Finding Amanda

by Robin Patchen

  Rolling over, Madi turned her tiny back to them and curled into a ball.

  "We have them," Mark said. "Couldn't we start there?"

  With a sigh, Amanda watched their baby girl sleep. "It's just . . . there are things I need that you can't give me."

  Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Mark nod. "That's true," he said slowly. "There are things I need that you can't give me."

  "Right," she said through gritted teeth, "like my innocence."

  He turned to face her. "What are you . . . ? I just meant I've always felt kind of . . . unfulfilled. And even though I love you and, well, I thought you loved me, there was always this sort of . . . emptiness. But when I started going to church—"

  "Oh, Jesus." She didn't need his preaching tonight.

  "Yes, Amanda. Jesus. He filled my empty places."

  "Great. See, you didn't need me after all."

  He heaved a heavy sigh. She studied her hands. He didn't need her and her sin. He had Jesus. Irrational, cold jealousy assaulted her, and she crossed her arms to protect herself.

  "You know what, Amanda, I don't need you. Not the way you think. I hate living alone, but I can do it. I can cook for myself, I can clean up after myself, I can do my own laundry, okay? I can raise my girls, thank you very much, without your help. I don't need you."

  Like bubbles rising from the bottom of thick soup, her anger reached its boiling point. If he didn't miss those things, then why did he want to get back with her? "Congratulations. I'm happy for you."

  He adjusted Sophie in his lap and leaned toward her. "And I'm assuming you can manage just fine without me, too."

  "You know I can," she said. "We've been doing great."

  "So you don't need me and I don't need you," he clarified, glaring at her.

  "Sounds about right."

  He leaned back in his chair. Sophie twisted, rubbed one of her eyes with a fist, and rested against his shoulder again.

  "But it's not true." His shoulders slumped. "I'm miserable without you."

  Could that be true? She remembered the nightmare she'd had earlier, the memories it awoke in her, and she knew it wasn't. Mark loved his daughters enough to put up with her. He loved his house, loved having someone take care of him. But he didn't love her. How could he, after all she'd confessed? When she'd told him the truth about her past, she'd hoped he would still love her, but Mark could never accept her faults. And now that he was a Christian, he was even worse. No, Mark wanted her back because he loved his daughters, and he loved his home, and he loved his life. Just not her.

  She would not be used again.

  Amanda leaned back against the hard chair, crossed her legs, and determined not to say another word.

  Mercifully the doctor returned and woke Madi for a breathing test. A few minutes later, they were released.

  Mark carried Sophie to the parking lot while Amanda carried Madi. Sophie awoke and asked her father a couple of sleepy questions, but Amanda could tell her eyes wouldn't be open long. They'd decided during those few, tense moments while the doctor was in the room that Madi and Sophie would be more comfortable in their own beds for the rest of the night, so Amanda led the way to her car. While she set the sleeping Madi in her booster seat, Mark did the same with Sophie, who closed her eyes and fell back to sleep.

  Through the darkness of the backseat, he said, "I'll follow you home."

  She clicked the seatbelt and stood to face him over the top of the car. "I can manage without your help."

  He turned and walked across the parking lot to his truck. "See you in a minute," he called over his shoulder, leaving no room for argument.

  With a sigh, she climbed into the driver's seat. A few minutes later, she turned into her driveway. The house looked deserted. She hadn't even flipped on the porch light before she'd run out earlier.

  She'd barely slipped the gear into park when Mark climbed out of his truck. He ran around the front of his car, scooted between their two cars, and knocked on her window. The little she could see of him in the darkness revealed worried, intense eyes. She rolled down the window. "What?"

  "Stay in the car and lock your doors." With no word of explanation, he turned and yanked open the passenger side door of his truck. She could only see his back now, inches from her window. A moment later, he closed the door again and headed toward the house. Something reflected in the moonlight. He was holding something in his right hand. She gasped. He'd grabbed his gun.

  Her heart thundered. What was he doing? What had he seen?

  He slowly drew the storm door back, then nudged the front door open with his foot. The gun disappeared into the house an instant before he did. All was silent except for the sleepy sounds of her daughters and the rush of blood through her veins. A sliver of the moon broke through the darkness, but the naked, shimmering branches of the trees that arched over the driveway hid most of its light.

  She stared at the clock. Should she call the police? What would Mark say if she did? What would she tell them except that her husband was sneaking through her probably empty home carrying an illegal gun? No, calling the police wasn't an option.

  He'd only been gone one minute.

  What had he seen? She studied the front of the house and the driveway in front of her. In her rearview mirror, she studied the driveway behind her. She looked at the forest to her left, at the grassy yard to her right, and saw nothing unusual.

  Two minutes down.

  She remembered Chris's words about Mark's uncanny instincts. The prophet—that's what they called him. What had his intuition told him this time? The clocked ticked past three minutes, four minutes, and five, while she considered the question.

  A dim light flashed upstairs in the master bedroom windows. A flashlight, she realized. Was he searching the entire house? What if someone was in there? What if that person was armed, too? Would she hear a gunshot? What would she do? Mark would want her to drive away, to protect their daughters, but what about him?

  Six minutes down.

  She tried to analyze why it was, if she no longer loved him, that the thought of something happening to him caused her breathing to go nutty again. How many times would she hyperventilate in one week?

  Seven minutes . . . eight minutes.

  Finally, the front door opened. Mark emerged and climbed down the front steps. He held the gun in his right hand, the flashlight in his left.

  She opened her car door, and he glared at her. The message was clear. Stay in the car. She slammed the door and locked it.

  Mark aimed the light on the bushes against the house, then passed the garage, seemed to search the woods beside her, and turned the corner. She watched as the flashlight beam faded and disappeared. How far could he possibly search, and what was he looking for?

  Mercifully, he emerged on the opposite side of the house a few long moments later, gun swinging by his right hip, flashlight casually leading the way back to her car. Tentatively, she unlocked her door, opened it, and stepped outside. His eyes were intense, but he offered an unconvincing smile.

  "Everything okay?" Her voice shook, and he nodded, forcing his smile to spread.

  "Yes, everything's fine. I checked in every room, behind every door, inside every closet and beneath every bed. There's nobody in there."

  "Then what in the world—?"

  "Did you lock the door when you left?"

  She thought back. She'd bolted down the stairs and sat on the bottom step to slip on her sneakers. When she'd yanked the door open, she'd been frightened by the unexpected, low tone sounding from the alarm. She'd entered in her code. She remembered sprinting to her car, but . . . "I don't think so."

  "It was open."

  "Open?"

  "Just a crack."

  "How'd you even see it?"

  He shrugged and slipped his gun into the waistline of his jeans. "Let's get the girls."

  "Put that thing away first."

  He smirked. "That thing? If there'd been someone in the house, that thing
would have saved your life."

  She stepped away from her car and slammed the door before covering her face with her hands. She did not need asthma attacks and loaded guns in the midst of the craziness she was dealing with these days. She needed normalcy. She wanted to get the girls, put them to bed. Go to bed as if everything were fine.

  And everything was fine, right? Madi's breathing had returned to normal. The house was empty of intruders. She dropped her hands to meet his eyes. "We're safe now, right?" He nodded. "Then please put the gun away. It scares me, and the girls don't need to see it."

  He took a few steps toward her, between her driver's side and his passenger's. She leaned back onto her car, and he turned sideways to slide past her.

  Face to face, separated by inches, he stopped and met her eyes. In that instant, she was a student again, he the stranger who'd tracked her down. He'd smiled that day as he met her on the sidewalk. Thank God I found you. She'd loved his mouth first, even as they formed those first words. His strong jaw, his broad shoulders and intense brown eyes. His were not the pretty features of movie stars. Mark was Superman handsome. A man beautiful in the face and the body and, she'd known that day, deep in his heart. She fell in love during their first date. Or maybe with those words. Thank God I found you.

  Mark leaned almost imperceptibly forward, head cocked, eyes staring deeply into hers, reading her mind. She blinked and swallowed.

  Then his eyes turned cold, and he continued past her. Where she'd been warm a moment before, now she shivered, missing him though he stood only a few feet away.

  His car door opened, then closed again, while she stood motionless, staring at the crescent moon through the trees, wondering what those feelings meant.

  "We can go inside now," he said.

  "Oh. Right. I'll get Madi."

  Five minutes later, Amanda smoothed blankets over Sophie and kissed her on the cheek. She stepped into the hallway. Mark had gone into Madi's room, so Amanda crept to the door and watched him. Kneeling beside her bed, his head bowed, he rested one of his hands on the edge of her mattress, the other covered their baby's tiny chest.

  Tears welled in her eyes and dripped down her cheeks. Why would seeing her husband praying for their child release such an onslaught of emotions? Except that . . . her tough, ex-marine husband, the one she'd just watched search her house, gun in hand, looked so vulnerable on his knees.

  He turned to see her standing in the doorway. After placing a kiss on Madi's forehead, he scooted past Amanda and down the stairs.

  She followed silently, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. Downstairs, he headed straight for the front door. She stopped on the far side of the dining room table, leaving a good five feet between them. A buffer zone.

  "I'll stop by tomorrow morning with the girls' stuff." He turned when he reached the front door. The light inside the entryway was on from when they'd entered a few minutes before, and in the artificial glow she could clearly see the worry etched around his eyes. "Are you going to wake them for school?"

  She sniffed and shook her head. "They're exhausted. I'll let them sleep in."

  "Okay. I can leave the stuff on the front step if you're still asleep."

  "You know me. I'll be up."

  He nodded, mouth closed. "Okay. I'd like to talk to you in the morning, if you have time. Just for a few minutes about what I learned today."

  Her heart skipped a beat. "Oh, right. I forgot. Did you find anything out?"

  "A little." He raked his hand through his hair. "I'm so tired, though. Can we talk about it tomorrow?"

  Amanda glanced at the clock on her microwave. Three forty-five. "Of course. We're both exhausted."

  He grabbed the doorknob.

  "Wait. I wanted to say . . ." Amanda took a step forward. "You could be right about stress being the trigger for Madi's asthma attack. I need to be more sensitive about that."

  His eyebrows lifted.

  "But," she added, "it's possible I'm right about your apartment being the trigger. Would you at least consider moving into those newer places by the highway?"

  His shoulders slumped, and he dropped his gaze to the floor.

  Automatically she started toward him, then stopped herself. He looked up, and she saw in his eyes naked, blinding pain. She took a step back.

  "When I moved out," he said, "it was supposed to be temporary. You said . . . I thought . . ." His voice trailed off. Again, he raked his hand through his hair.

  Her eyes burned, and tears slipped down her cheeks. She was tired and confused. There was space between them, a few short feet that felt impenetrable.

  He broke the barrier, closing the distance between them in three steps. Before she could react, he was inches from her, staring down at her. With his knuckle, he wiped her tears. His finger traced her face from beside her eye to the tip of her chin leaving a tingling trail. Against her will, her mouth opened, and she leaned forward. What was she doing? She snapped her jaw shut and stepped away.

  The emotion drained from his eyes. "Fine," he said, though she couldn't remember what she'd said, or if she'd said anything. She couldn't think of anything she'd describe as fine.

  "I'll need to get some more clothes. I didn't bring enough for this cold weather. Is it okay if I come by to pick some things up?"

  "You can in the morning if—"

  "I won't have time tomorrow. I have to catch up on work. Thursday night?"

  "Sure."

  "When I searched the house earlier, I heard the faucet leaking again in the master. I'll bring my tools and fix it, if that's okay."

  "Sure."

  Rotating in place, he returned to the front door and yanked it open. She expected it to slam behind him, but instead he pulled it closed softly. An instant later, he pushed it open again. "Lock it and set the alarm please."

  "Okay."

  And then he was gone.

  Thirteen

  Early morning light streamed through the living room window as Mark collapsed on the faded plaid couch, Bible in hand. Yawning, he opened it to the Psalms. He'd been studying the book of Daniel the last couple of weeks, but he wouldn't be able to concentrate on anything as deep as that after just two hours of sleep. The words of the Psalmist usually brought him peace, but this morning the peace felt shallow, the Colorado River of peace running through the Grand Canyon of despair. He closed his Bible after a few minutes, slid to his knees on the old, dingy carpet, and prayed.

  Did his prayers even penetrate the ceiling?

  He showered and dressed, tugging on a T-shirt, one of the three flannel shirts he'd brought with him from his house a month before, a pair of jeans, and his work boots. It would be a long day, more so because he was exhausted from the night before and because he had to catch up on the work he'd missed during his day off. His crew had worked, of course, but they never managed to accomplish as much as he did.

  In the spare bedroom, he found Madi's pink suitcase and Sophie's purple one. He located their things—toothbrushes, hair brushes, stuffed animals, and clothes—and shoved them in the bags, hoping he got the right items in the right bags. He remembered the first time he'd taken a trip with Amanda and the mountain of luggage she'd brought for the weekend. Apparently, she'd passed down the over-packing gene.

  He poured himself a cup of coffee. At least he couldn't see through it this morning. No matter how many times he tried, he couldn't make it like Amanda. He couldn't do anything like Amanda.

  As he left his apartment, two small suitcases in one hand, insulated mug in the other, Mark remembered his comments the night before—how he'd told Amanda he could take care of himself. It was true. He hadn't starved yet. His clothes were relatively wrinkle-free. His apartment was as clean as he could get it—though not clean enough for his wife, apparently. But oh, how he needed her.

  Down the flights of stairs, he pushed open the building's outside door, automatically scanning the parking lot. Everything seemed in its place this morning. His elderly neighbor's green Lincoln was gone, but
she'd told him in passing she'd be visiting her kids this week. The rest of the cars were accounted for.

  He shook his head. The skills he'd learned in the Marines weren't necessary these days, though he'd been glad for the training last night as he'd searched the house. He'd half-hoped to find someone in there. His life was out-of-control, and Mark needed to pound something. A prowler would have been just the ticket.

  When he reached his truck, his landlady rushed around the corner from the rental office in the adjoining building. "Mr. Mark! I did it!"

  He wasn't in the mood. Forcing a smile, he turned to face her. She wore a big grin and her trademark overalls.

  "Did what?"

  "I found you beautiful lady for the apartment! Ooh, you wait. You like her."

  He yanked his car door open. "I told you, I'm not interested."

  Her shoulders slumped, and her smile faded.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean . . . I do appreciate it, and I'm sure she's very pretty."

  The landlady nodded solemnly and walked away, muttering. "What kind of crazy woman kick out man like that?"

  He turned his truck toward Amanda's house, wondering if he should have his landlady talk to his wife. Amanda wouldn't be impressed.

  At the hospital the night before, and back at the house, things had been strained and tense between them. How many times could he tell her he loved her, only to have her reject him? How many times would he climb out of his fear, shove his pride aside, and lay himself bare for her, only to have her slap him down? Oh, Father, he prayed, but it stopped there. He'd begged God so many times to reunite them, to change Amanda's heart, to let him go home. Was God listening?

  He'd seen something in her eyes the night before, first when he slid past her to return his gun to the truck. For just a moment, she looked at him like she had when they first met. He'd seen love in her eyes, maybe even longing. And later, when he was about to leave, he could swear she'd wanted him to kiss her. But then her face had darkened, and she'd backed away.

  She was fighting her feelings for him, but why? Was being married to him so awful she'd rather be lonely, separated from him, when she still loved him? It didn't make sense, and in his groggy state of mind, he couldn't figure it out. Memories twirled around in his brain, coming to the forefront one at a time, then falling away, only to be replaced by another, either near or distant, memories of times when Amanda wanted him.