True Blend

by DeMaio, Joanne

  Amy turns the deadbolt cylinder and leans her back and her sadness against the heavy wooden door, sinking to the floor, her hands coming to rest over her face.

  * * *

  George circles the blocks surrounding Riverdale Park. At each stop sign, he scans the side streets for any sign of her. Pools of lamplight and pockets of shadow come alive, tricking his eyes with suggestions of movement. His heart jumps when he spots someone, but it is only an elderly man walking his dog. And so the night turns into a game of decisions playing him a fool—which way, left or right, go back to the park, head home—until he slams his open palm on the steering wheel and stops at the curb. “Jesus, where are you?” Tears come to his eyes and he pulls his hand over his face, taking a long breath. “I’m sorry, Amy. Let me tell you I’m sorry.” Little traffic passes at this late hour. He wonders if she is walking home, or used someone’s cell phone to get help, or called a taxi from the grocery store. It’s open all night and only a few blocks further. He heads there first.

  “Did you notice a woman come in to use the store phone?” he asks a cashier, glancing to the courtesy counter where Amy might do just that. The light inside is garish and he walks closer to the young cashier. “Pretty, black dress?”

  “No. Sorry,” she shrugs.

  George walks past her to the produce aisle, then hurries across the width of the store, stopping at the beginning of each aisle, grabbing large display racks to slow himself only briefly, swinging past before rushing to the next aisle looking for Amy. At the last aisle, he sprints down its length past yogurts and orange juice and frozen pizzas and walks back across the store via the rear aisle. Finally he pulls his cell phone from his jacket and gets the number for the local cab company.

  “Have you dispatched a cab to Save-Rite?” he asks, walking past carrots and potatoes and raspberries toward the Exit. “Sometime in the past hour?” He drags a hand back through his hair while Dispatch checks the log. The passing moments infuriate him as they distance him further from Amy. Time is ticking, ticking. “No. You’re sure?” he asks. So she hadn’t phoned a cab.

  She has to be home, somehow. George backs out of his parking space and drives to her farmhouse. It’s her own fortress with the acre of land surrounded by ancient stone walls. If she’d gotten a ride from someone, she’d be there already. Maybe she called Celia and her friend knows now, the story poured out in these minutes.

  Soft light shines through the living room windows. The truck barely stops before he jumps out and runs up the front porch steps. His fist bangs the door insistently until the porch light comes on. Ellen cautiously opens the door. “George.” She pushes the door further, looking through the screen briefly past him. “What’s happened to Amy?”

  George lets out a relieved breath. Amy may be distraught, but at least she’s home and now her mother is upset with him, too. “Can I see her please? Tell her it’s only for a minute.”

  Ellen’s brow knits and she steps back. “What’s the matter with you? Are you drunk?” she asks. “And is that Amy’s purse?”

  George looks at the straw handbag he’s been holding and sets it on the porch table beside a flowerpot of geraniums. “Drunk? No. No, I’m just relieved she’s here. Please, I have to see her.”

  Ellen grips the door edge. “She’s not here. Hasn’t been for hours. Why? What’s happened?”

  He realizes at that moment, first, that Amy has not come home, and second, that Ellen must think she is dead. Here he is alone at her doorstep, his suit disheveled, his tie loosened, his hair a mess. Perspiration lines his brow and he is visibly shaken. “Ellen,” he begins. “We had an argument. She hasn’t been here at all?”

  “What do you mean, here? She’s supposed to be with you.”

  “I’m sure she’s fine. We were at the bandshell, dancing. And there was a misunderstanding.”

  “A misunderstanding?” Ellen latches the screen door. “Well how would she get home without a car?” She looks past him to the street.

  George leans closer. “Is there anywhere she might have gone that you know of? It’s important that I find her.”

  Ellen frowns. “Well this is her home. She would come here.” Her expression changes, then. It blames him now. “Just how bad was this argument?”

  “Very bad,” George admits, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m worried about her, Ellen. You haven’t heard from her? Not even a phone call?”

  “Nothing.” Her voice turns suspicious. “Should I call the police?”

  “No,” he insists, pulling his loosened tie from his collar. “Give her a little time.”

  “Well where could she be?” Her eyes follow the dark shadows lining the farm lane.

  George shakes his head and exhales deeply. “I don’t know. If she calls, if she needs help or a ride or anything, please have her call me.” He pulls his keys from his pocket and starts down the steps.

  “I don’t think I like this, George,” Ellen calls out from the other side of the screen door.

  And her words stop him. “Well neither do I,” he yells, spinning back toward her. He is tired of being blamed. If Amy had just stopped, if she’d just given him five lousy minutes, he could have eased some of this. He could have brought her safely home. “Do you hear me?” he asks before climbing the porch stairs two at a time. The rope has come to its end. He stands inches away from the screen and his voice is ragged. “We argued and she stormed off. I’ve looked everywhere for her.” His fist, with the necktie hanging from it, punches the doorframe in frustration. “I’ve driven up and down every damn street in this town worried sick. I don’t know where she went or what she’s doing and I pray to God she’s okay.” He turns and sinks onto the top step, sitting and facing the distant stretch of cornfields. Everything seems worse in the night: pain and danger and heartbreak. It all looms closer. They say darkness is a nightmare’s playground, and the woman he loves is in the throes of one. He drops his head into his hands and after a long moment, stands again. Ellen still waits silent at the door. “I’m sorry.” His voice drops. “I’m really sorry. Please. Just let me know if you hear from her.”

  Ellen doesn’t answer as he walks down the wooden steps and leaves. He takes a right out of the driveway and slowly drives the length of the country lane, past Amy’s beloved cornfields and lone red barn, exhausting every avenue she might have taken. When he finally returns home, he picks up the cordless phone base with its empty, unblinking answering system and moves to throw it across the kitchen, wanting to smash it against Nate’s newly-tiled wall. Against Nate, for doing this to his life. But he stops himself, just in case he’ll hear her voice on it in the next few days. He sets it back down on the countertop with care, thinking of Amy trying to reach him, straightening the wires and checking the connections.

  “Where did you go?” Not knowing will drive him either mad, or to drink. At least downing a drink will stop him from throwing answering machines or coffee mugs, stop him from calling Ellen again and again, stop him from driving through town slow enough to draw attention. Drunk is the only way to stay safe. He throws his suit jacket and tie on the sofa and moves to the dining room, looking out the sliding glass door onto the dark patio, remembering the other night when they lingered outside. Eventually he turns and faces the dining room chair on which Amy sat that evening.

  If I lose you, George, if you stop loving me, or leave me, or die, I don’t think I would be able to breathe.

  He pours himself a glass of Scotch knowing damn well that he has more to worry about; her stalker could very well be right behind Amy, cutting in on their dance. This could be the moment some lunatic has been waiting for. He tosses down a mouthful of the liquor. Everything he worked to prevent has come to pass.

  The cordless phone sits quiet. “Ring, damn it.” He moves to his living room sofa, sets his glass and bottle of Scotch on the coffee table and drags both hands back through his hair. His hands itch to grab up the phone, his heart aches to hear Amy say his name. “Just fucking ring
.”

  * * *

  “I’m okay, Mom.” Amy’s voice is empty when she calls Ellen an hour later.

  “Amy. I’m about ready to call the police. What is going on with you two?”

  “Please believe that I’m safe. I’ll get a ride home in the morning from Celia.” Amy had groped her way through the dark house, feeling her way along walls, bumping light switches, skimming wallpaper to the kitchen in the back, not visible from the street. It is only here that she dared try a light switch and the pendant lights illuminated the room, the stainless steel appliances softly shining silver. No one would notice a light on here. No one would see her pass in front of the rear window or pace alongside the concrete countertops, stepping around a few cabinet doors left open. Life was suspended, like her own. She found a rag beneath the sink and wiped off her dirty feet, leaning against the sink to keep her balance as she did. A vintage corded phone still hung on the wall at the breakfast bar. She rushed to it and picked up the receiver, crying when she heard a dial tone.

  But several minutes passed before she could dial anyone, minutes when her hand rested still on the phone. What did you do in this type of situation? Should she call Detective Hayes? Turn George in? Run?

  “He wants you to call him, Amy.”

  “He was there?”

  “Yes. And very upset. Call him, please.”

  “I can’t. It’s complicated, Mom.”

  “Do you want me to call him?”

  “No.” Amy shakes her head quickly. “And don’t tell him I called if you hear from him. Please don’t.”

  “But I don’t like not knowing what happened.” Her mother hesitates. “How do I really know you’re safe, Amy?”

  Amy closes her eyes. Exhaustion slows every move, every thought. Except the thought that her mother is referring to the stalking. “Listen Mom. If I’m not home by morning, then you call the police, okay? But I’m fine. Please believe me. I need time to think right now, that’s all.”

  “Will you stay on the line with me then? So I know you’re okay?”

  “I can’t.” Amy leans against the wall. Her dress hangs limp, her shoes are scraped and ruined. “Mom,” she half whispers, longing for someone to tell her what to do. Longing for George’s arms around her, for his words insisting she is so wrong. Longing to wake up and have it be yesterday. To never live this day.

  “You have to speak up, Amy. I can’t hear you.”

  She pauses. “Mom. I need you to do something for me. Would you call Dad? Ask him to come and pick up you and Grace tomorrow? It’s probably better for you to be away from here.”

  “What? What’s going on, for God’s sake? We’re not leaving you by yourself. I’m calling the police.”

  “No! Please don’t.” Amy takes a long breath. Oh the fatigue, even that hurts. “Just trust me, and I’ll explain when I can. For now, lock up tight and I’ll call you very first thing. Early. Tell Grace I’ll see her in the morning. Goodnight, Mom. I love you.”

  “Amy. Wait.”

  Amy hangs up the phone before her mother can continue. She walks to the kitchen sink and opens the faucet, letting cold water spit out. Her eyes close as it flows over her hands like a cool salve. Any relief, any ease, is fleeting. She leans her arms into the stream, wetting down her sweating skin before cupping her hands beneath it and burying her face in the liquid. She presses the water on her neck and chest before drying her face with the folds of her dress.

  There’s no stopping it then, no stopping how her mind returns to the thought of George in the bank parking lot. To see the breadth of his grip on her hand, and the ruby ring. Her one distressing memory lapse—oh how it bothered her all summer—it filled in with only a touch tonight. She moves to the living room and curls her legs beneath her on the sofa Celia brought in for staging. Sleep comes easily, because once you find an escape hatch, it’s easy, so easy to slip in. It’s the only way she can finally stop crying.

  Twenty-nine

  MY GOD, WHAT HAPPENED?” CELIA asks. She takes Amy into her arms in the ranch’s small foyer and holds her for a long moment before stepping back and looking closely at her. “How could such a perfect date go so wrong?”

  Amy turns and glances out the front door. Rain threatens; the morning sky hangs low and gray. She closes the door behind them. “I really can’t get into it now.” Spending the night curled on the living room sofa left her body hurting today. “Things just aren’t going to work with me and George.”

  “But Amy—”

  “I’m fine. That’s what matters. Thank you for picking me up here.” She slips her feet into her scraped and dirty shoes. “I need to get home to Grace.”

  “But how did you ever end up here? I couldn’t believe it when you called me, it’s not like you to be breaking and entering.”

  If only Celia knew, she’d understand. Amy walks down the hall to the kitchen, pressing out the wrinkles in the front of her dress, aware of how bad this looks and aware, too, that Celia can’t know yet who George really is.

  “You were running from him, weren’t you? He said he was taking you dancing.” Celia rushes to catch up to her in the kitchen and grabs her arm. “Wait a minute. Just wait. Were you guys at the bandshell?”

  Amy turns to her and nods.

  “You walked all the way here from Riverdale Park?”

  “I had to.”

  “Wow. What kind of bomb went off?” Celia asks, looking her up and down. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m not.” She looks out the kitchen window and pictures the small yard as her own. “Is this house still on the market?”

  “Amy.” There is a silence then, one saying Let’s take care of you first, one telling Amy her friend is so worried that her next words come quietly. “I can take you to the hospital, you know, if you need to see a doctor.”

  Amy presses the fabric of her dress against her leg. “He didn’t hurt me that way.” She turns to Celia. “Please, I really have to get home.”

  “Well have you even glanced in a mirror? You can’t face Grace and your mother looking like that. Let’s get some makeup on you. Where’s your purse?”

  “I don’t have it.”

  “No purse?” Celia looks at her, puzzled. “How’d you call me, if you don’t have your cell?”

  When Amy hitches her head toward the wall phone, Celia picks it up, listening for a dial tone. She hangs it up slowly as though the seriousness of the last evening is finally hitting her. “Come on, hon, let’s fix you up.” They go into the bathroom where Celia digs in her handbag and pulls out a lipstick. “Here, put this on.”

  Amy leans close to the mirror, her hand shaking as she touches the creamy color to her lips. Her other hand steadies her balance on the vanity top.

  “Let me.” Celia takes the lipstick from her. She pulls a piece of toilet paper from the roll, wipes off the smear Amy applied and starts over. “Open a little,” she says, tracing a line over her lips. “Okay.” Then she pinches Amy’s cheeks. “That’s better.”

  In her reflection, Amy sees her pale pink lips and remembers George kissing her when they danced close last night. Her eyes tear again.

  “Jesus, how bad was it?” Celia asks.

  “We had a terrible falling out,” Amy answers. “He’s just not the person I thought he was.”

  “George isn’t? Are we talking about the same wonderful guy?”

  Amy nods. “I really have to get home, Celia.”

  “Well. Okay.” Again she rummages through her bag and hands Amy a small hairbrush. “Fix your hair first.”

  Celia’s reflection watches her every move as she runs the brush through her blonde hair and presses a strand behind her ear. “What am I going to do, Cee?” she whispers.

  “I’ve never seen you like this, Amy. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Amy nods slightly.

  “George must have said or done something awful. What is it? You can trust me, you know that, right?”

  Though Celia moves right beside
her, searching her face, Amy talks to her reflection. “I can’t see him again, that’s all I can say right now.”

  “Maybe you can. You’ll patch things up. You’ll have something good to eat, get some sleep and feel better in a day or two. Come on.” Celia takes the brush. “First let’s get you out of here before someone shows up.” She checks the kitchen, closes the open cabinets, then leads Amy through the empty house and returns the key to the lock box. They walk down the flagstone path to her sedan. “Can I buy you a coffee at least?” Celia asks while unlocking the doors.

  Amy gets in and looks out the car window. The tree branches bow heavy under humidity. This ranch house might be nice for her and Grace. It’s small and contained and manageable. Safe. “No thanks. Grace is waiting for me.”

  “But maybe it’ll help to talk about things.” Celia drives through town, slowing in front of their favorite coffee shop, Whole Latte Life. “You’re sure? I can stop here for a quick cup.”

  “I’m sure.” Because Amy knows damn well she can’t keep coffee or much of anything else down this morning. Her body threatens to rebel against the very idea of George’s identity. She sits up straight and pulls the silky wrap around her arms. Getting Grace to safety is all that matters.

  “Did you sleep at all in that house?” Celia asks, glancing up from the road.

  “A little. I’ll rest better at home.”

  “How about some company? I can spend the night with you and Grace. We’ll watch a movie, talk about things.”

  “That’s okay. We’ll be fine.” By this evening, she plans on Grace being far from here, tucked into bed in her parents’ home up north, away from kidnappings and therapists and guns and George. Her father should be arriving from New Hampshire soon.