“Hey,” she says, breathing heavily.
Despite the chill, she’s wearing a black wife-beater, camo shorts, no shoes. A sheen of sweat covers her bare skin and a pair of boxing gloves dangle from her hand.
“I took a little longer than I expected. Sorry,” I say.
She tips her wrist to look at her chunky, multifunction sports watch but doesn’t say anything. I wonder what event she is training for now. In addition to being a tech genius, Chris is a pain junkie hooked on Sufferfest and Spartan endurance events that would come close to killing any normal human being. Beth told me that Chris once ran for twenty-four hours straight with a torn Achilles tendon, and that after some crazy three-day challenge involving rope swings, barbed wire, and a thirty-mile run, Chris came home black and blue with bruises after plummeting forty meters down a sheer cliff face.
I look around. The place is exactly how I remember, essentially a large square room divided into four distinct areas. A kitchenette and adjoining bathroom. A combined sleeping and living area. A workout area complete with rowing machine, treadmill, red leather boxing bag, and stack of kettle bells. And, finally, an office space, heavy on the latest tech, complete with a high-end black leather office chair, multiple high-definition monitors, and every ergonomic accessory known to womankind.
I follow Chris across the room to the center of operations. She takes her seat and offers me an upturned wastepaper basket to sit on.
“It’s okay. I’ll stand.”
I want to ask her what the urgency is about, but have learned that talking isn’t really Chris’s thing. I look over her shoulder and study the monitors, drawing breath when I see what’s on the middle one. A super-clear high-definition satellite image of his compound. Neglected and overgrown. Fences chained up and padlocked. Thousands of oil drums stacked in an empty field.
Chris’s slender fingers fly over the keyboard like some sort of tech Chopin as she works her magic on encrypted folders and subfolders.
Finally, I can stand it no longer. “What are we doing here, Chris? Did you find something?”
“Un momento,” she says, frowning.
Several more keystrokes and a PDF document springs open.
“Take a look at that,” she says, sitting back.
I lean in close even though the monitor is at least thirty-two inches. My pulse quickens. I study the image on the PDF. A poor-quality photocopy of a Portuguese driver’s license. Same build and age.
I shake my head. “It’s not him.”
“Sure?”
I sigh, disappointed. “Yeah.”
Chris looks at me. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“I got a job, a real one. I need to go legit. Mainstream. I want kids one day.”
“Kids?”
She nods, takes a chug from a water bottle. I feel discouraged. There’s no way I can locate him on my own.
“Can you help me find someone else who can do the same thing as you?”
She pauses. “Isn’t it about time you gave up? This guy. He’s a ghost. He could be dead. Heart attack, whatever.”
I shake my head. “He’s out there somewhere.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Twelve months Chris has been working on this. Twelve months and nothing. There is no Rex Hawkins as far as Chris is concerned. Maybe she’s right.
“Just find me someone else,” I say, heading for the door.
17
Not long after I leave Chris’s apartment, my phone rings. I look at the screen. Mom. Again. I think about letting it go to voicemail. I don’t want to talk about vacations to Bali. The pathetic state of my love life. Or how my career is in tatters. Oh, she means well, she really does, but talking to her is a reminder of what I once was, what I could have been. It’s like a fall from grace from which I’ll never recover.
My thumb hovers over Ignore. I suddenly feel racked with guilt. I can’t keep avoiding her, because she’ll think she’s done something wrong when it’s really not her, it’s me. Me and my inability to heal and move on from the past.
I duck into a doorway and hit the answer button.
“Hiya, hon.” I hear running water. I picture her at the sink washing dishes, phone wedged between her shoulder and ear. “You got my messages, then, about the vacation?”
“I did. Thanks.” I pause. ”How is everyone?”
“Your brother and sister? Why good, hon. What about you?”
“I’m fine, Mom.”
I hear the tap twist off, the snap of latex as she removes her kitchen gloves. “You sure? You sound a bit flat.”
“Did my boss call you?”
“Your boss? No. Why would he do that?”
“Never mind.”
“Is something wrong, honey?”
“I’m fine, Mom. Really, I am. I’m sorry I haven’t gotten back to you. I know it’s been a while.”
“Why don’t you come visit on the weekend? We could go to brunch and visit one of the farmer’s markets, get some fresh fruit for you to take home.”
“That sounds nice, Mom. But I can’t. You know, it’s nuts here. Work.”
“Oh sure.” There’s a pause. “It’s just that I worry, Amelia.”
My eyes mist. “I know, Mom.”
We lapse into silence.
“Listen, I better go,” I say.
“I understand, hon. It was lovely to talk to you.”
“I’ll call you.”
“Oh, I almost forgot. Something came for you. A letter.”
My mouth goes dry. “Oh?”
There’s a rustle from her end. “Well, the things is, I opened it. By accident, of course. I didn’t read who it was addressed to so I just assumed it was for me.”
“Who was it from, Mom? What did it say?”
She lets out a breath. “That’s the funny thing, sweets. The darn thing was empty.”
*
In some ways an empty envelope is worse than a horse’s head in your bed. It seems more sinister. More personal. More of a power play. See, I don’t have to do much to terrorize you. Just send you an empty envelope and your fragile little mind will do the rest. And, of course, there’s the implied threat. I know where your mom lives. I can get to her anytime I want.
I resist the urge to tell my mother to change the locks on her windows and doors. To move to a different town. Get a guard dog and some security surveillance. I don’t want to scare her. I don’t want her life to become the same as mine.
There’s no evidence the empty envelope is from him, of course. But there’s no return address, so it’s unlikely to be an innocent mistake. I tell my mother to seal the envelope in a plastic bag and send it to my work address. I need to think about whether I want to take it further, have it analyzed for DNA, for clues as to where it was posted from. She’s gracious enough to not ask too many questions.
I never told her but in the early days, in that first year after I had come back, there had been flowers. Tulips, red, always in a bundle of three, tied together with a thin black ribbon and left on my apartment doorstep. Another time there were pine cones, four, delivered one at a time over the course of a month. Hard, solid, and green, the brown woody scales yet to open up and spread, like the young pine cones I had encountered when I was lost in the wilderness.
The police looked into it and concluded it was probably a hoax. Most likely some sicko who’d read the papers playing mind games with me. I changed apartments and the tulips and the pine cones ceased and I began to think that maybe the police had been right after all.
And now the non-letter. That and the hang-up phone calls. It gives me the chills.
The incident pushes me into paranoia overdrive so the journey back home ends up taking over three hours. When I finally reach my usual lookout point at the park across the road from my apartment, my half foot throbs like crazy. My special sock feels sodden, too. I suspect blood. That sometimes happens when I have been walking too much. There’s likely t
o be a tear along the right side of the seam where the skin was surgically rejoined. It had occurred before, not long after the amputation, when my flesh refused to knit together. That time I’d been hospitalized and needed antibiotics intravenously for three straight days.
This time around I suspect the cause is my shoe. Because no matter how many times they redid the orthopedic insole, it rubbed along that strangely shaped section of my foot.
Even with the pain of my half foot, I don’t move from the park to my apartment for another hour. It’s only when one of the young mothers comes over to ask me if I’m all right do I finally move on. Everything is fine in my apartment. No break-ins. No sign that anyone has been there. At last I can relax.
Then I remember Beth’s party tonight. I promised I’d be there. But going to a party is the last thing I feel like doing. I could make an excuse. A headache. Another commitment I’d forgotten about. Or simply not show in the hope I’m not missed.
But that’s so unfair, not to mention rude. It’s important that I be there for Beth like she’s been there for me, so I decide I will go after all, stay for an hour and then quietly slip away.
I check the time. Three hours before the party starts. A nap might help restore some of my energy. So that’s what I do, downing a couple of tramadol for my aching foot, not bothering to remove my clothes, or shoes for that matter, choosing instead to crawl into bed as is, pulling up the covers right up over my head.
18
I pull the brush through my hair, then pick up the tube of Maybelline light coral Color Sensation lipstick I found in the old makeup bag buried in the back of the bathroom cupboard. I run it over my lips and stand back to study my reflection. I’m not used to the makeup and feel tawdry.
I dab a little more concealer under my eyes, hoping to hide my exhaustion, then turn my attention to the pile of clothes on my bed. After an earlier sort through my spartan wardrobe it became plainly obvious I had nothing suitable to wear for a party. Anything close to festive or sparkly has long since been sent to Goodwill. I look at the pile and tell myself to just make a choice. I’m going to be late enough as it is. Eventually, I settle on a pair of jeans, white T-shirt, and blue blazer and pray it will be dark.
On the way out, I catch my reflection in the mirror. The makeup looks worse than I thought. I could be a carnival clown in a travelling circus so I go to the bathroom and wash it all off.
It’s late by the time I reach the Tribeca address Beth gave me. It’s a two-story, white-bricked loft with an art gallery downstairs and apartment on top. It looks expensive and not quite where I pictured Beth to be living, but then I recall her mentioning that her new bride, Gwen, is involved in the art world. Apparently, the art world pays particularly well.
From the street, I tilt my head to take in the apartment. The party’s in full swing. Chatter, clinking glasses, and music, an old-school Britney Spears song, filter out across the otherwise quiet neighborhood. People are gathered behind large wall-sized windows or dancing outside under a string of colored lights on the rooftop terrace.
I want to turn around and go home. I don’t even know these people. Harden up, I tell myself, this is a special and important occasion for Beth and it was nice she even thought to invite me. I should be grateful to have friends like her.
I buzz the security intercom next to the large stainless-steel door that looks like it may have once belonged to a meat processing factory. A few seconds later, the door clicks open and a disembodied voice tells me to take the stairs up to the second floor.
When I go inside, I’m surprised to see jet black walls and a grand, ultra-modern white lacquer staircase lined with flickering tealight candles. It looks beautiful but treacherous for someone with a cane. I proceed with caution, taking care that my cane doesn’t slip on the highly polished surface.
When I reach the open door at the top, I see that the distinctive monochrome theme has been carried throughout the entire apartment. Black and white everything. Décor. Furniture. Even the art on the walls.
The apartment is an open plan concept and has a spacious, almost cavernous feel. A large living area flows into a super sleek kitchen, the roof-top terraced garden beyond that. The living area is populated with angular and very uncomfortable-looking designer furniture, offset with soft lighting and more candles. A large Jackson-Pollock-like canvas adorns the rear wall.
Beautiful people are mingling. Champagne glasses in hand, voices raised over the thumping music. None of the crowd look much like Beth’s cup of tea, although I do recognize two of the Thursday night gym-goers talking over by the bar. I spot Beth on the patio, looking out of place in this glamorous setting. There’s a woman by her side. Taller. Blonde. At least twenty years older than Beth. Dressed in flowing designer slacks and a sheer white chiffon blouse.
Beth is gazing at her new wife in adoration. I’m not sure I like it. I have always thought of Beth as the strong one. I approach them, ignoring the eyes dropping to my cane as I navigate my way through the crowd.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say when I reach her.
“Hey, Amelia,” says Beth, breaking into a smile. “Gwen, this is my friend from the gym, Amelia Kellaway.”
Gwen gives me the once-over and extends a sinewy hand, nails pointed and varnished in black.
“Why hello, Amelia. I’ve heard all about you.” She’s had work. Botox or facelift or both.
“Lovely to meet you, Gwen,” I say. “And congratulations to you both.”
A sultry smile plays across Gwen’s face as she drapes her arm around Beth. “Yes, my lovely little lone wolf here was quite the catch. Weren’t you, my love?” She plants a kiss on Beth’s blushing cheek, then rubs off the scarlet lipstick she’s left behind.
“Gorgeous view,” I say, turning to the vista. And it is. The sweeping views out across the Hudson and the glittering cityscape in nighttime mode is truly spectacular.
Gwen waves a hand as if it’s nothing. “Yes, we’re very lucky. Now, let’s get you a drink, Amelia. What’ll you have?”
For a second, I’m stumped. “Oh, a tonic, with a splash of lime?”
Gwen frowns, then tuts. “Nonsense.” She turns to Beth. “Darling, get the woman a proper drink. G&T—large on the G. After all, we are celebrating here.”
I protest but Gwen waves that hand again. “No arguments, young lady.”
Beth gives me a look. “You okay with that?”
I give in and throw her a smile.
“Sure,” I say. “A G&T would be great.”
As the night wears on, I end up in the corner near a table laden with canapés. I bend to study the labels. Melon, mozzarella and prosciutto on skewers. Balsamic Beef Crostini with Herbed Cheese and Arugula. Smoked Salmon on Mustard-Chive and Dill Butter Toasts. Herbed Biscuit Bites with Ricotta Cream and Onion Jam.
The waiter with a large bottle of champagne is circulating again and offers to refill my glass. Earlier, when Gwen insisted everyone toast to true love, I had switched from G&T to champagne. The toast came after Beth’s and Gwen’s teary-eyed speeches.
Gwen’s declaration was, of course, delivered with finesse, peppered with humor and awash with sentiment. Dabbing at her tears (“Golly, I’m such a crybaby”), Gwen spoke about how she and Beth had first met in a coffee shop called Holy Cow in Greenwich Village (“Our eyes locked over a salmon and caper bagel”), then their first date at the Metropolitan Museum of Art (“It was hard to believe that Beth had even seen the inside of any museum let alone the MET”), and Gwen’s proposal, a very grand affair involving a helicopter, romantic roof top dinner, and mariachi band.
By comparison, Beth’s speech was short and read from a handwritten note. Her nerves were so bad that her voice shook more than the paper in her hand. But there was no doubting the heartfelt nature of her speech, in which she spoke of her undying true love and admiration for Gwen, the soulmate she never thought she would ever find. There was not a dry eye left in the house.
That was an hour ago, and a
fair few glasses of champagne had been consumed by partygoers since then, including me. Any plans I had about leaving early had long since dissolved. I was actually having a good time. It was impossible not to with everyone in such a positive and celebratory mood. Plus, I had no reason to rush home to an empty apartment, and no work commitments the next morning to consider. In actual fact, I had no commitments to consider at all. And here, inside the lush surroundings of Gwen and Beth’s love nest, I was safe. I was also released, albeit temporarily, from the burden of having to keep alert for any malevolent forces out to get me.
So it is an easy yes to more champagne, and the waiter is only too happy to oblige, refilling my gold-rimmed flute to the brim.
“So what do you think?” says the woman to my left. She has a Cruella de Vil haircut and piercing blue eyes. “Degas or Cézanne?”
“Sorry?” I say.
A small group of six are huddled around a little bronze sculpture on a pedestal. It’s of a lithe young girl, a ballet dancer, her elegant neck stretched to the heavens, slender back leg gracefully extended behind her.
“The sculpture. Do you think it’s a Degas or a Cézanne?”
Everyone looks at me expectantly. A few eyes lower to my cane.
“Oh, I’m not much good with art,” I say, a little brazenly. Am I slurring my speech?
Cruella looks miffed, then turns back to the sculpture. “Definitely a Degas.”
Another woman nods, younger than Cruella de Vil, with cleavage that looks store-bought. “I agree. The little strumpet has Degas written all over her.”
A guy, a trendy thirty-something dressed in a silver double-breasted paisley waistcoat, holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and a glass in the other, bends down to peer at the tiny statue. “I didn’t even know Degas did sculpture.”
“Oh, Dan, you luddite,” laughs Cruella, smacking him on the arm.
“That’s abuse!” he says, faking outrage.
He fills his glass, then everyone else’s, including mine. I sip and it feels good to be part of something, simply having fun at a party. The woman with the store-bought cleavage shakes my hand and tells me her name is Denise.
Coming for You Page 7