The Mud Sisters

by Edie Claire

  “It won’t open for another twenty minutes,” Eric explained, looking from the sign on the door to his watch. “You want to go across the street to the bagel shop? We can get some coffee and wait there.”

  Jamie withdrew her hand from the ornate metal handle reluctantly. The green painted front door of Vermelli’s had spurred little memory in itself, since she had always used the staff entrance in the alley. But looking through the windows beneath the awnings into the dim restaurant had made her heartbeat quicken. She recognized every booth, every dark-green vinyl table cloth, every artificial plant. Going inside would be like walking back in time, and it was a walk she was anxious to take.

  But the door had been locked tight. They stood now on the sidewalk outside, pulling their coats tighter around them. A biting wind bounced between the traffic and the pavement, whipping street litter around their ankles.

  Cold. Always so cold…

  “Sure,” Jamie responded eagerly, moving toward the nearest crosswalk. “Let’s get coffee.”

  They hustled into the tiny restaurant, stood in line for two regular javas, and settled into a table near the window. Jamie sipped at the hot coffee with a mixture of pleasure and angst. Eric had paid for both cups. He had to, because she didn’t have a dime. Considering everything else he was doing for her, one might not think that accepting a couple dollars’ worth of coffee should be a sensitive point. But for Jamie, it was.

  “I’ll pay you back,” she repeated, stone faced.

  Eric rolled his eyes. “Will you knock it off? I’d have thought you would have outgrown that obsession by now.”

  Jamie stiffened. “Obsession?”

  He chuckled good naturedly. “You have to be the only female I’ve ever met who absolutely refused to let anyone buy anything for her. Ever. Being able to take care of yourself was always a point of pride with you.”

  Jamie’s lips drew into a smile. “Right. I was pretty firm about that, wasn’t I?”

  Eric smirked. “You could say that.”

  An image of Jamie’s mother floated peacefully into her head, warming her thoughts as the hot coffee warmed her body. You gotta take care of yourself in this life, kiddo, her mother had said tenderly as she plopped two marshmallows into a cup of instant hot chocolate—Jamie’s favorite. You can’t count on anybody else to do it for you. And you won’t need to. Because I can tell already, sweetheart—you’ve got what it takes.

  A voice interrupted her reverie. “Hey there, Jamie.”

  Jamie looked up, startled. A woman about her own age stood above her, holding a plastic tray. She was wearing a work apron from the coffee shop and had been bussing tables around them before she stepped up. She was plump, but not unattractive, with brown hair and eyes and dimpled cheeks. She looked familiar. Sort of. “Haven’t seen you around in ages,” the woman continued, unsmiling. Her words were pleasant, but her tone was reserved. “What have you been up to?”

  Jamie studied the other woman’s face, searching for some clue to explain not only who she was, but the reason for her not-so-subtle coolness. Jamie had seen her before, but where? No circumstances, much less a name, were forthcoming. There were a hundred questions Jamie wanted to ask the woman, but the words wouldn’t come. She sat, tongue-tied, having no idea where to begin.

  When the silence turned awkward, Eric came to her rescue. “Jamie had a head injury a couple days ago,” he explained. “She’s still having some trouble with names and faces, so don’t take it personally if she doesn’t remember you.” He extended his hand. “I’m Eric Hansen, another old friend. She didn’t remember me either at first.”

  The woman’s dark eyes moved from Jamie to Eric. She shook his hand awkwardly, then returned her attention to Jamie. “A head injury?” she repeated with skepticism.

  Jamie bristled. She was getting the disturbing feeling that this woman not only disliked her, but was disinclined to believe a word she said. With an effort, she kept her own voice as pleasant as possible. “Yes. I’m sorry I don’t remember your name. But you do look familiar to me. If you could tell me your name and where you know me from, I would appreciate it. It might help me put things together again.”

  The woman looked back at Eric, as if weighing the odds that he were in on whatever bizarre scam Jamie might be playing. Whether it was his lawyerly presence or his apple-pie smile that swayed her, Jamie didn’t know, but after several seconds of consideration, the woman glanced back at the restaurant counter, pulled up a chair, and sat down.

  “My name’s Kirsten,” she said, studying Jamie curiously. “We worked together at Vermelli’s for a while—before you left. We never heard from you again. You said you’d keep in touch with everybody, but you didn’t.”

  Jamie felt a dull pressure in her stomach. The woman’s eyes weren’t hostile, but they were hardly glowing with affection. Had Jamie known her well? Had she done something to offend her?

  Jamie couldn’t remember. But when she looked into Kirsten’s face, her feelings about the other woman, ironically, were nothing but positive. She seemed, even, to respect her.

  “When did all this happen?” Jamie asked, not sure how to ask the rest of it.

  Kirsten shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Four, five years ago now. I worked there another year after you left, and then I got a full-time factory job with Heinz. But they laid me off last summer, so here I am, back in Oakland, wiping down tables again.”

  Silence descended. Jamie didn’t know what to say. She tried to picture Kirsten in a Vermelli’s apron, and the image came easily. She could picture her joking around with Jamie and the other girls. But the memories ended there. If Jamie had liked her so much, why hadn’t they kept in touch?

  The pressure in Jamie’s stomach increased. She knew why, didn’t she? Because that’s the way it always was. She made friends easily, but nothing ever lasted. When it was time to move on, she moved on, and she didn’t bother looking back. Getting attached to people only made you hurt more. It was a lesson all foster kids learned, but the smart ones learned it sooner.

  “Do you remember where Jamie was living when you met her?” Eric asked. His tone was casual, but judging from the intensity in his eyes, Jamie believed he was almost as anxious for the information as she was.

  Kirsten considered, then shook her head. “Sorry, don’t remember.” She looked back at Jamie. I only ever saw you at Vermelli’s. You didn’t go out with the rest of us much.”

  “Do you know of any other friends she might have kept in touch with?” Eric pressed. “The problem is, she doesn’t remember where she was living before the accident. It’s important we figure that out as soon as we can, so finding a recent friend or coworker could really help.”

  Kirsten’s dark eyes widened. “Oh, I didn’t realize. No, I don’t know of anyone like that.” She seemed suddenly embarrassed. “I mean, Jamie might have had other friends, but I’m sure she didn’t keep up with anyone else at Vermelli’s. Not after the way she left…”

  The sentence died on Kirsten’s lips, and Jamie’s face burned. Once again, someone else knew more about her business than she did. And in this case, it was obviously something embarrassing. “So what happened?” she demanded, no longer bothering to watch her tone. “What exactly did I do? Did I get fired? Did I shoot somebody? Did I do a strip tease on the bar? What?”

  Kirsten’s chubby jowls twitched a little, as if she were considering a grin. But she decided against it. “You really don’t remember?”

  Jamie’s internal temperature skyrocketed. “Tell me!”

  Kirsten shrugged. “Okay, fine. You got fired.”

  “For what?”

  Kirsten hesitated only a second. “You and one of the other girls had a knock down, drag out fight in the kitchen. Nobody got hurt, but you ruined a lot of food, and you were yelling so loud that everybody in the restaurant overheard it. You both got fired.”

  Jamie swallowed. She seemed to know the likely cause of such a confrontation, even though she couldn’t remember tha
t particular one. Two things would be givens. One: the fight was over a guy. Two: she hadn’t started it.

  “Let me guess,” she responded in a deadpan. “This woman was interested in some guy who was interested in me, and she thought it was all my fault. Am I right?”

  The lines of Kirsten’s face hardened. “They were engaged. But after you started coming on to him, he broke it off with her.”

  Eric scooted his chair back and rose. “I think I’ll get some more coffee,” he announced, making haste toward the counter.

  Jamie sighed. She didn’t want to believe Kirsten’s account, but she knew it was probably true. She liked to flirt. She was good at it. Men responded without fail, and the supply of attentive ones was endless. Flirting not only brought in good tips, it livened up her otherwise humdrum existence. Men were easier to get to know, more fun while they were around, and less hassle to dump than were women friends. They lived for the moment; they shook things off. They liked to keep things light—and temporary. In other words, they met her needs perfectly.

  Could she help it if some men liked her a little too much?

  “I don’t remember any of that,” Jamie explained. “But I do remember working at Vermelli’s—that’s why we’re here waiting for it to open. I want to go in and see what looks familiar.” A thought inspired her. “Do you know if anybody who worked there when we did is still there?”

  Kirsten shook her head. “No, everybody’s gone. The owner’s the same, but he wouldn’t be any help to you—he never had anything to do with the wait staff. He just dealt with the managers, and you know how those guys come and go.”

  Neither woman spoke for a moment, and Jamie realized that Kirsten was studying her again. “I like your contacts,” Kirsten said finally. “That color is really interesting. But your blue eyes were always so pretty, I don’t know why you’d want to change.”

  Jamie had no chance to answer. Kirsten glanced over her shoulder, and upon seeing Eric pick up his refill and head toward the table, she leaned in toward Jamie conspiratorially. “Come on,” she cajoled, her eyes flashing with mischief. “Did you really lose your memory? Or is all this for his benefit?”

  Jamie’s face grew hot with indignation. Lying to a man was one thing, but scheming to trap him was another. As if she ever had to work that hard for sex!

  “This is not a joke,” she retorted, her voice sober. “What, you think this cast is a fake, too? The truth is, somebody hit me over the head and left me with no ID.”

  Kirsten’s eyes widened, and for several seconds she sat still—almost as if in shock. Eric returned to the table and sat down again.

  “Oh, my God!” Kirsten exclaimed. “You’re not that woman they found in the park on the Northside, are you? Beat up and rolled in a blanket?”

  An icy chill pervaded Jamie’s chest. Her limbs turned numb. Rolled in a blanket. She knew she had been found unconscious in the park, but the detective had never said anything about a blanket. Neither had Teagan. Kirsten must be thinking of something else. Despite what everyone at the hospital seemed to think, Jamie was sure she’d been jumped by a mugger. Some strung-out kid wanting drug money, probably. It was the only thing that made sense.

  No mugger would wrap her in a blanket.

  A cool sweat erupted on her skin as this morning’s nightmare rushed back at her. She had felt confined, restrained. There had been cloth around her. She couldn’t breathe. There had been that strange vibration, that droning noise…

  “Jamie?” Eric’s concerned voice cut only partway through the din. “Are you all right? What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, my God,” Kirsten repeated with a squeak. “That was her, wasn’t it? Didn’t she know?”

  “Jamie?” Eric reached over and put a hand on her arm.

  Jamie’s mind returned to the present. She flinched and drew back. “Sorry,” she said weakly, not looking at either of them. “I just got distracted.” She moved her gaze out the window and across the street, her pulse racing. “Vermelli’s is probably open, now. Let’s go, Eric.”

  She stood up.

  “I’m sorry if I said something I shouldn’t have,” Kirsten apologized, rising. Her concern seemed genuine, and for a second, Jamie felt an impulse to reassure the other woman. But she couldn’t. There was no reassurance in her.

  “It was good to see you again, Jamie,” Kirsten continued. “I hope everything works out for you.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Jamie offered in a half whisper, shrugging on her coat as she headed for the door.

  Beat up. Rolled up.

  You’re suffering from hypothermia…

  The nightmare played on. Vibrations. A droning noise.

  She reached the door of the bagel shop and stopped, her head resting against the glass. The room was spinning. She knew what her brain was trying to tell her. She just didn’t want to hear it.

  It wasn’t a nightmare, Jamie. It was real.

  She had been wrapped up in a blanket. Wrapped up tight, head to toe. She had been found at the park, but she hadn’t been attacked there, had she? She had been taken there. Driven in a car.

  Stuffed in the trunk.

  “Jamie!” Eric said firmly, turning her to face him. “Look at me. Are you feeling all right?”

  She tried to back away from him, but the closed door stopped her. All she could do was stand there, blinking at him.

  “I’m fine,” she lied.

  She was familiar with indifference; she was familiar with dislike. She was used to people, particularly women, getting angry at her.

  This was different.

  Someone hates you, Jamie.

  “Do you still want to go to Vermelli’s?” Eric asked quietly. “We don’t have to if you’d rather not.”

  Jamie looked back at him. She saw a sudden flash of his younger self— shirtless, shaving in front of a mirror. He had a great body. She had enjoyed being with him immensely…

  She averted her eyes. How she could possibly think about sex, even as her every limb shivered with horror? Was it the only way she’d ever known to escape?

  “I want to go,” she answered sharply, pivoting away from him to push the door open. “I want to find out what happened. Now.”

  The door didn’t move. Like an idiot, she was pushing on the wrong end. Eric reached out a long arm and gave the door a shove. She had to shuffle close by him to exit, and the touch of his body aggravated her very marrow.

  Slut.

  She burst through the half-open door and headed for the crosswalk, not waiting for Eric to follow.

  Somebody hates you, Jamie.

  She heaved in great gulps of the freezing cold air. Her heart pounded against her ribs.

  Hates you enough to kill.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Teagan slumped down in her desk chair, letting her head fall backwards over the seatback. There was a water stain on the ceiling. Actually, there were several.

  She had been running like a madwoman for hours, unable to get back to her office, even for a second. Now at last, she had found a couple minutes to breathe and check her messages.

  The results were disappointing. Two messages from Sheryl, which she had skipped and saved, knowing full well she would never open them again. A half dozen from inside the hospital. None from the police, who should certainly have a home address for Jamie by now, if not a complete employment history. Nothing from Eric.

  She could call him on his cell phone, of course.

  But then he would think she was worried.

  The ceiling square directly above her head was off kilter by a good inch. She averted her eyes, knowing that if she stared at it one second longer she would itch to climb up on her desk and fix it, and she was not getting paid to inhale asbestos. What she was getting paid to do was clean out the social service department’s overflowing inbox, and she had best stop brooding and get to it.

  She allowed herself a sigh. Paperwork was her least favorite part of the job, and it showed. At least three days’ worth
of mail and memos packed the clear plastic bin, with the most recent delivery escaping over the side rail and fanning onto the desk like a deck of cards. She picked up the escapees one by one, separating internal documents into one stack and postal deliveries into another. She began with the latter, which required less thought. Junk mail. Conference notice. Community action flier. Get well card. Get well card. Get well card.

  She thumbed through the latter without enthusiasm. People often sent cards to the hospital for patients who were already discharged, and at Northside General, it fell to social services to either forward them or return to sender. Priority wise, the task was bottom of the barrel, and Teagan was about to drop the envelopes into her catch-up bin when the address on the last one caught her eye. She released the other two and pulled it in for a closer look.

  “The Woman Found in the Park”

  c/o Northside General Hospital

  Teagan drew in a quick breath, but then shook her head and released it. The card was no cause for concern. Jamie’s plight had been broadcast on every local news station; it was not unusual for “famous” patients to receive well wishes from strangers. Her first name had not been mentioned; how else was the sender supposed to address the envelope?

  Teagan moved to slip the card into her bag with the intention of giving it to Jamie when she got home. But her hand stopped in midair.

  What if it wasn’t from a stranger?

  She studied the nearly square envelope, bending it slightly. It felt like a standard, ninety-nine cent greeting card. She held it up to the light, tilting it, pressing down on the surface. The front was covered with flowers.

  It’s nothing.

  Teagan’s teeth gritted. She knew she had no business opening Jamie’s mail, even if it was addressed so impersonally. But something about this correspondence bothered her.

  There was no return address. The postmark was from downtown Pittsburgh, which was meaningless. Few people lived within that zip code, but any person passing through downtown could have dropped it in any box.

  It was the perfect choice for anonymity.