“You said you’re afraid to trust anyone after this crazy ordeal,” Ellen is saying as she wraps a fine-gauge crocheted bridal shawl around Grace’s tiny shoulders. “Look how pretty! Do you want to see in the mirror?” Grace nods silently, and Ellen walks her to the full-length mirror. “But if there was ever someone you could trust,” she says over her shoulder, “I think he would be the man.”
Grace twirls around, holding the shawl in place, its tassels swinging. And Amy sees. Her mother has done it again, spinning magic with lace and beauty and gentleness, this time with Grace. Her daughter runs across the room laughing, calling Angel’s name with the little kitten close on her tail, patting at the shawl tassels dragging behind her.
* * *
A lone piano captivates Amy with a single bar of music, followed by a familiar voice picking up the melody. Early Friday morning, she quietly closes the door behind her, listening to Sinatra. Looking around, words escape her. Dingy images of a butcher shop filled her mind during the car ride, which is why she left Grace at home with her mother. She pictured walking into a large, cold room lined with blood-smeared meat cases and industrial carving equipment. There would be men yelling over the sound of a meat grinder and bone saw, men wearing bloodied white aprons. A butcher shop.
Instead, gleaming glass meat cases meticulously display prime cuts of veal, beef and pork. Shelves of marinating sauces and spices line the walls, along with a recipe rack. Fresh seafood fills another glass case with catfish, swordfish, clams. Cheese and breads spill from a side shelf, and in a dinner-to-go case, seafood cakes and tuna kabobs with fresh vegetables entice the eye. Small round tables are clustered in the corner, a place to sit and have a sandwich, though all are empty at the moment. In fact, she is the only customer this early in the morning.
His back faces her, the broad shoulders pressed against a crisp white long sleeve shirt turned back at the cuffs, over which is tied a jet black apron. Those are the shoulders that lifted her child to safety. He’s taller than she had imagined. And there is a slight movement; he seems lost in thought while working a substantial slicing knife. Reaching for the bell that hadn’t rung when she slowly, carefully closed the door behind her, not that he would have heard it over the stereo, she reaches up and gives it a good jingle.
“Be right with you,” he calls over his shoulder. He looks back again before walking over to the counter. “Hi there, what can I get you?”
“Mr. Carbone?” Amy asks.
He stares at her for a long moment, then squints briefly. “I know you.” He steps closer, concerned. “Mrs. Trewist, right?”
“Amy. Please.” She reaches out to shake his hand.
He holds his hands up, palms out. “Give me a second. Why don’t you grab a seat over there while I wash up a little.”
She glances over at the empty tables and hesitates, stepping back. “As long as I’m not keeping you?”
“Not at all.” His gaze stays so steady on her, she glances toward the door, then walks to a table and sits down.
Oh, she had a picture conjured up just to her liking, one simple enough to make her life easy, one that let her quickly stop in at a butcher shop, issue her gratitude and escape amidst the mess and noise of meat cutting. George would be an ungainly, lumbering butcher, awkwardly accepting her thanks, guardedly declining her dinner invitation as he wiped his hands on a soiled, white apron.
“Welcome to the real world,” she whispers, listening to the running tap water from the back. She searches for a mint in her bag.
“Can I bring you a coffee?” George calls out.
“That would be nice, thanks.” Amy centers the napkin dispenser, brushes a crumb from the tabletop and straightens the opposite chair. Her hope of a quick and easy introduction fades when she notices the water stops running, Sinatra’s volume has been lowered and the smell of fresh-brewed coffee fills the shop. She hasn’t conversed socially, alone, with a man, since her husband died. Will this George see her vulnerability? Will he reach out and offer comfort? Or will he sense her newfound mistrust of people and think her visit is merely obligatory? She aches suddenly for the familiarity of her old marriage, for the easiness of the past. One damn day has taken her life and tipped it on edge.
* * *
George walks out into his shop and sets two coffee cups on the small table. “Let’s try that again,” he says, extending his cleaned hand for a shake. “It’s very nice to see you, Mrs. Trewist. Amy.” He takes her hand in his, feeling its soft suppleness when it’s not fighting for her daughter’s life. “I’m George.”
“I meant to stop in sooner, but it’s been a difficult week. I’m glad to finally meet you.”
“How is your daughter?” He sits in the seat opposite her.
Amy stirs cream into her coffee. “She’s doing okay, but she’s very tired. Fatigued. So physically she’s fine, as best as we could hope for anyway.”
“But something else is wrong?”
“Well,” she begins. “You were there.”
“I was there?” He shifts in the chair, his coffee untouched.
“That night. At Litner’s Market. The police told me you just grabbed her and ran. You didn’t listen for any instructions once you realized it was Grace.”
George sips his coffee then. He has to keep his story straight with what he told the authorities. “Nothing else really mattered at that point.”
Amy reaches for his hand. “Thank you,” she says. “I’m so grateful that you intervened like that. But I was wondering if you saw anything, oh, I don’t know, anything I should know. If my daughter was upset, that sort of thing.”
He pulls his hand away. “Not really. She seemed okay when they left her in the parking lot. Quiet, but concerned for the cat.”
“Oh, her and that cat. They’re inseparable. It’s the quiet part that worries me though. Grace was such a chatterbox before and now I can barely get a word out of her. The kitten helps, the way she sometimes talks to it.”
“She seemed pretty calm, given the situation. I’m sorry I don’t know more and can’t help you that way.”
“That’s why I’m here, actually. We’d like to thank you for how you did help. Grace and I. We’d like to have you over for dinner. On Tuesday, maybe? Around six?”
George leans back in his chair. “You’ve been through an awful lot. It really isn’t necessary.”
“But we owe you so much. And something you say might help get Grace to open up.” She looks away, then back at him. “It would help me, too. It’s better for me to keep busy.”
“Let me take the two of you out, then. A restaurant Grace likes, maybe?”
“No. Oh no. I’m not taking her out yet. It’s difficult even for me to be here.” She takes a quick breath. “It’s silly, I know, but I still get anxious away from home.”
“I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
“It’s okay. I just feel better staying at home, where we’re safe.”
So there it is. The woman is living a nightmare every day. Afraid to go out. Afraid for her daughter’s safety. Pictures of violence filling her idle time. “If it’ll help, dinner would be nice, then.” He hitches his head toward the meat case. “Can I offer you a dinner selection? A roast maybe? Or stuffed chicken cutlets?”
Amy walks to the meat case, passing the shelves of cheeses, cheddar and Monterey Jack and Parmesan he’d just restocked. Fresh loaves of bread are tucked in with the cheeses.
“Cranberry herb stuffing for the chicken? I make any request for my customers.”
“It sounds wonderful,” she says, turning to him. “But I need to keep busy. I’ll cook something at home, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course. No problem then. Tuesday, it is. Six o’clock.”
At the counter, she picks up one of the chocolates covered in colorful wrappers bordered by a snowflake print. “You put a lot of thought into your shop. After-dinner sweets?” She sets it back in the tray and pulls a pen and slip of paper from her purse.
; “I try.”
“I know you were there that night. But in case you’ve forgotten, with all the commotion, I’ll leave you my address. My phone number’s there too, if anything comes up.”
George takes the paper and hands her a couple of dark chocolate truffles in return, which she slips into her purse. “Dinner will be under better circumstances,” he assures her. He walks her to the door, holding it open, and she looks back at him. “Something wrong?” he asks.
“I just wondered if there is someone you would like to bring. Your wife, or a girlfriend?”
“It’ll just be me.”
“Okay, then.” Amy pauses, then shakes his hand again before hurrying out the door.
Seven
CAN’T A FLASHBACK BE BEAUTIFUL? Can’t a flashback remind us of the pure goodness we cross paths with in life? Because even though Dr. Berg is telling her that the violence she relives almost daily now is, indeed, flashbacks, she thinks of the other kind she knows. The bridal flashbacks. That’s what she calls it when a bride sets a veil on her head with just-the-right gown. Whether the gown is a free-flowing layer of frills or beaded silk with a lace bodice doesn’t matter. The cue that evokes a childhood memory is the veil of tulle or cascading lace, the moment it frames her face. Suddenly all the pretend weddings and dreamt vows of a young girl’s play and dress-up show in the bride’s thrilled expression when she looks in the mirror. Amy always thought of that veil-inspired journey through time as a bridal flashback, one that lingers until the bride says two small words leaving childhood behind.
“I do,” Amy says now when Dr. Berg asks if she has recurring thoughts of the day of Grace’s kidnapping. “Which is why I’m here. They seem to be getting worse.”
“How so?” he asks, jotting notes in a pad at his desk.
“The memories of that morning are usually vague. The details aren’t clear. Except when these incidents occur and then it’s like I’m right back in the bank parking lot.”
“Flashbacks. They’re vivid memories that come on suddenly, along with the emotions of the trauma. Sometimes they’re so strong—”
“It’s like I’m reliving it.”
“Yes. They are very real, and usually triggered by something. A sound, a visual. Have you had headaches with them, or nausea?”
“No.”
“Fainted or blacked-out?”
Amy stands and walks to the window. The glass muffles the noises outside, muting the cars driving past, the birds singing in the spring warmth. It mirrors the way she’s been living, with the outside world muffled by the crime. “I wouldn’t say blacked-out, not in the way you’d think. When they happen I’m awake, but completely back in the crime.”
“That’s a true flashback.”
“Is there some way to treat them? My mother had to leave yesterday, so I’m alone with Grace again and need to manage this.”
“First, give yourself time. It’s been just over a week. And it is best that you stay around people so that if this happens when you’re with Grace, they can step in. So since your mother had to leave, can you spend time at your parents’ place? Because it’s also really important not to withdraw, which is actually a post-traumatic stress symptom, too.”
“And what would make someone do that?”
“Withdraw? Well, if a victim isn’t strong enough to deal with their emotions, they might withdraw and avoid social situations.”
“Is speech affected?” Amy asks.
“It can be. Conversations might lessen, or even stop completely.”
“But in someone who hasn’t fully developed socially, what happens?”
“Amy?” Dr. Berg sets down his pen and leans forward, resting his arms on the desk. “Are we talking about you now, or Grace?”
“Grace. It’s Grace.” She pauses, panicked to think of what her daughter’s young mind is processing. “She barely talks now. Sometimes not at all.”
“I had no idea,” Dr. Berg says, shifting in his chair.
“She has this kitten,” Amy explains. “She’s so close to it. And she does talk to it, quietly.”
“The cat from the kidnapping?” he asks. When she nods, he continues. “The cat was there, that day. You weren’t. In her eyes, the kitten filled in for you, giving her comfort and security.”
“So you’re saying that even children experience PTSD?”
“Sometimes more so than adults,” Dr. Berg explains. “That cat may be the only device keeping her talking. She’s lived through a horrifying experience and without the cat, she could withdraw beyond your reach.”
Beyond her reach. Again. Or still. She’d been taken from her that day and still is not fully back. She’s still in the arms of a kidnapper. Still in the crime.
“Spend as much time with her as possible. Let her cling to you. Take her outside, too, so she can run around and get plenty of fresh air. Another thought is to keep paper and crayons on hand. Children sometimes communicate anxiety this way.”
“Really. By coloring?”
“Yes. It’s a form of release. Actually, you might want to keep a pencil and paper close at hand for yourself, too.”
“For me?”
“Flashbacks are particularly clear, Amy. Write down any details you might see that you hadn’t remembered. It could help the investigation.”
* * *
It’s okay, you know. Celia said it quietly as she manicured Amy’s nails. The nail file scritched back and forth and her words slipped right in with its rhythm. Amy had told her she wasn’t trying to impress anyone; she just didn’t want people thinking she was coming undone, not taking care of herself. You mean George? Listen. You can look. Smile. Have a nice time. When she hugged Amy goodbye, she whispered it again. It’s okay, Amy. Enjoy the dinner.
The funny thing is, Amy had started to think the same thing before Grace was kidnapped. She could look. She could consider the thought of having, some day, another man in her life. But since the kidnapping, she pulled those thoughts up short and kicked them right out of her head. Grace needs her undivided attention.
Returning now to the dining room after putting Grace to bed, the chandelier glowing over the cherry wood table, throwing soft light on the crystal and china, Celia’s words return. It’s okay. George stands in the dining room, hands clasped behind his back, looking at a large framed bride portrait hanging over the sideboard. He turns when Amy enters the room. “Is she sleeping?” he asks.
“Yes. I’m sorry she wasn’t more sociable. But she loves the flowers. I had to leave the vase on her dresser, where she can see it. She’s gotten so possessive since last week, of anything that’s hers. Of me, the cat, and your flowers now, too.”
All Amy saw when she opened the door earlier was the bouquet of flowers bursting into vivid color. It was so different from the sympathy arrangements from a year ago. These flowers were happy and light. Yellows and pinks and purples. Then she heard George say that they were for Grace. No one had ever brought her daughter flowers. When Grace later silently held out a piece of her sandwich for him, he took it. Then he made himself a peanut butter and jelly, sat with them and split it three ways. Grace was comfortable with her rescuer in the room.
George pours two glasses of wine now while Amy serves salad and the lasagna she’d baked.
“You were looking at my beautiful bride,” Amy says, pushing her plate away after a few bites.
George helps himself to another slice of lasagna. “It’s a striking portrait. Someone in your family?”
“No, actually. I found the painting at my friend Sara Beth’s antique shop and loved it because of the lace gown she’s wearing.” Amy glances at the gold-framed painting. “I felt a connection to my grandmother, who was a lace-maker. I even added some of her handmade lace to my own wedding gown.”
“That explains your line of work then, dealing with the vintage gowns.”
“In a way.” Amy sips her wine. “My grandmother told me that lace stitches lead us on a journey. They suggest a story, the way you s
ee each tiny stitch create a larger visual. And in a wedding gown, that story is a love story, which I love to pass along to new brides.” She looks at the painting again. “But I haven’t opened up my bridal shop since the kidnapping. Grace is still too upset and I have to take care of her first.”
“Is she showing any improvement?”
Amy shakes her head. “No. As a matter of fact, she seems to be getting worse. If you don’t mind, I’m just going to run up and check on her.” She stands, sets her napkin on the table and hurries off. In the living room, she switches on a brass lamp that casts a circle of pale light on a dark wood end table. Before walking up the stairs, she glances back to the dining room. It isn’t George carefully stacking the china plates to bring into the kitchen that catches her eye. It isn’t the continued small gestures of this man that speak volumes to his character. It is the way he turns and snatches up the silverware, as though he is angry at something, or someone.
* * *
George looks up from wiping off a plate when Amy returns a few minutes later. She gathers their napkins and pushes in one of the chairs. “Grace looks so peaceful sleeping, so I’m glad for that.” She reaches for her wine glass, accidentally tipping it over on the table.
George lunges and quickly reaches past her to get hold of it, righting it carefully. “No damage done.” He blots a small stain from the tablecloth. When he looks up, Amy is sitting, her eyes closed and her fingers pressed lightly to her forehead.
“Amy? Hey, are you okay?” One of her hands grips the table edge, so George dips a cloth napkin into a water goblet. “Here,” he says, dabbing her face with the cool cloth. “You’re perspiring.” He touches it to her skin at her hairline, dampening fine wisps of hair.
At his touch, she opens her eyes.
“Are you okay?” he asks again. “Do you need a doctor?”
“I’ll be fine,” she answers, her voice quiet. “I’m really sorry. That happens sometimes.”
“What happens?”
She closes her eyes briefly again. “I’ve been having flashbacks.”
“You almost passed out, Amy.” He opens a window behind them, letting in a stream of cool evening air before sitting and pulling his chair closer. So they inflicted this on her, too. “Do you need a drink of water?”
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