Amends: A Love Story

by E. J. Swenson

  As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I realize I'm not in any ordinary club. Chairs and tables are scattered around a long, narrow runway leading to a small, circular platform. Akon's Dangerous is playing at high volume. A woman, naked except for a sequined thong, wraps herself around a pole. She has large, rounded breasts and long, slender legs. She looks otherworldly in the red-tinted stage lights. I gape at her while Ethan gets us drinks.

  When Ethan comes back, I follow him to a low table by the platform. The stripper continues her routine. The almost exclusively male audience is rapt. They lay money and roses at her feet. I wonder what it would be like to be the stripper, to have that much power over men. I imagine it would be the opposite of being me.

  "You move like she does," whispers Ethan. "You could do that. You'd be awesome."

  I shake my head. My mom would have been horrified that someone—some man—brought me to a strip club. I imagine her scolding me and struggling to express the strength of her disapproval while simultaneously avoiding profanity. I wonder what the fuck I'm doing here. My eyes sting and then water. Ethan notices.

  "Kid, what's wrong?"

  "I was just thinking of my mom. This is not the kind of place she would have wanted me to go."

  He smiles widely. Red light strikes half his face, so he looks like some kind of poorly lit demon. "Well, she's dead, right? So there's nothing to worry about."

  I gasp and then sob. I feel like I've been punched in the gut. Maggie was right. This guy is an asshole. I run out of the club and into the parking lot, where several taxis are waiting like vultures. I jump into the first one I see, grateful that I listened to Maggie about always bringing cab fare.

  "Where to, Miss?" asks the driver, who appears to be at least seventy.

  While I'm giving him my address, Ethan emerges from the club, looking for me. Fuck him.

  "Drive, please," I say.

  "You got it, honey," says the cabbie, and I watch as Ethan gets smaller and smaller, and eventually disappears.

  Chapter 8: Laird

  I'm driving with Ember again. We're struggling for control of my Land Rover. We lurch into the center of the road and then back again. Off balance, I slam my foot on the brakes, but it's too late. In slow motion, I collide with Laura Dormer's car. The small white vehicle rotates through the air with balletic grace and then crashes to the ground.

  I leap out of the Rover and dutifully run to the wreck. I feel like I've been here a million times before. Damn it, I know I'm dreaming. I sit down on the wet ground and refuse to move. I'm not going to rip the door off the car and confront whatever horror my subconscious has placed there. I'm just not.

  I feel a light hand on my shoulder. It's my mother. She's wearing a deep blue, floor-length gown, the kind she always wore to her charity galas. She looks younger than I remember, and her hair is longer. She's also brought a friend: a tall woman in a nurse's uniform with pale blue eyes set in a strong, square-jawed face. I know it's Laura, but her capable, robust appearance surprises me. Awake and alive, she looks nothing like my mother.

  "Why are you sitting in the mud?" asks Mom. "Stand up, son."

  I rise slowly, facing her and Laura. They look at each other and smile.

  Mom waves a delicate, birdlike hand towards Laura. "I was just talking to my friend here. She has a daughter about your age." I nod. Amity, the other motherless child. The haunted, beautiful girl. The one I almost wrote to like the complete, self-centered asshole I am. Thank God I didn't send that email. I can hear Ember's voice in the back of my mind. It's always about you, isn't it?

  Laura regards me with an intense focus that feels vaguely hostile. "Did you know she just lost her father?"

  I nod. News of his death is all over the local news sites.

  "Anything to say, hero boy?" spits Laura, her eyes contacting into angry slits.

  My mother rolls her eyes. "Oh c'mon, honey, he drank himself to death. Your daughter is probably better off now that she isn't shackled to a barely functional alcoholic, who would have needed help for the rest of his life."

  Laura glares at my mother. "He was a sensitive man who dealt badly with grief. He would have come out of it, eventually. He loved his daughter very much."

  My mother's about to respond when I hear sirens. They're coming from everywhere. Laura yells for us to duck, and then...I'm back in bed, slippery with acrid dream sweat and fumbling with my alarm.

  I take a long, deliberate breath. These dreams are making me question my sanity. The line between what's real and what isn't is starting to get a little hazy. I go to my computer and look up Craig Dormer, Laura Dormer's husband. Yes, he's still dead. I've known for a while. The news just popped up one day while I was searching for information about Amity. Yet, somehow, it doesn't feel real. I guess I can't quite accept that one moment of inattention, one stupid fight between me and Ember, destroyed someone's entire family.

  I glance at the plastic prescription bottle on my nightstand. The Ambien beckons to me with false promises of restful sleep.

  My phone vibrates, and I feel instantly sick. It's another text from Ember. Can I come over? Please?

  I shut off my phone and go back to bed. I skip the Ambien and shut my eyes, hoping to find a dark, silent refuge from both dreams and reality.

  /////////////////////////

  I'm running alongside Lake Everclear, trying to lose myself in the steady thud-thud-thud of my footsteps. I've allowed myself to get out of shape since the season ended, so I'm doing a brutal workout over a ten-mile course. If I can't fix my mind or my conscience or my life, I can at least burn some of the fat off my gut. My phone is constantly vibrating. Ember has sent me about fifty texts. Some are pleading, some are wheedling, and some are angry.

  I keep running, accelerating and decelerating at regular intervals. I'm starting to sweat—clean, healthy sweat, not bitter dream sweat—and I focus on my breathing. I can see sailboats on the lake out of the corner of my eye. Their simple shapes and movements are soothing. I spot a tall mangrove tree several hundred yards ahead. I speed up and hurtle towards it, fleeing from a pack of demons called grief, memory, guilt, and betrayal.

  I slow down when I reach the tree. As I catch my breath, I realize there's a car creeping along right next to me. It's a pale green Maserati. Fuck. I stop and turn towards the car. The passenger side door unlocks, and I get in.

  "How did you know where I was?"

  Dad's mouth forms a small, dry smile. "Your phone has GPS, and it's on my plan. I can track it online."

  "Oh," I say. I remind myself that I need to start paying for my own phone.

  "We need to talk," he says.

  I brace myself for a sick-making conversation about Ember. I wish he would just leave it alone. He's won. He can have her when she turns eighteen. I don't want her anymore. It's just that I don't want to have a Very Special Talk with my dad about how he wants permission to bang my ex. Otherwise, it will be very hard for me to pretend that I have a normal father who doesn't fuck teenagers.

  Dad's face turns solemn. "I want to caution you again about having any contact with the family of Laura Dormer."

  I groan. The only thing I want to talk about less than Ember is the accident. "I know Dad, alright? You told me to let the lawyers handle it, so that's what I'm doing." So far, I've signed a few forms and had a perfunctory interview with the police. I have no idea what his problem is, but I'm sure he's going to tell me.

  "The IT guys were working on my network this morning. I couldn't find my phone, so I borrowed your computer to look up a few stock prices. When I opened the browser, it became immediately clear that you've spent countless hours researching Laura Dormer and her family. I even found a draft email to Amity Dormer. Please tell me you haven't sent it."

  I almost vomit. I should have changed the password on my MacBook, but Dad is almost never here. "No, I haven't sent anything. Yet."

  Dad's clenches his jaw, and the car accelerates. "I expect you're carrying around a lot of guilt ab
out this accident. You're a good boy. It's natural. But I see this turning into an obsession."

  "Of course, I'm obsessed," I fire back. "I killed someone. I ruined her daughter's life. Made her an orphan." I take a deep breath. It's time to confess. "The accident was my fault. Ember and I were fighting. She was grabbing at the wheel, and I was distracted."

  Dad is quiet for a moment. "The toxicology report came back from the Medical Examiner. There were traces of benzodiazepines in Mrs. Dormer's system. I doubt that you and Ember were entirely at fault."

  He sighs heavily, something he almost never does. "Of course, what happened with that woman's husband was tragic. Although, if you ask me, he did his daughter a big favor. Her life is going to be rough enough without having to take care of a drunk."

  I stifle a gasp. That's what Mom said in my dream, even though it's the kind of thing I'm pretty sure she'd never say. I reach my hand to my temple and rub it. The existential vertigo is hurting my head. Everything is true, and nothing is. The only thing I know for sure is that girl—Amity Dormer—needs some kind of help.

  "Are you sure we can't do something for her? You're a billionaire. You could change her life with your fucking lunch money."

  My father frowns, and the car accelerates even more. "I don't have time to explain to you how the world works, but you already know why we can't simply write a check. You are not going to tie this albatross around your neck."

  Tires squeal as he pulls into our driveway. I try to open the door, but it's still locked. I glance over at my dad. He face is drawn, and there are new wrinkles around his eyes, as if he hasn't slept for days. "Son," he says with an odd catch in his voice, "I'm going to make this simple. You are forbidden to have any contact with Laura Dormer's daughter. If I discover you've disobeyed me, the consequences will be swift and severe."

  He puts his hand on my shoulder and looks into my eyes. "Do you understand?" he asks, his voice harsh with grief.

  /////////////////////////

  I'm exhausted, and it's not the good kind of exhaustion that leaves you sweaty, refreshed, and relaxed. As I move slowly up the staircase to my room, my legs feel like dead weights. I wonder for the first time how my father is handling Mom's death. I thought he was fine—too fine, really—but now I'm not so sure.

  I open the door to my room, wondering if it's too early to take an Ambien, and holy fuck, Ember is lying on my bed. I've got to talk to Dad's security guys. They can't keep letting her in.

  She sits up, and I can tell she's wearing one of my old football shirts that barely covers her ass. Her hair is messy, her face is flushed, and her lips are slightly parted as if she's just been kissed. Overall, she looks freshly fucked. She's the only girl I've ever been with, and seeing her like this tears at my heart.

  "Get out of here," I say, praying my voice won't crack. "And stop texting me."

  She sniffles and tears flow freely down her face.

  "Please don't make me go," she begs, leaning forward so the shirt slips down and exposes one soft, smooth shoulder. "At least let me explain."

  "There's nothing to explain," I say, trying to sound hard. "I read the texts. You were flirting with my father. That's fucked up!"

  Her mouth quivers, and her eyes get bigger. I want to take her in my arms and comfort her, but I know that's a very bad idea.

  "I'm so sorry. I know I fucked up, big time. It was just texting. Stupid texting. It meant nothing. Your father's a famous billionaire and his wanting me made me feel important. But I never would have done anything with him. I swear."

  I shake my head, which is starting to hurt again. "Look, Ember, maybe you're right. Maybe you wouldn't have fucked my father. But you've already gone too far. It's too weird now. I can't do it any more."

  "So this is it?" she asks plaintively. "We're breaking up?"

  "Yes," I say, eyes stinging. "We're over."

  Now she starts sobbing in earnest. Big, convulsive sobs rack her small, rounded body. Unsure what to do, I sit next to her and rub her back. "You'll be fine," I say over and over again. "You'll be fine."

  Eventually, she quiets, and we sit silently hand in hand, just like we did when we first started seeing each other. She looks up at me shyly. Her eyes are swollen, and her nose is pink, but the lines of her face are still beautiful.

  "A kiss goodbye?" she asks.

  I'm doomed the moment her lips touch mine.

  Chapter 9: Amity

  "Any luck getting into your mother's computer?"

  "Just a minute, Gran!"

  I try Mom's birthday. No luck. I try Dad's birthday and mine. Nothing. After many more tries, I finally combine Mom's birthday with the name of the little wiener dog we had when I was little. I type Wienerschnitzel0507, hit enter, and it works.

  "I'm in!"

  "Good," says Gran. "See if you can find any of her financial information." She hands me a stack of notices from the bank, several credit card companies, and a car loan company. The sheer number of documents and the vaguely threatening quality of the black lettering proclaiming URGENT and TIME SENSITIVE on every page makes me uneasy.

  I get started by searching for spreadsheets, but there aren't any. Maybe, I think, she paid her bills online. I decide to check her email for payment confirmations. I scan her browser history and then click on her Gmail account. She saved the password in her browser, so I get right in.

  My phone chirps. Another text from Ethan. I feel a jolt of adrenaline, and a twinge of nausea. I've been avoiding him since he took me to that strip club. I've also been missing him—or, at least, the hot, amazing kisses we shared. It takes all the willpower I have to ignore this latest text, but I manage it. Barely. I give myself a gold star and focus on the task at hand—pawing through Mom's email.

  I search for credit card companies by name, and at least twenty automatic payment receipts pop up. I start printing them off for Gran. We'll be seeing a lawyer this afternoon to begin the process of untangling the financial mess my parents left behind. The whole thing is surreal. I remember my parents complaining about money, but it had seemed so abstract. The sheets of paper flying out of the printer are shockingly real.

  After I'm done printing the receipts, I return to Mom's inbox. I tell myself I should stick with my to-do list and search for her auto loan records, when a conversation titled I just can't do it anymore catches my eye. I spend a few moments castigating myself for even thinking about reading it. Then I decide I'm going to open it, anyway. After all, I reason, she's dead. Privacy ends with the last breath, right?

  My palms are moist when I click on the email thread. I read quickly, clicking and scrolling while my heart beats against my ribcage like a dying bird. When I've finished reading, my worldview has changed forever. Mom was having an affair with a heart surgeon—a married heart surgeon—and trying to break it off.

  It's too painful, she wrote the day before she died, to keep getting a taste of something I know I cannot have. I need time and space to come to terms with the limits of my life, and embrace them. You make me wild and jangled. Loudly out of key. Nervous and mad and useless to those who need me. I'm more sorry than you know, but this must end.

  I get another text from Ethan and decide that I've changed my mind. For now, I don't care that he's an asshole with a girlfriend. I want to feel his rough, hungry lips on mine and forget everything but his strong arms and darkly thrilling touch.

  I guess I'm my mother's daughter, after all.

  /////////////////////////

  "Your parents died intestate," says Mr. Kost, fanning himself with a manila folder. He's a small, sweaty man with a round face and tiny, close-set eyes. The air conditioning in his office is broken. A fan blows stale air around the room. Papers are piled everywhere, suggesting more than a touch of hoarding disorder.

  "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 par
ents' 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."