Amends: A Love Story

by E. J. Swenson

  I open my eyes and see my father sitting beside my bed in my Aeron, bouncing slightly. His blond hair flops boyishly into his eyes, even though he hasn't been a boy for more than twenty years. He's a wearing a trendy T-shirt and jeans, as if he's just come from a wild night of club hopping.

  "Good morning, son," he says soberly.

  Ember awakens with a gasp and pops up like a target in a shooting gallery. Her eyes are wide and panicked until she touches her shirt. Then she relaxes, relieved that we fell asleep in our clothes.

  "Good morning to you, too, Ember." He gives her a gentle smile. I'm relieved that his expression is concerned, avuncular, and nothing more. "Actually, it's good you're here. What I have to say to my son is essentially what your father is going to say to you, too."

  Ember and I nod, still emerging from our sleepy haze.

  "I know you're both in shock from the accident last night. I'm sure you're both feeling raw." He pauses. We nod again.

  He continues, "It's because of your feelings—your fine, sensitive feelings—that I don't want either of you talking to the police, insurance companies, or any counsel retained by the family of that unfortunate woman without a lawyer present. My team will help you draft accurate statements for the police report, and someone will be by your side during any official conversations you have about the accident. Do you understand?"

  We nod once again. Ember is gazing at him with a sort of grateful reverence that bothers me. I suppose she's glad he's taking charge of the situation. I tell myself to stop being a paranoid asshole.

  Dad takes my hand and Ember's, and we sit silently, each of us alone with our thoughts. Mine hover around Laura and her family like wounded birds too injured to fly anywhere else. Her daughter, Amity, has been accepted into Adams College, one of the most expensive colleges in the country. I wonder how Amity is going to pay her tuition without her mom. Then it occurs to me that there's something I know for sure my father—the fabulously wealthy Josiah Conroy, America's favorite corporate kingmaker—can do for her. I squeeze his hand.

  "Dad, can't we just give that woman's family some money? I know it won't bring her back, but it might help her daughter pay for college. Isn't that the least we can do?"

  Dad gently pulls his hand away and sighs softly. "Laird, that's a noble sentiment. But any money we give that family without some kind of court order will look like an admission of guilt. Instead of simply being grateful, that woman's husband and her daughter would most likely find a lawyer and go after you—and maybe even Ember—for wrongful death. It could follow you around for the rest of your life. No, it's best to leave the financial aftermath to the insurance companies."

  Ember looks enormously relieved that there will be no consequences for our actions. But I can't stop thinking about that phrase admission of guilt. Even if the car wreck was technically an accident, I am guilty, and so is Ember. It feels wrong that we will go on with our lives as if nothing has really changed, while that girl—Amity—has probably lost her mother and her college dreams in a single, agonizing blow.

  I wonder what my mother would have wanted me to do. I struggle—and fail—to hold back a surging wave of sorrow. Soon I am sobbing uncontrollably like the little fucking pussy I am. Ember gently strokes my back, while my father slips quietly out of the room.

  Chapter 5: Amity

  "Good morning," purrs a low, male voice.

  I open my swollen, sticky eyes and squint into the early morning sunlight. I do a quick self orientation. The torn wallpaper and quilted bedspread indicate I am, in fact, in my own room. I pinch my arm, and it actually hurts. So I'm awake. My head aches as I turn it slowly in the direction of the male voice that could not possibly be here.

  Oh my fucking God, I brought him home with me. It's the guy from the dance club with the tattoos and the intense green eyes. I try to piece together the sequence of events that led from the dance floor to my narrow twin bed, but the large cups of cheap wine I drank last night have burned holes in my memory. Did I kiss him? Did I do anything else?

  "What h-h-happened?" I ask with what feels like an endless stammer.

  He smiles the slow, predatory smile I remember from the dance club. "We made sweet love all night long. You rocked my world, little girl."

  My mouth forms a perfect O of surprise as I wonder how I could have forgotten that. I mean, I am—was?—a virgin by circumstance, if not necessarily by choice.

  Tattoo guy laughs. "Just kidding, little one. I brought you home because your friend told me you were drunk and out of your mind because your mom just died. Very sorry about that, by the way. That really, truly sucks. I stayed over because your dad seemed kind of wasted and insane. I didn't want to leave you alone in any kind of bad situation."

  I nod silently. Of course, nothing happened. I am such an idiot. "That's very nice of you."

  Tattoo guy laughs again. "You look disappointed."

  I shake my head. "I'm not," I say primly and hop out of bed. I'm still wearing last night's clothes. They smell like stale sweat and clove cigarettes.

  "I'm hurt," he says, pretending to pout. He's starting to annoy me until he stands up and I see his lean torso covered in intricate ink. There are vines, Chinese characters, and a large bird of some kind. I'm taking it all in when he throws on the white T-shirt he wore at the club.

  "Look, kid. I have class this morning. Are you OK staying here, or can I give you a ride somewhere?"

  "Yeah, I'm fine. My grandma is flying in this morning. She'll keep us all in line."

  He smiles. "Sounds great. Well, I've got to go."

  He walks towards the door, stops, and pierces me with his heart-stopping green eyes. "Take care, kid."

  After he's gone, my head starts throbbing in earnest. I lie back down on my bed, and then I remember: I never did catch his name.

  /////////////////////////

  Freshly showered and changed, I tiptoe down the hall and into the kitchen, where I smell freshly baked banana muffins. Gran is standing by the stove, inspecting the muffin tops. She's tall—about my height of five-ten—with ropy muscles and long iron-colored hair gathered into a bun. Put her in a bonnet and a prairie dress, and give her a rifle, and she would be a convincing pioneer.

  "Gran!" I say, my eyes filling with tears.

  She smiles ruefully. Her eyes are dry and tired. "I let myself in. Your father was in sorry shape. Understandable under the circumstances, I suppose. I sent him to bed. Hopefully, he'll sleep it off."

  "Thank you." I take a long, deep breath, thankful that someone who is not me is finally in charge.

  Gran extends her arms. "Come here, girl." I launch myself into a shuddering, tearful hug and rest my head on Gran's strong shoulder.

  After I don't know how long, Gran gently disengages and looks me over from head to toe. She frowns. "You look thin, girl."

  My mouth twitches into a half-grin. "You always say that. Anyway, it's not my fault. It's your genetics."

  Gran smiles back, and now there are tears in her eyes as well. "You look so much like your mother did at your age. Well, you'll have to tell me all about that fancy college you got into."

  She pauses, and her smile turns sly. "And you'll have to tell me all about that young man who skulked out of here this morning."

  /////////////////////////

  It's the day of Mom's memorial service, and I'm trying my best to keep my shit together. Fortunately, I'm standing between Gran and Maggie. They'll help me stay focused. I'm going to give the eulogy, and I'm terrified that I'll stammer excessively, burst into tears, faint, or any combination thereof.

  Maggie takes my hand. "Don't worry, bitch. You're going to kick ass. Your mom would have been so fucking proud."

  I grip her hand, unable to speak without breaking into sobs. Maggie, as always, detects my distress.

  "What's wrong?" she asks. "I mean, aside from the obvious?"

  "It's those p-p-pictures," I stutter, pointing at the wall where a photographic retrospective of Mom's lif
e is playing on a loop. The photos flicker by, assaulting me with memories while an instrumental version of Amazing Grace trills in the background. Here's Mom, pale and tired, holding me as a newborn in a fuzzy pink hat. Click. Now Mom's dancing at her wedding with cake on her face, her black hair flying around her like ribbons. Click. Mom's waggling her tongue at the camera. Click. Mom's holding a giant pumpkin from her garden.

  "Look at me," says Maggie, putting her hands on my shoulders. "Try not to fixate on the photos."

  A trim, competent-looking woman with short brown hair stops in front of us and regards me with appraising eyes. "You must be her daughter," she says. "You look just like her. I'm Brenda."

  "Thanks," I reply, grateful for the distraction." So how did you know her? Did you work together at the hospital?"

  "Yes, we did. I'm a pediatric oncology nurse. Your mom and I crossed paths quite a bit. She was a tremendously compassionate woman."

  I nod, again unable to speak. Brenda takes my cold, trembling hand in her warm, capable one and gives it a firm squeeze. Then she pulls me into a quick hug.

  After Brenda leaves, I check the time. Damn. I'm supposed to give the eulogy in just ten minutes. The nondenominational minister we hired to manage the service—a short, bald man with a goofy smile my mom would have loved—is calling everyone to take their seats. Maggie gives me a quick hug and a whispered "Good luck."

  Gran is standing with her arms crossed and a grim expression on her face. I'm pretty sure I know what the problem is.

  "Any sign of Dad?" I ask.

  Gran's frown deepens so her mouth is bracketed by deep, long parentheses. "I'm sorry to say it, but your father is a weak man. He loved your mother and he loves you, but he's goddamned weak."

  "I know, Gran. I know."

  The rent-a-pastor has begun his prepared remarks. I'm almost up. I turn to walk towards the podium, when Gran clutches at my arm.

  "You'll do fine, you know. You're strong. Just like your mother."

  /////////////////////////

  "The kids will miss her kindness, and the doctors will miss her long legs and fine ass. To Laura!" A table of middle-aged nurses—Mom's work friends—raise their wine glasses and drink. Again.

  After the funeral, we all drove to the Lakeside Grill, a slightly rundown establishment on the Triple Marsh side of Lake Everclear. Most everyone toasting Mom's memory is from the hospital. Mom was the only child of two only children. She didn't have any family, except for me, Dad, and Gran.

  Of course, Dad is nowhere to be found. I texted him three times that we were coming here. I'm shocked that he's passed up a socially sanctioned opportunity to get publicly drunk.

  Gran is moving from table to table, making sure everyone has enough to eat and drink. Maggie and I have retreated to the bar.

  "Those nurses sure know how to party," she says.

  "Yeah, I know." I stare down at the scarred wooden bar top. I can't believe Dad didn't even show up for the funeral. I bet he's lying on the couch, drinking beer and watching TV.

  "What's wrong?"

  "I can't believe my dad was a no-show."

  "Did you really expect anything else?"

  "Not really."

  We sit silently for a moment, listening to the laughter drift in from the other room. Maggie pastes a wide smile on her face, determined to cheer me up. "Let's try to have a little fun. I bet I can get the bartender to serve us drinks. Real drinks."

  I look at Maggie and raise my eyebrows. Her face is bare, and she looks like an overdeveloped twelve-year-old angel. "I seriously doubt it," I say, fiddling with a tiny straw.

  Maggie smirks and waves down the bartender. He has long hair and intricate tattoos snaking down his muscular arms. Oh my God, it's the nameless guy from the dance club.

  "Hi, kid," he says, glancing at me. His tone is cool, and his eyes are more wary than intense. He is not happy to see me.

  "Ethan," trills Maggie, oblivious, "can you hook us up with some rum and Cokes? We've just come from a funeral. It's been a really rough day. Especially for her." She points at me and winks. All I can think is: Ethan, that's his name.

  "Sorry, kids. I can't do that, or I'll lose my job."

  Maggie makes a face at Ethan and sticks out her tongue. "You're no fun. Well, I promised Amity's grandma I'd help keep an eye on the rowdy nurses. I'll see you soon." Before I can say anything, she's slipped off her stool and disappeared into the main room. I can't believe she's left me alone with him.

  "So what can I get you?" he asks.

  "A Coke. Look, thanks again for bringing me home the other night."

  "Yeah, about that," he says. "I'd appreciate it if you could ask your friend to keep that on the down low. I have a girlfriend, and she might, uh, misinterpret the situation, all right?"

  I react first with disappointment—of course, he has a girlfriend—and then with elation. I am thrilled that his girlfriend—probably a college girl—might actually be jealous of me, the Amityville Horror. I smile brightly, and he seems to relax.

  "No problem, Ethan. I'll tell Maggie to keep it quiet."

  "Thanks a bunch, kid," he says, handing me my drink. I take a sip and taste the sweetness of Coke combined with something medicinal. It must be the rum and Coke Maggie had asked for.

  He winks. "Don't tell your little buddy about this, either."

  /////////////////////////

  Gran insists on driving us home in the half-dead, mostly rusted Mustang we borrowed from Dad this morning. When I protest—I'm younger with better reaction times—she looks at me with a strange, sad expression. "I can smell it on your breath," she says.

  Oh God, I realize, she thinks I'm turning into my father. Anything I can think of to say—it was just one drink, I didn't even ask for it—sounds exactly like the kind of bullshit he always told my mother whenever he turned up drunk at the worst possible time. So I keep my mouth shut and let Gran take the wheel.

  We spend the whole trip in silence. When Gran pulls into the driveway, I get out of the car and head inside. I go straight to my room and stare at myself in the mirror. Except for my small ears—Mom's were big—I look nothing like my father. Still, I inspect the contours of my face for early signs of alcohol-induced corruption. I'm gazing into my own eyes when I hear Gran's cries for help.

  "Amity! Come here! Please hurry!"

  I follow her voice and find her and my father in the living room. My father is lying on the floor in a pool of his own vomit. Gran is hunched over, one hand clutching her chest.

  "Get my purse off the coffee table," she gasps. "Find the pills. The Nitro."

  I do as she says, and open the bottle. "How many?" I ask.

  "Two, please."

  I hand her the tablets and she dry swallows them. I know she's feeling better when she gradually stands up.

  I glance down at my father and then back up at Gran. I look her in the eye as steadily as I can. "I'm not my father. That's not who I'm going to be. Ever."

  Gran returns my look with her own cool gaze. "I will pray every night that you're right," she says. Then she places her hand on my shoulder and her expression softens into something like pity, only sadder. "Girl, I'm so sorry I have to tell you this. Your father is dead. I think he's drowned in his own vomit."

  Chapter 6: Laird

  It's happening again. I'm standing outside the crumpled Ford Escape. Ember is screaming and cursing in the background. I see the bruised, swollen face of Laura Dormer, the woman I killed. I know what I have to do—try to save her life by compressing her chest and forcing air into her broken lungs.

  As I go through the motions of CPR, I hear Coach's gravelly voice in my ear. "Remember, it's a simple as A-B-C. Airway. Breathing. Compressions. Check the airway. Pinch the nose. Make a tight seal around the victim's lips and give 'em a breath. Then compress the chest. Hell, if lip locking with a stranger gives you the heebies, just stick with the compressions. It's better than nothing." I tune him out and focus on the rhythm of the breaths and compressi
ons.

  After what feels like an eternity, heavy hands take hold of my shoulders and haul me up. I stumble to my feet and find myself facing Coach. He slowly shakes his blocky head. "Son, you've lost the game. Give it up already. It's time to walk it off."

  My face burns with rage. "Someone's dead. How can I just walk it off?"

  "You just do it, Laird. Go that way." He points towards a dirt path leading into dense, swampy woods. I think I see someone standing alongside it, but I'm not sure. "Follow her," he says.

  I squint my and try to make out the hazy, indistinct figure. It's hard to see details in the moonlight, but I can tell it's a tall girl around my age in a T-shirt and baggy shorts. I think she looks at me, but I'm not sure. Before I can get near her, she takes off like a frightened deer, disappearing into the trees.

  I run after her, my breath turning ragged. Eventually, I get close enough to see her more clearly. She has long, wild hair. Tendrils fly behind her like pennants. Although she's fast—faster than any girl I've ever known—her gait is strangely off-kilter. She looks like she's falling and catching herself with every stride.

  I know I'm not going to catch her. She moves like liquid mercury. So I simply yell, "Stop! Please!"

  She slows and turns around. Her hair settles around her, cascading over her shoulders and resolving into glossy curls. Her face is delicate, sensitive, and familiar. It's Amity, the daughter of the woman I killed. She opens her mouth to say something, but I don't hear it. Sirens are blaring, and they're getting louder and closer.

  I open my eyes and grab my bleating phone off the nightstand. My alarm must have been going off for hours; it's already past noon. I see the bottle of Ambien out of the corner of my eye. Dad's doctor left me a prescription on the night of the accident. It's a decidedly mixed blessing. It helps me sleep, but it also gives me incredibly vivid dreams. Dreams that I would rather not remember.