Amends: A Love Story

by E. J. Swenson

  I should go, but I somehow feel like I should explain myself. Darcy's hostility must be reflection of Amity's. If I can sway Darcy, then maybe I'll be able to make Amity listen. "I know you think I'm a horrible person. And I should have done things differently with Amity, I know, but I really care about her, and..."

  Darcy cuts me off. "Stop it. Just stop it. All that bullshit is between you and her. I don't want to hear it. But I'll tell you one thing. She left her phone here with me specifically because she doesn't want to hear from you. The best thing you could do right now for everyone is to give her some space, OK?"

  She closes the door before I can say anything else.

  /////////////////////////

  I'm driving down I95 North at ninety miles per hour, threading my way through slower traffic. I'm a man with a plan. I'm going to take the car into Manhattan and park it in the garage under Dad's townhouse. Then I'm going to hit the Village—I vaguely remember Amity saying her best friend goes to NYU—and search every bar and student party until I find her.

  I know it's a stupid plan. And probably a useless plan. But I have to do something. I feel like if I don't stay in constant motion, I'll explode. I don't care if she yells and screams at me, or even hits and scratches me. Whatever she does to me, I'm sure I deserve it. I hope, when her rage and sadness is spent, I can take her in my arms and feel her wet tears on my chest.

  Actually, I should probably say fantasize, not hope. I know I can't hope for anything from Amity but forgiveness, and even that may be asking too much.

  /////////////////////////

  My first stop is Lum Bar. Its signpost is a plaster cast of a human spine. I remember Dad telling me it's where a lot of NYU students hang out. Dad's out tonight, too, trolling for barely legal club kids. I guess it didn't work out with Darla. I think she was actually too mature for him. I wonder what he'll do if Ember tells him what I did with my trust fund, and I feel vaguely sick.

  I tell myself to stop thinking about Dad and focus on finding Amity. I enter the door under the plastic spine and flash my ID. The bouncer stamps my hand with an image of a grinning fool. I inspect the symbol and cringe. I feel like the world's biggest fool for letting things with Amity get so far out of control.

  The bar is a narrow, L-shaped space. It's crowded and full of pretty, heavily perfumed people. I push my way through, searching for Amity's distinctive silhouette in the dim light.

  I find a small dance floor at the end of the L and watch the supple, flickering figures, hoping one of them will be familiar. I remember Amity telling me how her limp goes away whenever she moves to music and I flash to her supple, athletic moves from the strip club.

  One of the girls on the dance floor—a top-heavy brunette with two full sleeves of ink—beckons to me with a wave and a wink. I shake my head and turn away.

  Amity isn't here. It's time to move on.

  /////////////////////////

  "What'll you have?"

  "A double vodka tonic."

  I've been to ten bars, and I'm finally ordering a drink. I'm giving up the search. The whole idea was hopeless, anyway. Amity doesn't want to be found. I suppose I should grateful I didn't run into my father on his so-called hunting trip.

  I check my phone. Nothing from Ember, thank God, but I did get a few texts from the football coach who, despite his touching concern for my well being, is pretty fucking pissed.

  I have a new plan now. Sit right here in this dingy sports bar, watch reruns of college ball games, and drink until I'm numb. Then I can crash at Dad's place and figure out what I'm going to do tomorrow.

  Chapter 25: Amity

  The bar is huge and cavernous, with high ceilings and massive walls painted black. Flat screens dot the walls like giant eyes. Maggie looks at me with big eyes of her own that radiate kindness and concern. "That guy really messed with your head, didn't he?"

  I blink away tears and steady my voice. "I guess I could have understood if he told me who he was right up front. I mean, it was an accident, right? It was no one's fault. My mom may have even been a little to blame herself. Remember how that report said she was on benzos—Xanax or something—the night she died?"

  I gulp down half my rum and Coke. Maggie frowns. "Pace yourself. We've got all night."

  "I know. It's just that I can't believe we got so close, and he still didn't say anything. And then he sent that money to Gran. The whole thing is so weird and fucked up."

  Maggie sighs. "It sounds like he feels horribly guilty about the accident. Even if he didn't do anything wrong, someone died. Well, two someones, if you figure your mom's death basically killed your father. That's got to be tough to live with. And then, on top of it all, he has feelings for you, the girl whose life he destroyed. I'm not saying what he did was OK at all. It's just that he may not have been thinking very rationally under the circumstances."

  "But what about the girl? The one who said she was his girlfriend?"

  Maggie takes a sip of wine and appears to be thinking hard. "I agree. The girl is troubling. But do you have any other evidence that she really is his girlfriend? I mean, what kind of person drops a bomb like that on a total stranger?"

  I shake my head. "I don't know. I found her in his room, and she said she was his girlfriend. She was pretty convincing."

  Maggie touches my hand lightly, like she used to when we were in high school. "I know you're having a rough time. But try not to reach any conclusions until you have all the facts. Don't do anything, er, impulsive."

  "Too late for that. Gran and I already gave the money to charity."

  Maggie's eyes widen. "About how much money are we talking about here?"

  I pause and down the rest of my drink "Two million dollars."

  Maggie snorts in surprise and inhales a snootful of wine. When she's done coughing, she says, "I don't know if that makes you a saint or just the stupidest person I know."

  I shrug. I don't think I'm either; I'm just a girl who can't put a dollar figure on her parents' lives. I lift my empty glass to my lips and swallow the melted ice water. I know that Maggie is trying to give me a different perspective, one that isn't quite as dark as mine. I appreciate what she's doing, but I don't feel like empathizing with Laird right now. I feel used and betrayed, and I want to snuggle up to my warm, safe rage, if only for one night. I can worry about complex feelings and guilt and the limits of forgiveness tomorrow.

  Maggie squeezes my hand and smiles. "I'll get us a refill," she says.

  While Maggie is at the bar, I watch the other patrons smiling and laughing. At one table, six or seven young women are clustered around a dangerously handsome blond man with cheekbones like daggers. I watch him for a few moments—he looks somehow familiar. I curse myself for gawking when he winks at me.

  "Here you go. Another rum and Coke on me." Maggie sets the drink in front of me and slides back into her seat.

  She takes her phone from her bag, taps on the blinking screen, and frowns. "I have, like, twelve messages from a Darcy Monahan trying desperately to reach you. Do you know what's that about?"

  "Darcy's my roommate. I left my phone with her when I went out tonight, so I wouldn't get drunk and call Laird. I asked her to check my text messages a couple of times and let me know if anything urgent came in. I gave her your number."

  Maggie smiles wryly and takes a more substantial sip of wine. "I know you think going out without your phone is a neat trick, but you really should stop doing it. What if something happens, and you need to call 911? What if your grandmother needs to reach you?"

  I nod slowly. I suppose she's right. "I know," I say. "From now on, I'll be inseparably connected to that chunk of shitty, overpriced plastic."

  Maggie giggles and hands me her phone. "Here's my shitty chunk of overpriced plastic. Call your roommate and see what's going on. Maybe she just wants to borrow your heels, or something."

  I call Darcy, and she gives me a number in Triple Marsh. I send Maggie to borrow a pen from the good-looking blond so I ca
n write it down on a cocktail napkin.

  I dial the number, and the bottom falls out of my world. It's the Triple Marsh police department, and I'm talking to Officer Nan Jacobs, the woman who first told me my mother had died. This time she tells me Gran was found dead in her apartment at Sunset Estates.

  /////////////////////////

  Tears are streaming down Maggie's face, tattooing her cheeks with uneven tracks of mascara. I feel dizzy, like I've had either too much oxygen or not enough.

  "It's OK," I tell Maggie, stroking her hand. "It's alright. You had no idea that Gran had a heart attack."

  "I know," she sobs. "It's just that I feel like such an ass, scolding you about being available for your grandmother when she was dead all along."

  "Mags, you're not making any sense. Gran loved you, and she would have been glad to know you were with me when I got this news. Drink up and try to breathe."

  Maggie sniffles and then blows her nose on a cocktail napkin. We share a short, teary giggle and then, as instructed, she swallows the rest of her wine. "I'm going to get another," she says.

  "Pace yourself," I whisper as she goes.

  I find it beyond strange that she's crying like a normal human being, while all I can feel is nothingness. I loved Gran. She was my only family in the world, and she gave away two million dollars simply because I asked her to. I should be devastated. Instead, I'm locked away inside a thick glass bubble, separate even from my own feelings.

  I barely notice when Cheekbones drops into Maggie's seat.

  "Sorry to be a bother, but are you just about done with my pen?"

  Up close, the handsome-yet-worn face is unmistakable. I'm shocked that I didn't recognize him before. It's Joe, the older guy with the fabulous brownstone and the ice-cold bedroom technique. Still, I shouldn't have run away from him without a word. Sitting across from him like this, I am instantly mortified. I hand him the pen.

  He must notice the stricken look on my face, because he takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. "So, Cinderella, how are you doing?"

  In an instant, the glass breaks, and I burst into tears.

  /////////////////////////

  Joe takes charge of me and Maggie, hustling us out the door and into the back of his limo. We are so shell shocked from Gran's death that we ask only the most cursory questions. I light a cigarette—Mom's homey old vice—and take a drag. I offer it to Maggie. She takes it and throws it out the window.

  "Bitch!" I yelp.

  "You shouldn't smoke in someone's car without asking," she scolds, truly scandalized. Then we both break into hysterical laughter.

  "Hey," she whispers. "Do you know this guy? Are we safe with him?"

  "I don't know him that well," I say cautiously. "But he's not an axe murderer or anything."

  Maggie closes her swollen eyes and sinks into the leather seat. "At least it's a free ride home. I'm done drinking. I just want to go to sleep. I can't believe your grandmother is gone."

  I lean my head against Maggie's shoulder. "Sh-sh-she had a heart condition," I say, stammering slightly. "It was inevitable. God, she did so much for me when Mom and Dad died. I just wish I'd t-t-told her how much I appreciate everything she's done."

  Maggie's eyes are full again. "It's just so fucking sad," she keens, and I hold her as she shudders through another wave of sobbing. After she settles, she sniffles a little and tries to smile. "I guess I'll be more philosophical tomorrow."

  "Me, too." Now it's my turn to cry.

  We're sitting quietly when Joe slips into the seat in front of us. "First stop," he tells the driver, "will be Trillingham House." Maggie's dorm. When we arrive, he helps her out of the limo and walks her to the door. I can tell she's wobbly on her feet from the combined effects of alcohol and shock.

  When Joe returns I ask him to take me to Grand Central.

  "I think not, young lady. You're coming back to my townhouse."

  I roll my eyes. "You're disgusting. I can't believe you're going to hit on a drunk, grief-stricken girl the same night her grandmother died."

  "Listen Miss Cinderella or whoever you are, there are plenty of young girls—girls who are far more beautiful and articulate than you are—who would be thrilled to come home with me."

  I feel as if I've been slapped, and it must show on my face. "Oh, don't look so offended," he says. "You aren't that enamored with me, either, if your great escape the last time was any indication."

  I flush and look down at my hands, wondering why I keep saying the wrong thing. "Sorry," I mumble.

  "No need to be sorry. Just come back to my townhouse, sleep in one of the guest rooms, and leave whenever you want to in the morning."

  I nod my head. It will be good to get some sleep before I head back to my life and try to figure out what I'm going to do about Gran's funeral.

  /////////////////////////

  I take a long, hot shower and make a mental list of everything I have to do for Gran. She was a strong believer in organ donation, so I'm going to call the hospital and make sure all her leftover parts are compassionately recycled. I'm going to call Forever Acres and reserve a plot near my parents. And I'm going to call the manager at Sunset Estates and make arrangements to pick up her things.

  I quickly dry myself with a huge, fluffy towel and throw on the fresh T-shirt and jeans I'd planned on bringing to Maggie's. Dressed with damp, clean hair and only the slightest whisper of a hangover, I feel fresh, fragile, and surprisingly sane.

  I move as quietly down the stairs as possible. The huge brownstone has the beauty and the acoustics of a cathedral. As I descend to the ground floor, I smell the familiar scents of breakfast cooking. Gran made bacon and eggs all the time. My throat tightens—Gran will never make breakfast for me again. I'm also ravenous. I haven't eaten more than a few potato chips since yesterday afternoon.

  I follow the delicious smells down a long hallway, hoping that Joe will be willing to share. Soon, I'm stepping through a tall archway into a gleaming industrial kitchen with a huge wooden island and a profusion of hanging copper pans. I see a tall, gorgeous man standing over a skillet of bacon.

  But it's not Joe. Not at all. It's Laird. And he's looking right at me.

  Chapter 26: Laird

  The silhouette in the doorway is a shock and a revelation. At first, I think she's a hallucination, a fantastically detailed projection of my most desperate desires. But then she says my name in a low voice that's both sweet and rough, and I know that she's real. I wonder how she found me, and I'm deeply touched that she chose to see me in person instead of sending a text. I can't believe she got past Dad's security. Then again, Amity is a smart girl. She could probably do anything.

  We approach each other warily, like walkers at opposite ends of a tightrope. She falls first. Her eyes get big and wet, and her lower lip quivers in a way that makes me want to bite it. She rushes to me, and we embrace. She cries and cries until my shirt is damp. I imagine she's crying for me, for her, for her parents, even for my mom. For everything.

  When she finally takes a step back and regards me with wide, glittering eyes, I realize her hair is wet, as if she just took a shower.

  "Amity, you amazing girl. How did you find me?" My voice is hoarse with shock and desire.

  Amity looks down and lets her hair fall into her face as if she's embarrassed by something. I put my hand under her chin and gently lift it until she meets my eyes. "It's OK. I'm glad you're here. Crazy glad. It's just that this place is my dad's townhouse, and it's practically a fortress. I want to know how you got in here."

  Confusion flutters across her face. "This is your dad's place? Really?"

  "Yeah, did you think this whole building was mine?"

  "N-n-no, I j-j-just thought..."

  She's obviously trying to tell me something she thinks is important. I stroke her hair. "It's OK, Amity. Take your time."

  "I c-c-came here...with a f-f-friend. I didn't know...your d-d-dad...lived here."

  She takes a quick step back and f
linches as if she's expecting a blow.

  "What friend?" And then it hits me. Maybe she's friends with one of Dad's girlfriends. She does have a friend who goes to film school in the city, and Dad does seem to be using his movie company as a way to meet budding actresses.

  "Did you come here with one of my dad's girlfriends?"

  My heart sinks. I've somehow said the wrong thing again. She shakes her head—an emphatic no—and takes another step back as if she's genuinely frightened.

  My father enters the kitchen in a brightly colored silk bathrobe. I'm slightly embarrassed that Amity is going to see him like this, but I'm strangely glad they're finally going to meet.

  "Dad!" I say, and Amity whips around so she's facing him.

  "Dad, I'd like you to meet my good friend, Amity."

  Dad frowns and looks Amity up and down. I feel a familiar tightening in my gut. "We've already met," he says. "She told me her name was Cinderella, but Amity will do just as well."

  "Oh my God," murmurs Amity. "Joe. Josiah. Joe is Josiah Conroy. What have I done?"

  Amity blanches until her face is the color of pale yellow chalk. My father brushes his hand lightly against her arm, but she brushes it away. Then the pieces come together, and I can't believe how stupid I've been. God fucking damn it, it all makes sense now.

  Amity—my Amity—has slept with my father. I have no idea how it happened. I imagine Amity tilting her head up so he can kiss her with his thin, aged lips, and my head pounds with sickness and confusion. The world has slipped its axis, and nothing looks the same.