The Living Room

by Robert Whitlow

  “Ms. Kirkpatrick didn’t—”

  “Those sorts of things are discussed by the partners,” Amy said. “I know because that’s how it was handled in the past when someone was fired.”

  Amy was surprised how tired she was. The emotional strain of the past weeks and months had taken a toll. That night she fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.

  And she went to the living room.

  Never before had she felt more like royalty. Nothing about the simple surroundings spoke of pomp and circumstance, but she was enveloped in a regal robe of affirmation. Unworthiness and reminders of failure shrank back. Amy’s value was unshakable, minted in coin that couldn’t be stolen and would never lose its luster.

  She remembered again the verse from Song of Songs that had been an anchor to her timid, teenage soul—He brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me was love. God’s truth never changes; it isn’t dependent on life’s circumstances. Amy’s seat at the table of the King had her name engraved on it.

  When she woke up, Amy lay peacefully on her back, a seed of invisible faith for the future planted in her heart.

  All day Friday Amy moved throughout the empty house with a song in her heart. She went to the grocery store and smiled at strangers. When she thought about Mr. Phillips or the law firm, the sting of hurt was gone. She was filled with an inexpressible joy. Ian noticed something was different shortly after she picked him up from school.

  “Mom, you seem happy,” he said.

  “I am.”

  Ian seemed satisfied. A child’s mind doesn’t always require a reason for happiness. It can simply be a state of mind.

  The party for Megan at Mr. Ryan’s townhome was scheduled to begin at 7:00 p.m. Megan ate a light snack for supper.

  “There’s going to be food at Mr. Ryan’s place,” she said. “And I want to be able to try everything.”

  “Who’s fixing it?” Amy asked.

  “He is.”

  “What is he going to cook?” Jeff asked, looking up from a plate of chicken divan with macaroni and cheese.

  “He asked Bethany what I liked for dessert, and she told him.”

  “Brownies,” Ian replied with his mouth full.

  “Bethany told him I liked bananas Foster crepes.”

  “When did you eat one of those?” Amy asked.

  “I haven’t, but I think I’d love it.”

  “I hope he doesn’t burn the house down.”

  “I didn’t know bananas burn,” Ian said.

  “They do when you pour liquor on them,” Jeff answered.

  Ian’s eyes widened. “You’re going to let Megan drink?”

  “No,” Amy responded quickly. “The alcohol evaporates in the cooking process.”

  Ian looked skeptical.

  “I’ll find a video on the Internet after supper and show you how it works,” Jeff said. “Then you can impress Bobby.”

  “Bobby loves starting fires.”

  Amy drove Megan to the party. To her relief, Megan was wearing blue jeans and a modest top.

  “How many people are going to be there?” Amy asked.

  “I’m not sure. That’s part of my surprise. Everybody else gets there at seven thirty.”

  Amy parked in front of Mr. Ryan’s townhome and waited until the teacher opened the door for Megan. He saw Amy and waved.

  Leaving the parking lot for the complex, Amy remembered that she’d not cleaned out the bottom drawer of her desk at the office. The drawer was where Amy kept an extra makeup kit in case she needed to perform a touchup during the day.

  The law firm parking lot was empty. Amy parked behind the office, entered the security code, and went inside. She felt no regrets as she made her way past the reception area and glanced into Mr. Phillips’s office. Everything was neatly put away for the weekend. She wondered who’d done it.

  Going into her office, she opened the bottom drawer of the desk. On top of her makeup kit was the ultrasound image of Emily’s baby. Amy didn’t feel any resentment against Emily. She had gladly prayed for her successful pregnancy and delivery of a healthy baby, which had come to pass. Maybe she needed the job more than Amy did.

  On the edge of the desk was the information she printed out while researching Dr. Lawrence Kelly and Beverly Jackson. Amy flipped through the data. She had been so wrong, especially about the doctor. Why she had such a strong negative reaction to his name when she heard it in the living room would remain an unsolved mystery. She straightened the papers so she could feed them into the shredder in the copy room. On the bottom of the stack was the page she’d printed out about Lawrence Kelly, the criminal. Amy read it again and shuddered slightly; however, a nagging curiosity about the man lingered in the back of her mind.

  She turned on her computer and waited for the CPU to boot up. At the password prompt, she hesitated, wondering if Ms. Kirkpatrick had already changed the password, a common procedure when an employee left the firm for any reason. Amy typed the combination of Jeff’s middle name and Megan’s birthday. It was accepted.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she logged on to the personal database and entered the information she’d previously found about the other Lawrence Kelly. A new screen popped up. As she read the information, Amy shuddered again. If nothing else, she needed to pray that this man never hurt another person. A prompt directed her to a police mug shot. It took a few seconds for the photo to load. When it did and came into focus, Amy froze.

  It was Greg Ryan.

  The teacher was a few years younger, and his hair was dark, not blond. Her hands shaking, Amy pressed the Print button. She didn’t want to make a mistake. The page snaked out of the machine, and she inspected it closely. There was no denying the eyes. And they revealed a depth of darkness previously hidden in all contact she’d had with him.

  Amy dashed out of the office, knocking over a stack of files on the corner of her desk and tipping over a flower arrangement on a small table. She managed to get her phone out of her purse and desperately tried to call Jeff while pressing the handle for the front door. Instead of placing a call, she dropped her phone and the battery popped out. It took several agonizing seconds for her to reassemble the phone and call again. He answered as she ran around the side of the building.

  “Jeff,” she said, finding it hard to breathe. “Go get Megan! Now!”

  “What?”

  “Get her!” Amy screamed.

  “What’s happened?”

  Amy took a couple of deep breaths and managed to tell him what she’d found.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes!”

  “I’m on my way,” Jeff said. “Call the police.”

  Amy dialed 911. A woman answered the phone.

  “Police, fire, or medic?” she asked in an even cadence.

  “Police!” Amy shouted.

  “What seems to be the problem?”

  Amy was in the midst of a full-blown panic attack and was unable to coherently communicate. The words and phrases she spit out only produced more questions from the operator. Her heart was pounding out of her chest.

  “Where are you, ma’am?” the woman finally asked.

  “Uh, uh,” Amy stuttered, then gave the location of the townhome where Ryan lived.

  “I’ll ask a patrol car to check it out. Can I reach you at this number?”

  “Yes.”

  Amy turned on the car’s engine and gripped the steering wheel. She had to get to Megan. Forcing herself to breathe and concentrate, she retraced her route to the townhome. As soon as she turned into the complex, a pickup truck blew past her on the right. It was Jeff. Amy followed him to the rear unit where Ryan lived. When she got there, Jeff was out of his truck and heading up the sidewalk. Amy ran after him and reached him on the landing.

  “The police are coming,” Amy panted.

  “I’m not waiting,” Jeff said, his face set like flint.

  He tried the knob. It was locked. He banged on the door with his fist. Th
ere was no answer. A couple of seconds passed. He banged harder.

  “That’s it,” he said.

  Jeff raised his thick leg in the air and slammed the full force of his work boot against the door beside the lock. The flimsy molding splintered. He kicked it again, and the door burst open.

  thirty-nine

  Jeff charged into the townhome. From the landing Amy saw him collide with Ryan, who was coming around the corner from the hallway that led to his bedroom.

  “Where is she?” Jeff roared.

  “Are you crazy?” Ryan responded, pushing Jeff away.

  “Lawrence Kelly!” Amy called out.

  Ryan looked past Jeff and saw Amy.

  “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  Jeff grabbed Ryan by the shirt and shook him.

  “Where’s Megan?”

  “I think she’s in the kitchen.” Ryan knocked away Jeff’s hands.

  Amy rushed past the two men, through the living area, and into the kitchen. Megan was sitting on the floor with her head leaning against a cabinet. She was wearing what she’d had on when she left the house. Her eyes were closed.

  “Jeff!” Amy called out.

  In a few seconds Jeff was beside her as Amy knelt on the floor in front of Megan. Her hands trembling, Amy held Megan’s face.

  “Megan, can you hear me?”

  Megan’s head flopped to the side.

  “Call an ambulance!” Amy yelled at Jeff.

  Before Jeff could make the call, they heard the sound of an approaching siren.

  “It’s the police,” Amy said. “Get them. I’ll stay here with her.”

  Jeff left, and Amy gently laid Megan’s head in her lap. Megan groaned. It was one of the sweetest sounds Amy had ever heard. Amy stroked her cheek.

  “I’m here,” she said softly.

  Jeff returned.

  “Where is Ryan?” Amy asked.

  “I don’t know. He ran out of the house.”

  Seconds later a young police officer came into the room.

  “We need an ambulance,” Amy said to the officer. “She’s been drugged.”

  The officer knelt on the floor and checked Megan’s eyes. Her pupils were dilated. He grabbed his radio and called for an ambulance.

  “What happened here?” the officer asked.

  “You tell him,” Amy said to Jeff. “I’m not leaving Megan. The information about Ryan is in my car.”

  Thirty minutes later Megan was lying on clean sheets in the emergency room of the hospital. The nurse who took a blood sample from Megan’s arm paged Dr. Simmons. Amy, wringing her hands, sat beside Megan, watching every twitch of her daughter’s face. Jeff had not yet arrived at the hospital. Megan’s eyes fluttered open.

  “Wh-what?” she mumbled.

  “Don’t try to talk. Rest.”

  Jeff rushed into the room.

  “How is she?” he asked.

  “Starting to wake up.”

  “Has anyone examined her?”

  “Just her vital signs, but I can’t see anything physically wrong. Dr. Simmons is on his way.”

  “If he hurt her—” Jeff started, then stopped.

  Amy looked up in her husband’s face. “I’m going to believe we got there in time.”

  Jeff grabbed a chair and placed it beside Megan’s head. He leaned over close to her face.

  “Honey,” he said softly. “It’s me.”

  Megan’s eyes fluttered open again as she tried to focus.

  “Hey, Dad,” she croaked.

  A solitary tear escaped from the corner of Amy’s right eye and rolled down her cheek.

  It was midnight when Megan was released from the hospital. By that point, she’d had two bottles of water and a glass of orange juice. Amy and a nurse helped her get into a wheelchair.

  “I don’t know why I wanted orange juice,” Megan said, licking her lips.

  “It’s what your body craved,” Amy replied.

  “Did it have something to do with what Mr. Ryan gave me?”

  “I have no idea,” Amy replied.

  Amy rolled Megan to the ER exit where Jeff waited with his truck. They stopped as he pulled up closer. Amy stepped forward to help Megan out of the chair.

  “I can do it,” she said, standing up.

  Amy kept her hand on Megan’s elbow. Jeff opened the truck door. Megan turned to Amy.

  “Thanks, Mom,” she said.

  Amy’s lower lip trembled. She’d only shed one tear but knew there was a dam waiting to break at any moment. She nodded.

  “And you, too, Dad.” Megan looked at Jeff, who leaned over and wrapped her in a massive bear hug.

  Megan sat in the middle as they drove home. Amy didn’t like to ride in Jeff’s truck because the suspension was too stiff. Tonight, with Megan safely between them, it was the best ride of her life.

  The following morning there was an article on the bottom of the front page of the local newspaper about Greg Ryan/Lawrence Kelly. “Local Teacher Arrested” read the headline, and beneath it was the mug shot from California along with one taken at the local jail where Ryan was taken after the police found him hiding in the woods behind his townhome. Thankfully, there was no mention of Megan or the Clarke family. The article didn’t provide a lot of details, simply stating the matter was “under investigation.” Megan awoke feeling slightly groggy but perked up after eating the big breakfast Jeff prepared for the family. The house phone rang, and Amy answered. It was Dr. Simmons.

  “Megan’s blood work came back,” he said. “She’d been given the drug Rohypnol, commonly called a roofie. Once it’s out of her system, she should be okay.”

  “Was there any evidence of—” Amy paused, not wanting to finish the question.

  “No sign of actual physical abuse,” Dr. Simmons said. “I called a detective I know at the police department. Ryan denies he knows anything about Lawrence Kelly and asked for a lawyer. They took his fingerprints, of course, and should be able to confirm his identity by Monday or Tuesday. They found Rohypnol in Ryan’s townhome and confiscated three computers.”

  Amy closed her eyes. She could only hope nothing about Megan would turn up on the Internet. She looked across the room at her daughter, who was watching her with wide-eyed innocence. Amy tried to give her a reassuring smile.

  “I’m glad she’s going to be okay,” Amy said. “She just finished eating eggs, bacon, and toast for breakfast.”

  “And coffee,” Ian added.

  “That’s good,” the doctor said. “Schedule an appointment for her at my office later in the week. I want to keep a close eye on her for a while.”

  “I will. Thanks so much for calling.”

  Amy hung up the phone.

  “Ian, go outside, please,” she said.

  “No,” he replied. “I want to hear.”

  “Outside!” Jeff commanded in the voice that left no room for debate.

  Ian grudgingly got up from the table and shuffled out of the room. Amy waited until she heard the door close before telling Jeff and Megan what Dr. Simmons said. Megan’s eyes widened.

  “Will I have to go to court or something?” she asked.

  “Maybe. We’ll have to wait and see.”

  Amy’s cell phone vibrated. It was an unknown caller.

  “I don’t know who it is,” she said.

  “Take it,” Jeff said. “I want to talk to Megan alone in the family room.”

  Amy answered the call.

  “Amy, it’s Chris Lance. I came to work this morning and went by your office looking for a file. It looks like a tornado hit in here.”

  “I was there last night.”

  “Just because you were fired doesn’t give you the right to trash—”

  “Have you seen the local paper?”

  “No.”

  Amy told him what happened. When she mentioned Lawrence Kelly, he interrupted her.

  “Wait. You’re not talking about the doctor.”

  “No, no. This man was one of my
daughter’s teachers. I heard the name in a dream and thought it was Dr. Kelly. I was wrong.”

  Chris was silent for a moment.

  “But you were also right,” he said.

  Tears suddenly flooded Amy’s eyes.

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Mr. Phillips needs to know about this,” Chris continued. “He’s made a huge mistake. Once he realizes what happened and how your dream—”

  Tears rolled off Amy’s cheeks onto the kitchen floor. She shook her head.

  “Not now,” she interrupted. “We’ll talk later.”

  “Are you crying?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry.” Chris paused. “Is your daughter okay?”

  More tears cascaded down Amy’s face.

  “Yes.”

  “Whew! I’m glad to hear that.”

  “Please don’t say—”

  “I won’t,” Chris responded immediately. “But is it okay if I tell Laura? She’s super upset that you got fired.”

  The fact that a woman she’d never met cared about what had happened to her caused another wave of emotion to roll over Amy.

  “Yeah, that would be fine,” she said.

  “Bye.”

  Amy sat at the kitchen table, put her head in her hands, and sobbed. Megan was going to be okay. A deeper tragedy that would have horribly scarred her daughter for the rest of her life had been avoided.

  Because of a dream.

  Amy dabbed her eyes with a handful of tissues and left the kitchen. Jeff and Megan were sitting on the green couch. Amy headed toward the stairs.

  “Mom, what’s wrong?” Megan asked.

  “It—it hit me,” Amy said, sniffling. “All at once.”

  She continued up the stairs, not stopping until she was in the writing room. She collapsed in her chair and buried her face in her hands. Time passed. Finally, she raised her eyes, her vision blurry. She wiped her eyes. Her chest stopped heaving. There was no more water behind the dam. The lake of anxiety and relief had been drained. A moment later she heard footsteps on the narrow stairway leading up to the attic. There was a gentle knock on the closed door.

  “Come in,” Amy responded.

  The door slowly opened. It was Natalie.

  “I should have called,” she began. “But I couldn’t wait to be with you.”

  “Good timing,” Amy said. “I’m all cried out for now. We can sit and talk without a bucket nearby to catch my tears.”