Authors: Joanne DeMaio
No one stands on her porch. No car is parked in the driveway, its warm engine clicking and cooling. No police cruiser sits guard at this hour. It is just quietly dark. So was the doorbell part of a dream? Or real? What Amy does know is this: It’s time to open her early Christmas present. She bolts the door, returns upstairs to her bedroom and pulls the padlocked box from her closet shelf. The thing is, unlatching the lock and slowly opening the lid brings the same thrill as opening a gift. She lifts the gun, presses in the magazine clip and turns off the lamp, sitting in the dark on her bed for the next hour. Not moving, merely listening. With a knot in her stomach, she silently dares, and curses, her stalker’s next move.
Twenty-one
DID THE DOORBELL REALLY RING? She lies still, looking at the ceiling. Or had she been in a half-sleep state, thinking of George and imagining him calling, or returning? And just because the porch bulb burned out doesn’t mean she is being stalked. When sunlight filters through her lace curtains, she sits up and opens her nightstand drawer, reaching far back. Her hand finds the weapon, which she immediately returns to the safe in her closet.
“I put it away,” she reminds herself. “I put the gun safely out of reach, out of reach.” The drill, over and over, is meant to stop any panic during her morning shower. If only the pelting water could wash her doubts away. Did she unplug the toaster? Did she close the garage door?
Celia checks in with a quick phone call while Grace is still asleep.
“I’m not going to work this morning, Cee.”
“Why not? It’s time to change up the summer display. You have those new gowns for the mannequins. Plus it’s a nice day to get out.”
“I’m a little tired today.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, really.”
“Yeah. Right. Something’s keeping you from those gowns. Do you have coffee on?”
“Yes.”
“Food?”
“Cranberry muffins.”
“I’ll be right there,” Celia says, hanging up before Amy can argue. Before she even has a chance to wake Grace, Celia walks in her back kitchen door looking around the room for stalkers and shadows keeping her awake at night. She wears a seersucker pantsuit, her auburn hair is pulled back in a messy bun, thin silver hoops hang from her ears and a leather portfolio is pressed beneath her arm.
“Here.” Amy sets a steaming mug of coffee on the table. She slices open a muffin, spreads a pat of butter in the center and warms it in the microwave. “I’m okay, Celia. Really. You’ll be late for work.”
Celia picks up the white mug when Amy sets the muffin on her plate. “Well how did I know that someone wasn’t here holding a gun to your head making you cancel your gown plans?”
“Oh, come on.” Amy sits across from her.
“Come on? What are you saying? That it couldn’t happen? Like Grace couldn’t be kidnapped? And you can’t be stalked?”
“Maybe I just don’t want to believe it anymore.”
Celia raises a concerned eyebrow. “Listen. I talked to Ben last night.” She adds a dollop of cream to her coffee, stirs it and taps her spoon on the cup. “We both want you to consider something. And don’t answer me until you’ve given the question serious thought.” She pushes half the muffin into her mouth, chews and chases it down with coffee.
Amy motions to the portfolio between them. “It’s not about that little ranch you showed me, is it?”
“Partly.” Her fingers lace around the mug. “It could be the perfect home for you. The owners moved out last weekend, so it’s empty now. And they’ve dropped the price. Just consider it, okay? Being that it’s not so isolated, and it’s easier to take care of than this place.”
“I don’t know. I really don’t want to move.”
“Well think about it. Ben and I are worried about you here in this big old house alone and we also want you to consider spending
only
the nights with us. For a while.” She holds her hand up straight when Amy opens her mouth to speak. “No. Don’t answer me now. Talk to George about it. And maybe your parents. We’ve got room for you and Grace and hey, we’ve got a dog, too.”
“You know how I feel about taking care of myself. It’s something I have to do.”
“Right.” Celia slides her cup aside. “Except these are extraordinary circumstances you’re living under. The standard rules don’t apply this summer.” She stands to leave, taking first another long swallow of coffee, then nudging the ranch house specs closer to Amy. “Stalking doesn’t just go away. It gets worse. If you’re going to be responsible for Grace, you can’t keep your head in the sand. Remember, forewarned is forearmed.”
Amy watches silently as Celia picks her keys up off the table, backing away while tipping the last of her coffee into her mouth. “I’m running late, but please think about it for me?”
“I bought a gun.” Celia’s eyes close and Amy waits quietly for them to open, for Celia to process
that
information. “So I am forearmed now.”
Celia sinks back into her chair and checks her watch. “Does George know this?”
Amy shakes her head no. “I didn’t want to be talked out of it.”
“Damn it,” Celia says, stamping her foot. “You see how it’s escalating already?”
“No, it’s not. Dad told me I should have a gun after Mark died. So I got a gun.”
“That’s different and you know it.” She takes an exasperated breath and another glance at her watch. “I have an appointment I really can’t miss. But you and I have some serious talking to do. When’s a good time? And I won’t take no for
that
answer, because I’m sure all your others will be no.”
“Tomorrow, okay? There’s a gown at an estate sale I want to check out. Come with me and Grace, and we’ll talk afterward.”
It felt good to commit to Celia and to her shop again. She’d been away from the tulle and lace and veils, and, well, and happiness, for too long. The gowns will be in her life again tomorrow. So she feels better waking Grace and giving her breakfast, saying small phrases to her over her cereal. She feels better pulling the stepladder from the pantry and opening it on the front porch. Her doctor had mentioned that after what she’d been through, it’s not uncommon to have exaggerated startle reactions. So the bulb was nothing, just a burnt-out bulb and she’d ridiculously panicked and gotten out her gun. Because any little thing can get her jumpy. She reaches for the light switch and flicks it to be sure it’s turned off before removing the old bulb. Then flicks it again.
Okay, so maybe her reaction last night wasn’t exaggerated. Because when the old, burnt-out bulb illuminates, she knows someone
had
been on her porch the night before. Maybe now more than ever, she needs to trust herself.
* * *
Since she had taken the reins of control back by buying a gun and reporting the stalking to the police, Amy sees that to keep control, she has to pull back tight on the bit. That afternoon, she watches from the opposite side of a mirrored wall as Dr. Brina works with Grace, trying to trigger a response without Amy in the room. It’s like watching a silent movie, the doctor going through the muted motions on the other side of the wall. She shows her daughter pictures, encourages Grace to color, tries in vain to invoke anger, fear or sadness. Dr. Brina instructs Grace to hammer square blocks into square holes and Amy whispers “Whack it!” from behind the wall, wringing her hands together. “Get mad, Grace.”
When Dr. Brina suggests that a speech therapist might be able to cull verbal sounds from her small patient, Amy makes an instant decision. Walking with Grace in the bright sunshine out to her SUV, she checks the door handles and looks inside, front and back, in her new security routine. Once Grace is buckled into her car seat, Amy carefully drives through the parking lot toward the exit, frequently checking the rearview mirror to see if anyone follows them. But the closer she gets to her destination, the less she thinks of stalkers. It’s the kidnappers who take over her mind.
She’d never found it in her heart to return to the bank and subject Grace to any frightening memories there, but now she drives into the very parking lot where the kidnapping happened. Except she isn’t here to bank and she isn’t here for herself. She’s here to get her daughter to speak.
Dr. Berg told her weeks ago that disturbing memories need to be processed and the crime put into proper perspective in the subconscious mind. Otherwise avoidance symptoms can lead to complete withdrawal. Grace is steps away from isolation. Angel is now her only link to this world.
“Come on, honey,” Amy murmurs as she unbuckles Grace. She walks slowly past two stores, approaching the bank while holding Grace’s hand the same way she did that morning. Her fingers curl around her daughter’s small fingers and she says soft, encouraging words. The sun shines bright; the similarities between the two days are strong. In Amy’s mind, she pictures yellow crime tape wrapped around the parking lot. In her mind, she also pictures breaking through that tape and bringing Grace back, finally, once and for all.
Grace walks quietly beside her and Amy feels when it starts, when her daughter resists, her feet slowing.
* * *
George closes up The Main Course and cleans the meat grinders. With a special wrench, he removes the nuts and bolts that hold the auger housing in place and sanitizes, rinses and sets out each piece to dry. He takes no chances. Just like he told Amy. Risk isn’t for him. He prefers the sure thing. Scrupulous attention to his specialty meat shop brings him steady business.
As he goes through the careful motions of sanitizing the equipment, his thoughts are free to start planning the next day, considering what he needs to order, what special cuts he needs to prepare. Who will come into the shop? That thought is new. He recognizes the regulars. They talk about their kids, their golf swings, car trouble. “What’s good today, George?” they ask, trusting him to suggest only the best, from hamburger patties to the finest steaks. “What’s the special?”
Then there are the folks he doesn’t recognize. He never used to think twice about them. Now he watches them differently, wondering if Reid sends them to keep tabs on him. A woman in her late twenties stopped in that afternoon. “I’d like four of the stuffed peppers,” she said, pointing to the meals-to-go case. Her accent had him look twice. It placed her from an eastern European country, maybe Ukraine or Poland. Is she a nanny? Or is she working undercover, watching him? Is she a live-in health aide here on a temporary visa to earn money to bring back home? Or is she a resident transplanted from the old country? Does she like it here? In the past, those interested questions would have been asked. Today, he didn’t want to know. He just made note of her fair skin, the light brown hair, the voice.
After stopping at his condominium, taking a quick shower and putting on jeans and a casual tee, the woman’s face passes through his thoughts again. And again after he walks from his pickup along Amy’s driveway, up the stone path to her kitchen door in the back. When he knocks, finds no answer and the door unlocked, he walks in. Could her stalker be an eastern European woman?
“Hello?” he calls out. A white coffee cup sits on the blue table. The cup is full, but the mug cool to the touch. “Amy?” He looks out the kitchen window, thinking she might be at the tire swing with Grace. But she would have heard him come in if she was in the yard.
In the living room, pillows neatly line the sofa; a cotton throw is draped over a chair back; the lamps and framed photographs of Grace all stand precisely in place. There are no signs of a struggle. He stands at the bottom of the stairs with a hand on the banister, listening. After a second, he takes the stairs two at a time.
Grace’s bedroom door is ajar. “Amy?” he asks, opening the door and squinting to adjust to the darkness behind it. Amy sits in a chair pulled close to the bed. She shakes her head back and forth without speaking. “What’s wrong?” he whispers, his hand on her shoulder. The curtains are drawn and Grace sleeps soundly with Angel curled against her leg. “Did something happen?”
She stands and pushes past him to the bathroom out in the hallway, locking the door behind her. He turns and follows, trying the bathroom doorknob, jiggling it and pressing his ear to the door. The noise from the other side is muffled and sounds as though she’s sick. “Amy. Are you all right? Open the door.”
The toilet flushes and tap water runs in the sink, but still no word from her. As soon as he hears the door unlock, he opens it and sees she’s splashed water on her face and neck. But more than that, he’s shocked to feel the weight of her when she walks into his arms.
* * *
“What have I done?” Amy asks. They sit on the couch and George hands her a tall glass of water. “It seemed to make perfect sense at the time. We want Grace to speak. To react. So I brought her to the place we want her to react to.” She takes a long, shaking breath. “What was I thinking? That I could play God?”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. Grace is slipping further away each day. Any mother would try to reach out like that.”
“Not
my
mother. Why didn’t I just make her soup? Or read to her and hold her?” She sips the water, barely swallowing a mouthful. George sits beside her and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “What’s wrong with me?” she asks.
“What exactly happened, Amy? What did Grace do?”
“I brought her to the bank, thinking it’s the one place that can get a reaction from her, even if it’s a bad one. But then, oh George, it was terrible.” Her eyes fill up again. “She tried to pull away, but I didn’t let her and kept walking to the bank. And then?” She stifles a cry, raising her hand to her mouth.
“What? What happened?”
“Her legs stopped working. Just like that. She crumpled to her knees on the parking lot pavement.” Tears stream down her face and George gets tissues from the kitchen, returning and blotting her cheeks. “My poor Grace,” she cries into her hands.
“It’s okay, she’ll be all right. Don’t worry.”
“No. No she won’t. I did her in. She couldn’t walk, George. I actually had to pick her up and carry her and she just hung limp in my arms. And I could see, oh God I could see, she wasn’t with me at all. I pushed her over some edge I didn’t know was so close.”