket when he finally passed out. My shirt is wet from his tears.

  Now I'm cleaning the kitchen, which is a disaster zone that would have made Mom curse and then weep. I start by sweeping up the broken glass. I brush it into a dustpan and get a sliver stuck in my finger. I pull it out and watch the blood pool and flow. My mind leaps to Mom's accident and all the damage she sustained. I run my hand—the one that isn't bleeding—across my scalp and contemplate the fragility of my skull, and how easily it could be crushed.

  Snap out of it, I tell myself. I bandage my finger and keep cleaning. The next task is the worst: a pool of beery vomit that my father heaved onto the kitchen right before the police left. My mom usually took care of this kind of thing, although I know immediately what to do. I throw a couple of towels onto the oozing to soak up as much liquid as possible. Then I wad up the towels, toss them into the washing machine, and set it on sanitize.

  I'm about to spray some disinfectant on the sticky remnants when my phone chirps. It's a text from Gran:

  Next available flight is tomorrow at five a.m. Hang on tight and call if you need anything. Love you. Stay strong.

  Another day alone here with Dad. It might as well be an eternity. I feel awful for him—he just lost his wife—but I'm also angry. More than angry. I want to scream at him and shake him for making me clean up his puke just an hour after I learned that Mom died. I take a deep breath and try to clear my head. Focus on the cleaning, I tell myself. But before I can do anything else, my phone chirps again. This time it's Maggie.

  OMG, so fucking sorry, cannot believe it. Tell me what you need.

  While Dad was gradually passing out, I sent Maggie what is probably the weirdest text I've ever sent. I would have called, but I knew she was at a dance club with some of her college buddies. I'm so relieved to see her words I almost cry.

  I reread Maggie's question and really think about what I need right now. I look at my dad and the wreckage in the kitchen. I wrinkle my nose at the faint smell of vomit and beer. I decide what I really need is to get the fuck out of here.

  /////////////////////////

  The boy is dancing to some ska-punk-techno hybrid, and his moves are fierce. He has shoulder-length dark hair and narrow, mobile hips. A thick vine—black with large, evil-looking thorns—is inked around his arms and neck. I am mesmerized.

  "Hey, girl," whispers Maggie. "Drink this."

  I take the plastic cup from my best friend and take a small sip. It tastes sweet, sour, and astringent. I make a face. "What is this?"

  "Wine," says Maggie. "It'll help you relax. Just chug the whole thing."

  Maggie looks at me expectantly. My mind flashes back to my father. I know alcoholism runs in families. Will this cup of wine be the first step on a journey of life-ruining addiction and despair? Fuck it. I gulp down the wine as instructed and let it burn its way down my throat.

  She nudges me. "Hot, isn't he?"

  "Yeah. Nice to look at, I guess."

  She giggles. "You can do more than look."

  I roll my eyes. "Yeah, right," I say. "A guy that hot wouldn't even look at me. Besides, he's dancing with a pixie right now. I'm way too tall for him, as well as being the social pariah of the senior class."

  Maggie waves her hand as if to brush away my objections. "He's just some guy from my Modern Poets seminar, and he has no idea who you are. Just get out there and dance. Besides, you're an awesome dancer. You're actually pretty fucking graceful for a gimp."

  I blush. She's basically right. I am, shockingly, a decent dancer. When I move to music, my awkwardness and lopsided, rolling gait disappear. I've never taken a dance class, but the few times Maggie has dragged me to dance clubs, I've been fine. Maybe even slightly more than fine.

  I look at the boy again. I guess he's technically a man, since he's out of high school. Maggie senses my wavering. "Go on," she says, "It could help get your mind off, you know, everything."

  Maggie's voice shakes slightly. She's almost as weirded out by Mom's death as I am. It's as if the sun or the moon just ceased to exist. I smile at Maggie, and she squeezes my hand. Then I let the music sweep me onto the dance floor and draw me to the boy.

  For a while, I dance around him, barely in the periphery of his vision. Then he turns and smiles at me like some kind of predatory animal that's found fresh, tender prey. A jolt of fear runs through me, but I will it away. Instead, I let him take my hand and pull me into him. I rest my head against his chest as we sway to the music. He wraps his arms around me, and my limbs go warm and boneless. It feels good to relax in his arms, to forget everything but this one, elastic moment. I try to take it all in: his strong, ropy arms, his taut midsection, the heat of his body. He smells like cedar and smoke.

  I consider asking his name, but don't. I decide that, for tonight, it doesn't really matter.

  Chapter 4: Laird

  Ember is screaming. It's a loud, high keening that cuts through the humid night air. Her screams form curses and recriminations. And they're all directed at me. Fuck
you. This is all your fault. Why didn't you just stop the car when I asked you to? I can't believe this is happening.

  I look at Ember and try to remember the First Aid class I took with the rest of the football team. Her pupils seem to be about the same size. Her cheeks are flushed, indicating adequate oxygenation. You really should have stopped the car. What are we going to do now? What are YOU going to do? Yes, I decide, she's fine.

  I close my ears and leap out of the Land Rover. One of the headlights is cracked, and there's a small dent in the front left fender. Otherwise it's fine. The small, white car I hit—a Ford Escape, I think—is another story. A whole different book, even. It's crumpled like an accordion. K.T. Tunstall blares from the broken window on the drivers' side, and I realize I must have hit a woman my mom's age. Little pussy that I am, I want to puke, but I manage to hold it all together. Barely.

  I approach the car and basically tear the driver's side door from its hinges. All those muscles I put on for football season are finally doing something useful. When I fling the door aside, my darkest fears are realized. The other driver is a woman who vaguely resembles my mother—at least, the way I remember her from her worst days at the hospital. Her eyes are closed, and her face is swollen. Dark bruises ring her eyes. She reminds me of an overripe fruit just beginning to rot.

  I look down and notice her dress. A nurse's uniform, spattered with blood. I stare for a few long moments.

  I hear someone shrieking in my ear. Ember must have gotten out of the car. What the fuck are you doing? If we're not going to leave, then you better fucking help her. Don't just stand there with your dick in your hand.

  Ember's words galvanize me into action. She may be awful, but she's right. I kneel by the other driver and put my hand on her chest, feeling for the rise and fall of regular respiration. When I realize there's nothing, I panic and wonder if I should have listened to Ember and just driven away. No, I tell myself sternly, that would have been wrong. I take a deep breath and check her airway for obstructions. Then I sack up and start giving the woman CPR, just like Coach taught us. I compress her chest, frantically hoping I'm not pushing bone shards into vital organs, and lock my mouth onto hers. She tastes like breath mints and blood. I try not to think about it.

  The pushing and the breathing go on for what seems like forever. At some point, soft hands and strong arms pull me away. A paramedic—a short blonde woman with thick, muscular arms—shakes her head. "I'm sorry, it's too late. At least you tried. You did everything you could." Then she calls me a hero, and I vomit onto the swampy ground. As I heave up everything in my guts, she strokes my back. "Everything's going to be fine," she says in a low, calming voice. I let her lead me to the ambulance.

  "There's somebody here who'd like to see you." She smiles and points towards a gurney. Someone is rising from the makeshift bed, someone with a mass of dark, tangled hair like seaweed. She slowly lifts her head so I can see her face, and that's when I start to scream. It's my mother, rotted and ruined by worms and whatever else is with her under the ground.

  Then I wake up.

  /////////////////////////

  My heart feels like it's going to punch its way out of my chest, and my body is slick with sweat, despite Dad's state-of-the-art climate control system. I can't stop thinking about the accident. And Mom. And Ember.

  Dad's doctor met me here at the house and gave me a shot of some kind of tranquilizer. All it's doing is giving me nightmares. There's no way I'm going to sleep tonight, no matter how many drugs I'm on. I get out of bed and go to my computer. I am obsessively curious about the woman I killed.

  Killed. The word echoes in my brain. I killed someone. It feels surreal. My mother is dead, and I killed someone.

  I open my browser, and it takes me all of two seconds to find my victim. The accident is already all over the Internet. Local woman killed in late night crash, the headlines read. Her name is—was—Laura Dormer. She was a beloved pediatric nurse at Jasper Heights Community Hospital. There's a picture of her dressed up as a witch, handing out Halloween treats to kids on the cancer ward. She has a strong jaw and ice blue eyes: a natural protector. She's a rougher, more robust version of my own mother.

  She is survived by her husband Craig Dormer, an auto detail technician, and a daughter about my age. The daughter's name is Amity. She's been accepted to Adams College, which is, eerily enough, my first choice. There's a picture of her holding a giant beet from her mom's garden. Her expression is oddly tentative, as if she's afraid to fully commit herself to a smile. She has long, storybook hair and aspirations to become a pediatric surgeon. She's a wounded princess who's lost her mother—just like me. And it's all my fault. I want to throw myself at her feet and beg her forgiveness.

  I take a deep, shuddering breath and quickly scan the rest of the article. It mentions the heroism of the other driver—me—giving CPR to Laura at the scene. It also includes a self-serving quote from Ember: I really have no idea what happened. She just came out of nowhere. I think she must have blown through the stop sign or something. I suppose I can't blame her for trying to deflect the blame. She's trying to protect herself—and maybe me. I still don't know what I'm going to tell the police when they ask for my statement.

  Someone's knocking on my door. "Come in."

  It's Katya, my father's assistant. She's a washed up model at just twenty-five years old. Her hair is the color of honey, and she has broad Slavic cheekbones. She's heartbreakingly beautiful. Every once in a while I see her swimming topless in our forty-foot pool. On every other breath, a small, evenly tanned breast pops out of the water. I'm pretty sure she's sleeping with my father. I avoid her as much as possible.

  She looks at me with tired eyes. "Your father asked me to tell you that he's flying back from New York. He'll be here this morning. He says not to talk to anyone until he gets here."

  No duh. When the cops looked at my driver's license and realized I was Josiah Conroy's son, they called him immediately. Dad basically owns Jasper Heights and everyone in it. Then they gave me what was probably the most gentle and courteous roadside sobriety test ever given. Once they established my Breathalyzer was clean, they asked me to drop by the station sometime over the next couple of days. At my convenience.

  Katya's still standing in the doorway. I realize I've been rude.

  "Thanks," I say. But she still doesn't leave. Instead, she takes a step into my room.

  "Your father also said I should do anything I can to make you comfortable. I know you've had a very terrible day. You're a good-looking boy. Let me help you feel better."

  She slowly unbuttons her shirt, and I stare, transfixed. Then I remember Dad's hands exploring Ember's body and all the pretty young things who show up here with red, swollen eyes. I force myself to look away.

  "It's OK, Katya. I'll be fine." Of course, it's a lie, but one she's happy to accept. She shrugs and disappears out my door, closing it behind her. A few minutes later, I hear another knock.

  "Katya, I said I'm fine, OK?"

  I turn around, and it's not Katya. Not at all. It's Ember. She drops her coat onto the floor and comes to me.

  /////////////////////////

  Ember is sobbing and shaking. Her face is chalky. Her eyes and nose are red. I want to rage at her—what the fuck were you thinking when you grabbed the steering wheel? Instead I take her in my arms and smell her hibiscus-scented hair. She feels soft, warm, and fluttery against my chest. I'm a big guy—about six-four and two hundred pounds—but I forget sometimes how small she is. I close my eyes and take in the warmth and closeness like an alkie sucking at the bottle.

  After a long moment, she pulls away. "I'm so sorry," she gulps. "What you said about me and your father made me so mad. I just wasn't thinking."

  A sudden rush of tenderness and sorrow takes my breath away. I feel crushingly responsible for harming Laura Dormer and her haunted daughter, but now I also want to protect Ember. Yes, she should have been there for me at Mom's memorial, but people are weird
about death. They do strange, inexplicable things. Plus, my dad is such an operator he probably made it so Ember couldn't get away from him—the tragic, grieving widower—without feeling like a total asshole. I shouldn't have yelled at her. She shouldn't have grabbed the wheel.

  I stroke her fine, blonde hair. It feels slightly greasy. My mind flashes to Amity Dormer's long, fairytale locks, and I imagine running my hand through them. Oh God, I am such a sick fuck. I take a small step back and kiss Ember lightly on the forehead.

  "You know, we killed someone today." Just speaking those words makes my voice and hands tremble.

  Ember's lip quivers, and her eyes overflow with tears. "Now what are we going to do?"

  "Nothing," I say softly. "It was an accident. A horrible accident."

  I climb onto my bed—a soft, king-sized ocean of comfort—and pull her to me. She rests her head on my chest. We fall asleep like that, listening to each other's fragile, finite heartbeats.

  /////////////////////////

  I swim back to consciousness from a wonderfully blank, dreamless sleep. First, I'm aware of Ember's, soft, warm weight, which has, in fact, become somewhat uncomfortable. I shift my position and flex my hand. Now it's alive and tingling from a flood of new blood. Next, I notice the world outside my eyelids is surprisingly bright.