Without Proof

by Janet Sketchley

  She imagined her resentment melting into liquid, beading through her pores, then lifting from her skin as a gas. Happy thoughts. Toronto. Memories of the gallery brought a smile. “I wish you could have heard the comments at the show. People love Michael’s paintings. The images refresh something in us.”

  “Which is why I expected him to come home satisfied, even with the long drive.” Aunt Bay walked to the door and listened before returning to her seat. “The music’s still on in his studio. He seemed okay with your relatives?”

  Amy stared at a corner of the ceiling. “Fine. Especially when he found out they were church people. I don’t think he understood how much it meant to me to have actual family want to see me.”

  “He doesn’t know about your father?”

  “He’d be as protective as Gilles was, and as angry. Please don’t tell him.” Amy still had to read the man’s letter. At least it was short. And not signed by a lawyer.

  Raindrops scurried down the windowpane. Amy snuggled deeper into her chair. “On the way home, Michael found some good ideas for paintings, even though he kept to easy terrain for me. I told him to go without me—” The last night in Toronto. She’d said it then, too. And accused him of asking her out.

  Aunt Bay tipped her head forward. “What is it, child?”

  “He doesn’t go anywhere that means leaving me unattended. You don’t think Emilie’s right, do you? That he’s trying to keep me in some kind of bubble?” Only wishful thinking could interpret his friendly invitation as a date, but Emilie’s ideas were just as far out.

  “Emilie’s perspective of life is somewhat unusual.”

  “But could he have… I don’t know… an obsession?” The back of Amy’s neck prickled. She lifted her hair away from the skin.

  Michael’s aunt’s mouth snapped shut. Her lips twisted from one side to the other, as if she were trying a new taste she wasn’t sure she liked but was too polite to spit out. Finally she shook her head. “Michael lived with me since his teens, until I moved into the city. He’s as stable as they come. Except when he was with Gilles.” A grin split her face. “Ask him about fireworks sometime. He doesn’t know I know.”

  “But you and I want him to be stable. What if he’s not?”

  “Then we’d notice. And we’d help him. But I need more than Emilie’s drama-queen theories to convince me.” Aunt Bay tapped her fingers on her leg. “Besides, if he successfully kept watch on you all week, why would he be morose? Unless you sneaked out to a strip club or something.”

  “Aunt Bay!” Amy’s cheeks flamed.

  The older woman glanced at her watch, and stood. “I’ll just remind him he’s cooking tonight.” At the doorway, she turned back. “Don’t worry, Amy. And I won’t either, now. It must be the airplane issue stirring up his grief. Which does not mean to drop it, if the Lord keeps putting it in your path.”

  Amy listened to Aunt Bay’s footsteps on the stairs, and pushed up from her chair. Her hip twinged at the change in angle. God wouldn’t “put anything in her path.” Amy did her best to stay out of His way so He wouldn’t have to notice her and be offended.

  Thinking of offence… better to read her father’s letter now instead of before bed.

  Michael met her on the stairs. “Homemade macaroni and cheese. With bacon, if we have any. I hope you can wait an hour. I got caught up in what I was doing.”

  “Awesome.”

  Amy closed the door to her bedroom and took a deep breath before picking up her father’s letter. She carried it to the chair by the window. Outside, at the edge of the property, rain pelted St. Margaret’s Bay. A lone seagull huddled on a rock.

  Sighing, she looked at the folded paper in her hands. Nothing her father could say could hurt her more than he already had.

  Dear Amy,

  I was wrong. There are no words to apologize for how I treated you after you wrote me — and you, injured and grieving at the time.

  I have no excuse, but I’d like to explain: my wife’s cancer had returned, and we knew it would be fatal. She didn’t know about my affair with your mother. Your wedding invitation was the first time I knew about you. I was afraid if my wife found out, it would kill her. (Yes, I was also ashamed to tell her.)

  Not knowing what your mother told you, I’ll offer some background: I was a hockey player. When I was traded to the Senators, my wife didn’t want to move, so I rented an apartment in Ottawa. It was a trial separation for us after years of drifting apart.

  Your mother and I met at a party, and it was love at first sight. I started divorce proceedings, and she agreed to marry me as soon as I was free. Then came my wife’s cancer diagnosis. She had no one to help her through the treatments, and my duty was clear. I took a leave of absence from my team and went home, promising to come back to your mother once the situation resolved.

  My wife lived, and the ordeal rekindled our love for one another. I still had feelings for your mother, but it seemed right to honour the longer-standing, legal commitment. When I phoned to tell her, we both cried. She didn’t tell me about you. She had a high-paying job, but I would have sent child support, tried to secretly be part of your life. Instead, we agreed to cut all contact. I didn’t know she had died until you wrote. For that loss, too, I am sorry.

  There’s no other way to judge me than harshly, and I deserve it. But please know I wish the very best for you, and I would count it a privilege to help you in any way I can. It’s a surprising joy to discover I have a daughter.

  I hope you don’t throw this in the trash. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume you did, and I’ll write again. So please respond, even if it’s just to curse me out.

  I remain,

  Most humbly sorry,

  Your father, Neal Williamson

  Amy stared at the typed words. The nerve of the man, waiting until his wife died, so he’d be safe, then deciding he wanted a daughter after all. Curse him out indeed — except her mother had loved him.

  Not that Mom ever said his name, or gave any clues about his identity. Amy didn’t learn that until she turned twenty-one and a registered letter arrived from the lawyer overseeing her mother’s estate. Even then it wasn’t much, just his name and last known address. With a request to only contact him if Amy required medical records or urgent help. By then she’d been on her own for four years, her childhood fantasies of finding her father long dead.

  She re-folded the letter. Mr. Neal Williamson had turned down his daughter’s desperate plea for help two years ago. She didn’t need him now.

  Nor did she need Michael or his aunt to know she was illegitimate.

  The letter crackled in her fist. Nobody used that word anymore, but it’s what she was to God.

  Why did Michael and Aunt Bay have to be church people? Her background didn’t matter to anyone else, but it put her outside the boundaries of their faith. How could God accept her when she should never have been born?

  Chapter 7

  Amy loved Sunday mornings. With Michael and his aunt at church, the entire house was hers. She could bake, read, soak in the tub… not that she couldn’t do the same things with them home, but it felt different. Today, solitude let her process her father’s letter without worrying what they’d see in her face.

  She poured a second mug of coffee and looked out the kitchen window. The deck was still damp, but little waves on the bay glistened in the sunshine. Not much wind. With a sweater, and a cushion for one of the wicker chairs, she could take her thoughts outside.

  Amy scooted up the stairs to her room and pulled a fleece-lined, brown hoodie from her closet. Music would help, too. She glanced at her bureau. Where was her phone?

  Had it been in her purse since the trip? So much for using that for the music. The battery would be dead. No, the end of the charger wire lay across the cut-glass box on her bureau that held her hair elastics. She wouldn’t have plugged that in and forgotten the phone.

  The flight club call. Amy remembered the phone hitting the bed, bouncing
onto the floor. She walked to that side of the bed and knelt to peer under the nightstand. Nothing. She twisted, grinding her knees against the laminate floor. The phone lay under her chair by the window.

  Oops. She’d been mad, all right, to give it that much momentum. At least it was still in one piece. When she picked it up, the message light was flashing. That could explain the giant singing bumblebee in her dream last night.

  One new text. Please let go of the plane crash. Asking questions could cost your life. A friend.

  Fingers locked around the phone, Amy stared at the words burning themselves into her mind.

  A faint thud from downstairs caught her breath. Amy whirled, trying to look everywhere at once. She closed the text message and typed 9 - 1 -

  Thumb hovering over that final 1, she grabbed her cane and tiptoed to her doorway. Silence. Only the tick of the wall clock from the living room and the background ringing from overstraining her ears.

  She crept down the stairs, pausing on each one. Nothing stirred. The sound had come from beneath her, at the back of the house. At the bottom of the stairway she turned toward the kitchen, then hesitated. Sneaking up on an intruder had to be her worst idea ever. What was she going to do? Club him with her cane? The light-weight aluminum would bounce off his head and barely dent his hair.

  There’d been no further sounds. No reason to call emergency services, nor flee to the neighbours. But just in case…

  Amy cancelled her partially-entered call and brought up her contacts list. Why hadn’t she added the neighbours? She hit Emilie’s number.

  At the sound of the girl’s groggy voice, the pressure eased around Amy’s lungs. “Sorry to wake you, but I’m home alone and I heard a strange noise. Stay on the line with me while I do a walk-through?”

  “Amy, if you think someone broke in, get out!”

  “It wasn’t a crash or anything, just a sort of thump.” Emilie the drama queen should understand overactive imaginations.

  “Well, be careful. And keep talking. If there’s anyone there, you might scare him away.”

  Unless it was the person who sent that text. Amy kept the phone to her mouth as she stepped into the kitchen. “Okay so far.” Nothing out of place.

  Could the sound have come from outside? She peered through the window. “There’s something on the deck. Small and brown.”

  “It’s not a brick, is it? Like they throw through windows with threatening notes?”

  Amy shook her head. “Way to help me stay calm, Emilie.”

  “Sorry. Do you think that made the noise?”

  “Dunno. It’s just lying there—” As she spoke, the bundle fluttered. “Hey—” Amy backed up and studied the windowpane. “It’s a bird, a starling or something. I can see the smudge where he hit the glass. Poor little thing.”

  The bird stirred again. A third try brought it to its feet. It took a couple of tottering steps and flew away from the house, weaving and keeping low to the ground.

  Amy smiled. “He’s okay.”

  “Well, now you’ve scared away the big, bad noisemaker, I’m going to hit the shower. Say hi to Michael for me, and Aunt Bay.”

  “Thanks for being my backup.”

  A bird. She’d panicked over a bird. Amy’s fight-or-flight had settled down, but the phone in her hand reminded her of the anonymous text. A new shiver prickled her scalp.

  Leaning against the kitchen counter, she opened the message. Please let go of the plane crash. Asking questions could cost your life. A friend. Was it a warning, or a threat?

  The sender’s number meant nothing, except to show an out-of-province area code. Where was 431, anyway?

  Amy’s phone was a basic pay-as-you-go with no browser option. She went back to her room for her laptop, and set it up at the kitchen table. It didn’t feel safe to stay upstairs right now.

  She retrieved her coffee mug from the counter and took a sip. Not quite cold enough to reheat, but not hot enough to dawdle over, either. Amy settled in front of the laptop and finished her drink while the machine booted up.

  Reverse phone number lookup tagged Winnipeg for the area code, but couldn’t match a name to the full number. Amy frowned at the screen. She didn’t know anyone in Winnipeg, and how would someone that far away even hear she had doubts about the crash?

  She tapped her fingernails against the side of her empty mug. The message’s tone wasn’t threatening… at least on the surface. Hardly worth going to the police. Her eyes narrowed. Especially since they’d tell her to let the accident go, too.

  Showing it to Michael would be worse. He’d not only agree, but the phrase cost your life would stick him closer to her than a straightjacket. Not in a good way.

  Aunt Bay wouldn’t overreact, but she might feel obligated to tell Michael. Back to claustrophobia.

  Troy. Amy nodded to herself. A reporter might even be able to dig up this person’s identity.

  Fingers tapping the keyboard, Amy tried the local newspaper’s site first. No luck. Troy had said he was a freelancer, after all. Searching for him by name returned too many options, including a neurosurgeon and an Australian rugby player.

  Amy logged into Facebook and brought up Michael’s profile, then the list of his friends. Troy was there, and he’d helpfully set his email address as public. Likely a good idea for a journalist looking for tips.

  She fired off a quick email with the subject header “Plane crash.” That should get his attention.

  Three minutes later, the house phone rang, showing a local cell number. Troy’s voice asked, “Amy? What’s up?”

  Amy tapped a foot against the nearest chair leg. “Someone sent a text about the accident, warning me to drop it. I thought you might know what to do.”

  “Drop it.”

  “What?” Amy pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it. “You’re the one who planted the idea in my head. Don’t you dare pretend it’s nothing now.”

  “Whoa… I didn’t say that.” Troy paused. “Tell me exactly what the message said. And whatever you do, don’t delete it.”

  “So you do still think there’s something.”

  “More than ever. I got a text, too. Mine said to leave you alone or I’d be responsible for whatever happened to you.”

  The hairs on the back of Amy’s neck stood slowly to attention. She recited the unknown phone number and the message she’d received.

  Troy grunted. “My gut says this person’s more concerned about your safety than about bringing the truth to light. Must be nice to have someone looking out for you.”

  Someone looking out for her. “Troy, this isn’t Michael, is it? Tricking us to convince me to stop thinking about it?”

  A hoot of laughter, then silence. Finally, Troy asked, “Would he think it’d work?”

  “He shouldn’t.”

  “Then, no. I’m not sure he’d know how to set up a fake number, and I’d certainly hope none of his friends would send messages like that on his behalf. They could be charged.”

  Amy wandered to the window. The bird hadn’t returned. “So you think I should obey the warning.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’ll keep investigating.”

  “They’ve as much as told me there’s something to investigate. I have a few ideas, and I’ll be careful. In the meantime, you stay out of danger.”

  After the call ended, Amy stared out the window, idly tapping the edge of the phone against her chin. She wasn’t brave, or resourceful like Troy. But it didn’t feel right to let someone who hadn’t even known Gilles put his safety on the line alone.

  She’d been with Gilles every step of that day. Had she seen anything that seemed insignificant at the time?

  Shoulders set, Amy turned from the window and left the kitchen. Time to make another call.

  ~~~

  Amy waited until halfway through lunch to drop her bomb. “I want to visit the crash site.”

  Michael’s jaw froze in mid-chew, but Aunt Bay kept eating as if Amy had
suggested a trip to the mall. Michael’s throat jerked convulsively. He gulped some water from his glass. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m stronger than you think. It’s time.”

  Michael squeezed his eyes shut in a long blink, then nodded. “Maybe it is. The closure could finish the doubts you’ve been having.”

  Or help Amy remember even a small clue. “I’m going with Ross Zarin. He’s picking me up in about half an hour.”

  Aunt Bay set her spoon gently in her soup. “Is that wise?”

  Heat rose in Amy’s cheeks. She’d expected Michael’s feisty aunt to take her side. “We were talking about the crash, and he offered to drive me.”

  Michael’s face had taken on a mottled, reddish tint. His lips pressed together, twisted, slackened. Finally he pulled in an enormous breath that seemed to free his tongue. “Wouldn’t it be easier to go with one of us?”

  Amy stared at the half-eaten grilled cheese sandwich beside her soup bowl. She’d been ready to fight him, to push for her independence, but the hurt in his tone undid her. She fiddled with her spoon. “You two have done so much for me, and you know I’m grateful. But I need to start facing things on my own.”

  “This isn’t on your own,” Aunt Bay said. “It’s trusting a stranger instead of those who love you. Michael or I, even Emilie, for all her foolish chatter. We’d have gladly gone with you, and paid our own respects. On the side of that road, when it all comes back at you, you’ll break down in front of a stranger instead of in the arms of friends.”

  “If I went with you, we’d all be crying. Being with Ross should help me hold it together.”

  Aunt Bay snorted. “God gave us tear ducts for a reason. I’ve often wanted to visit the site myself and say a proper goodbye.”

  Amy reached across the table and took the older woman’s hand. “You missed the funeral so I wouldn’t be alone.”

  “And I don’t regret it. I gave my condolences to the family at the funeral home, but it was so...”