Saving Amy (45 page)

After swiping access to the underground lot I noticed the Mercedes was parked up in bay seven. Richard was home. I wasn’t expecting him for another hour so I spent the short walk and elevator ride to the apartment conjuring up an excuse for my whereabouts. I did plan on telling him but there was really nothing to tell and he’d only worry – something I’d already caused him to do too much of.

“Hey, beautiful,” Richard greeted, kissing my lips as soon as I walked in the door.

“Hey.” I hugged him, hard. We’d only been apart for a few hours but I’d missed him incredibly.

“Are you okay? Where have you been?” he asked curiously. “You look upset.”

“I’m fine. I just nipped out for groceries,” I lied, burying my head in his shoulder so he couldn’t see my face. Somehow my expression always gave me away.

“So, where are they?” he quizzed, holding me at arms length so he could study my big fat lying face.

Shit. Great excuse there, Amy.

“Oh. I, um…”

“Amy…” He tilted my chin up with his finger, trying to break me with his intense gaze. “No more lies, remember?”

Busted.
I exhaled in defeat.

“I went to my dad’s funeral,” I admitted quietly, hoping he didn’t hear.

“What! Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve come with you.” His furrowed brow oozed concern. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear and kissed my forehead.

“I decided last minute. I just wanted to make sure he was finally gone, I guess. It’s no big deal. I was fine on my own.”

“You still should’ve told me. I can’t support you if you shut me out, Amy.” Great. Now I felt guilty on top of everything else. I had planned to visit my mom alone too, but suddenly that didn’t seem like such a good idea. He was right – secrets only ever led to pain.

“I know. I’m sorry,” I said, and then took a deep breath in preparation for my next revelation. “I want to go and see my mom. Will you come with me?”

“Of course I will,” he said, tenderly brushing along my cheekbone with his forefinger. “When do you want to go?” I hadn’t thought that far ahead. In fact I thought (maybe even hoped) he’d try and talk me out of it.

“Um… I don’t know. Tonight?”

Might as well get it over and done with.

“And you’re sure you want to do this?”

“Yes. I need to know what she’s got to say for herself.”

“Okay. Well, we’ll have dinner first. I was thinking lasagne?” I really wasn’t expecting him to be so accepting of my plan.

“Sounds good.” Richard pulled me in for one last hug and then turned to head into the kitchen. “Richard…” I called after him and he turned back around. “Thank you.” He raised one of those delicious confused eyebrows of his. “For being you,” I clarified.

“For being perfect you mean?” he teased with a wink. “Oh, and not forgetting sexy as hell?” I rolled my eyes and laughed at him. If I had a pillow to hand he’d have
so
been getting it right now.

I
barely touched my lasagne and the little I did manage was eaten out of guilt. I hated leaving it when Richard had gone to the trouble of preparing it from scratch but all I could think about was my impending visit to my mom and it was making me nauseous. Right now, sitting on the driveway trying to summon the courage to actually get out of the car, I was regretting the two mouthfuls I did eat. I was almost certain they wouldn’t be in my stomach for much longer.

“Ready?” Richard asked, squeezing my knee encouragingly.

“Yes,” I lied, because whether I was ready or not didn’t actually matter. I
had
to do it.

Hand in hand we approached the arched russet door. I told Richard to prepare himself for a lengthy wait seeing as though my mom hadn’t answered the door in years. I began with a gentle knock and wasn’t surprised when five minutes later we were still stood outside. I knocked harder… still nothing.

“Mom! Are you in there?” I shouted while opting for the tactic of beating crap out of the door.

Richard ambled over to the bay window, stepping over the dead shrivelled up flowers lining the lawn. He cupped his eyes with his hands like binoculars to block out any unnecessary light and then pressed his head against the glass.

“Ah shit! Amy, call an ambulance!” The words were like an electric shock to my heart.

“What! Why?”

“Just do it!” he yelled, hurrying over to me. “Step back.”

He backed me away from the door with his forearm and then tensed his whole body as he rammed his shoulder into the wood. Nothing happened so he did it again and I covered my ears as the sound of wood crashing into his body sent me into a panic.

The stubborn door started to buckle as it peeled away from its hinges. With his arms outstretched to the sides Richard raised his leg and with one forceful karate-style kick it collapsed to the floor. He flew into the house, disappearing down the hallway and into the living room. For a moment I thought I was following him but then I realised I hadn’t moved an inch.

“The ambulance, Amy!” Richard bellowed, his voice fading as it travelled through the hall. It snapped me out of the trance I’d slipped into and I pulled my cell from my pocket and dialled 911. After requesting an ambulance I was asked for the address – easy, I knew that off by heart. But then the lady on the other end asked me what the problem was and I had no idea. I also didn’t think I waned to find out.

“Are you still there, ma’am?” the lady’s voice asked down the line and I realised I stopped talking after giving the zip code.

“Um, yes, I’m here.”

“There’s an ambulance on its way to you now. Is the casualty breathing, ma’am?”

“I don’t know!”
I hope so.
Don’t I?
She has to be.
This couldn’t be happening again. “I’ll go and see.”

Hesitantly, I clambered over the demolished door and made my way down the hall. I paused briefly, deep breathing, blinking away impromptu tears and psyching myself up. There were no sounds coming from the living room – none whatsoever. My heart voluntarily crawled into my stomach to hide as I stepped around the doorjamb.

I immediately stumbled back, steadying myself on the door. My hand flew over my gaping mouth and my cell slipped from my ear, bouncing off the floor and splitting the casing in two. Richard was on his knees by my mom but jumped to his feet when he saw me, throwing his arms around me, shielding the horror from my vision with his body.

“No! Why aren’t you helping her until the ambulance gets here?” I snapped at him, shoving him away from me. He leaned forward, cupping my face in his hands but I didn’t look at him. My eyes wouldn’t leave my mom.

“It’s too late, Amy. Your mom is dead.”

No…

I wanted to argue with him, tell him he was wrong… but looking at the lifeless body on the beige carpet, I knew there was no point.

Blood. It was everywhere. It was pooled around her wrists, seeping into the fibres of the carpet. It was soaked into the sleeves of her white gown. It was smeared across her face. It was dripping from the knife blade by her feet. It was matted in her hair, splashed up the legs of the oak coffee table, smattered onto the empty med bottles behind her head, stained onto the empty gin bottle… it was
everywhere.
And when I looked at Richard, it was all over him too.

“I can’t breathe,” I choked before running back outside, doubling over and spewing my guts out onto the sidewalk. I heaved and retched until my throat burned and my stomach ran dry and when I’d finished, I felt absolutely no better. Richard had been holding back my hair and when I stood up he wiped the corners of my mouth with the sleeve of his baby-blue shirt and pulled me into him.

“Cry, beautiful. Let it out,” he whispered into my hair. And so I did. I cried so violently my whole body started to shake. I cried and screamed and flung my arms into his chest until my body was too weak to support me. And then I slid to the floor… dazed, confused and utterly heartbroken.

Instead of catching me, Richard slid down with me until we were sitting on the cold, damp asphalt rocking back and forth in each other’s arms. Flashing lights temporarily blinded my eyes and blaring sirens deafened my ears. A police cruiser screeched to an abrupt halt in front of us, followed almost immediately by an ambulance. Richard drew me in for one last squeeze, kissed my forehead and stood up to meet the crew.

He approached the female curly-haired paramedic and instantly all traces of urgency had vanished from their footsteps.
He’s told them.
He’d told them my mom was dead. My mom
and
my dad… were
dead.

I drew my knees into my chest and sank my head into my hands. I closed my eyes and was haunted by the image of my mom, lifeless and covered in blood. So I opened them again, fixing my gaze onto the little white mailbox across the street. I could hear voices, feet shuffling against the gravel, radio-receivers,
doors
opening and closing… But I didn’t know where it was all coming from because I refused to shift my focus from the pretty white mailbox with a little wooden bluebird perched on its roof.

It was shaped like a small wooden house with an apex roof and a brown door that opened for the mail. There
was even red windows
painted on the side, complete with painted yellow curtains. I wondered if the man who lived there (Mr Dawson I think he’s called) made it himself or if you could buy ready made house-shaped mailboxes with bluebirds on top. I think the bluebird had a yellow beak but it was too dark to be sure. It was so pretty. How did I never notice it before?

“Amy, let’s get you home,” Richard said god knows how long later, squatting beside me and enclosing me in his arms.

“I’ve never noticed how pretty it is before. Ours is so dull in comparison.”

“What is? Amy, what are you talking about?” he asked worriedly, trying to follow my gaze.

“Would you say its beak is yellow, or is that just the street lamps?” Richard shifted his body so he was directly in front of me, holding my shoulders and blocking my view.

“Move! I can’t see it! I need to see it!” I yelled at him, swinging my neck from side to side to try and see past him.

“Amy, stop,” he ordered firmly, taking my face in his hands so I had no choice but to meet his gaze. “You need to get up. They’re about to bring out your mom’s…
body
.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head against his hands. “I’m not moving. I need to stay here. I need to know what colour its beak is goddammit!”

“Amy, look at me!” he snapped but without a hint of anger. My eyes reluctantly found
their
way to his. “I’m going to lift you up now. We need to make room for the undertakers. Hold on to my neck.”

Undertakers?
I looked to my right and saw a glossy black van parked beside the ambulance.
When did that get here?

Richard raised my arms and wrapped them around his neck. Instinctively I grabbed on when I felt my body being lifted off the ground. He carried me across the lawn, cradling me to his chest like a baby. Then we reached the car and he broke one arm free to open the passenger door before lithely lowering me inside.

Moments later I heard the wheels of the gurney scratching their way through the gravel. I told my eyes not to look but they betrayed me and forced me to watch the balding men in black suits wheel the black, zipped body bag into the back of their van.

My mom is in that bag. My mom is dead and she’s wrapped in that bag. My mom is dead. My dad is dead. My mom and my dad are dead…

“Amy, I have something to show you. It was tucked inside your mom’s hand when I found her.”

I stared warily at Richard, confused and curious as he reached into the top pocket of his padded black jacket and pulled out a scrunched up, blood stained envelope.

“If you’re not ready, I can keep hold of it,” he said, hovering the envelope over his pocket.

“No. I want to see it,” I claimed, but judging by the fact I wasn’t breathing, I think that might have been a lie. Uncertainly, I took the envelope, smoothing out the creases between my thumbs.

‘Amelia Hope’ was printed on the front in my mom’s shaky handwriting. I slid my finger under the edge of the
flap which
hadn’t been stuck down properly and gently teased open the letter. A single tear dropped onto the paper, soaking straight through it and blotching the black ink. I dried my cheeks with the sleeve of my grey sweater (well, Richard’s grey sweater), took a deep breath and started to read.

My dearest Amelia,

If you’re reading this, that means you opened the envelope. So for that, thank you. I wouldn’t have blamed you for tossing it straight in the trash.

I would like to start by saying I am sorry. I am sorry that I allowed you to suffer. I am sorry I was too afraid to stop him. I am sorry I was too wasted to stop him. I am sorry for putting myself first. I am sorry for pretending nothing was happening. I am sorry for drinking myself numb.

I am sorry for never teaching you to smile.
To laugh.
Or even to cry – I’m sorry you had to learn to cry all by yourself. I am sorry for not cuddling you, kissing you, comforting you. I am sorry for not braiding your hair, singing you to sleep, holding you when you had nightmares.