True Blend (26 page)

Amy stands and goes to the living room window, looking out toward the red barn down the street. The corn crops are tall enough now to rustle in the breeze. A stone wall runs along the street to the farmland. The sun is shining bright on Celia’s yellow bungalow. All these pretty sights, and this. She turns to George. “I put her to bed and she hasn’t even moved in all these hours. She’s just gone, deep asleep.”

“Why don’t you wake her up now? Easy, talk softly to her like nothing’s happened.”

“I’m afraid to.”

“Afraid of what?”

She returns to the couch and sits beside George. “I’m afraid of what I did. The way her legs stopped working, it’s like I paralyzed her. And if I wake her up, I’ll know. What if she doesn’t walk? What will I do? What will I tell the doctors? That I took her therapy into my own hands? I’ll lose her, George. They’ll say I’m under too much stress. They’ll take her away from me.”

“No they won’t. If she doesn’t walk, we’ll call Dr. Brina. She’ll understand. She’ll tell you what to do.” He looks around the room. “It’s awfully warm in here. Let’s get these windows opened and get some air in here first.”

Amy watches him unlatch the new brass locks and lift the paned windows. He opens the front door and late day sunshine spills into the living room along with summer noise. Chickadees and robins serenade the evening. And it feels like she is watching an old home movie, remembering with aching fondness a life she once knew. A lawn mower moves in even paths across someone’s jewel green lawn. A car drives by, a neighbor coming home from work at the end of the day. Somewhere down the street a dog barks, wanting to come in and be with the people. And the same birdsong that reaches Amy’s ears reaches upstairs to Grace’s. It is a life she used to have before she waited for Grace to speak.

She lies down on the couch, closes her eyes and purely listens. Is this what it feels like to lose a child? Life seeming like a home movie? A time past? George walks by her, lightly stroking her arm as he does. They say no pain compares to the loss of a child. Would you even call it pain? She lies absolutely still, eyes closed, trying to feel where it hurts.

Eventually she hears George talking, not sure exactly what he is saying behind her closed eyes. It is more the deep tone of his voice that reaches her. He always understands. He always tries his best to make her life better. With her eyes still closed, she can’t picture him not being in her life.

“Come on,” he says quietly, his voice distant. “Look who’s waiting for you.”

Amy’s eyes open to see George coming down the stairs holding Grace. At the bottom step, he sets her standing on the living room floor and crouches beside her. Her arm curls around Bear, her ponytails are flattened from sleep, her cheeks flush with summer warmth. And her legs stand straight and strong.

“Go see Mommy now,” George says. He looks over at Amy and winks.

Grace toddles over to her mother. Even though all Amy wants to do is fly off the couch and sweep her child up in her arms, she waits, lying on her side, her arms open to her daughter. Grace climbs up and snuggles against her, Angel jumping up right behind her.

He’s done it again, Amy just knows. Grace curls right into her body. He’s given her their normal back. “Thank you,” she whispers over to him.

“Don’t thank me,” he answers, standing at the foot of the staircase still. “You need to take a lesson from your daughter. Move past it. What’s done is done.”

Twenty-two

IT’S AMAZING THAT THIS TYPE of thing happens daily, throughout the country. Lawyers and housewives and cashiers and pharmacists and librarians, people from all walks of life, learn, eagerly too, how to kill. Looking at the six other faces with her, Amy would never dream this of them if she bumped into them in the grocery store buying bread and orange juice.

“Okay, people. I know you’re ready to learn to shoot. But at the same time, you have to know how to defend yourself. We’ve got twenty minutes left and a little more material to cover. Next class will have an hour of gun time.”

The students sit scattered at two wooden tables in a small room at the firing range facility. Their serious expressions don’t waver as they learn how to defend their bodies from lethal bullets. Lenny, an insurance adjuster of about fifty, dressed in a business suit, raises his hand. “So we should bring our equipment next week?”

“Yes. A handgun, ammunition. Eye and ear protection, if you have it. If not, we’ll provide. I’ll cover defensive tactics for a half hour, then we’ll move into the firing range. Now,” their instructor Ron says, walking to the chalkboard and drawing stick figures and arrows, “anyone can stand in a doorway and empty their bullets into an aggressor.” Ron has square shoulders and a wide girth. His blond hair is buzz cut and his voice grows raspier the more he talks. Amy notices the shoulder holster beneath his sport jacket when he tips up a water bottle. “But death is not instantaneous,” he continues. “Your attacker might get one shot at you before he drops. So all the training on how to fire that weapon is futile if you’re standing exposed in a doorway and his shot hits its mark. You’re both dead. That’s why you have to know defensive tactics as well, and find cover. Cover goes hand in hand with discharging your weapon.”

As he speaks, he walks to his desk, swigs the water and gives a handout to each student. “It’s important to know the difference between concealment and cover. Concealment hides you but it won’t protect you from a bullet. Draperies. A chair.” He knocks on the hollow core door to the classroom. “Think that’s going to stop a bullet? Hardly.” He clasps his hands behind his back and walks to the center of the room. “Concealment.”

Pencils move along the handouts, labeling and note taking. The students, four men and two other women, study the diagrams. Amy knows they are picturing themselves finding pleated drapes to hide their bulk, or a wingback chair wide enough to conceal their bodies.

“Cover is something you can get behind that will either stop or deflect bullets. Try for cover rather than concealment. Any ideas?”

The young woman who Amy had seen pencil in
college student
on her information card raises her hand. Ron nods at her. “A refrigerator?”

“Good,” Ron answers. “Defense strategies in the home exist. A washer and dryer. Even a heavy mattress will work. Cover. Try to place something thick or hard, preferably both, between yourself and the attacker. The handout lists more suggestions.” He looks at his watch. “Quick review, then we’ll adjourn until next week.”

Amy straightens her papers, knowing that most of what’s on them is common sense, which flies right out the window in dangerous situations. She could hardly think at all when Grace was kidnapped.

“Defensive tactic options. Consider a dog. Big or small, doesn’t matter, although a hundred-pound canine is a good deterrent. Either way, any size dog will alert you to approaching danger before it’s actually on your premises. The bark alone may change an intruder’s mind.” As the instructor paces the class, he leafs through the yellow information cards each student filled out, listing names, occupations, reason for attending and the handgun they own.

“A cell phone. Mandatory defensive tactic.” The students’ pencils pause as they listen for explanation. “Why?” he asks. “Trewist?”

“In case the attacker cuts the landline before entering the home.”

“Right. He’s trying to prevent any 9-1-1 calls. He cannot disable your cell phone however. So you’ve got dogs, secure deadbolt locks, cell phones. And you’ve got cover and concealment for initial defensive actions. Any questions?”

“Yes.” Amy raises her hand. “What about children? Young children. Can they be taught anything that might help?”

The instructor’s voice softens, as though he recognizes her. As though her question draws the connection between the young widow and small child and recent kidnapping still headlining the daily news.

“How old is your daughter?” he asks, though she’d not identified the child as male or female.

“Almost three. In a few months.”

“Three.” Ron rubs his chin and expels a long breath of air. “Teach her a good place to hide.”

In her mind, a roving camera scans the old farmhouse, moving through each room with his suggestion. It passes her living room, her growing collection of antique tables and lamps backlit by sunshine reaching through the paned windows. Should she skirt one of the tables with a heavy fabric? The camera glances in her dining room, seeing the hutch filled with vintage china and a collection of crystal goblets leaving no room for a child’s body. It moves into the country kitchen, cozy with cushioned chairs and a distressed blue table and plenty of cabinets where she can carve out a child-sized space. She pictures Grace cowering behind a cabinet door, knowing if life ever comes to that, her child will never talk again.

*  *  *

Replica of Jacqueline Kennedy dress worn at wedding to Onassis. Silk crepe-de-chine cream color wedding dress with lace inserts. Funnel collar and long lace sleeves.

She’d almost missed the gown mentioned in the estate sale listing of Queen Anne end tables and mahogany dressers and an extensive record collection and a twelve-place-setting china set. Amy’s grandmother always told her that lace stitches lead us on a journey the same way moments do, stitched together to make a life. Could Amy find answers in the lace stitches of Kennedy’s dress? How did Jacqueline continue on after the nightmare day of JFK’s assassination? Amy had to see it, to be certain this Valentino reproduction was an exact copy of the Kennedy dress. Because an exact replica will have a secret within those stitches, one that might help her.

She pulls her SUV up to the curb behind Celia’s car and looks out at the stone colonial house with a wraparound porch. Several cars are parked in the driveway already. She gets out and notices the close humid weather before lifting Grace from the car seat.

“Hey guys,” Celia says, walking up to them. “Wow, what a turnout. They must have lots of good stuff up for grabs.”

“Well all I want is that dress. Ready to go in?”

“First I have to say hello to this cupcake.” Celia bends down low to Grace. “Hi there, pretty,” she says, leaving a quick kiss on Grace’s cheek. “You ready to gown shop with the big ladies?”

Grace nods slightly and reaches for Amy’s hand. They start up the shaded walkway toward the arched front door. “How’s Ben?” Amy asks. She keeps an eye on a few shoppers hurrying ahead of them, particularly one who glanced back her way. Her brown hair is shoulder length and she wears denim shorts, a tank top and brown leather sandals. Another defensive tactic she learned is to be aware of your surroundings. Always. Would a stalker be this close, a shadow brushing past her at a private estate sale?

“He’s taking Sasha to Puppy Kindergarten tonight.” Celia bends down toward Grace. “Sasha’s going to doggy school.”

“Thanks, Celia. For trying,” Amy says softly, her concerned gaze moving from the woman ahead of them to her daughter. “Don’t give up on her.”

“Never,” Celia answers, squeezing Amy’s hand. “Hey, check out the old wicker chairs. Those would look great on my porch.”

“On the way out, Cee. I’ve got to see that wedding dress before someone beats me to it.” Amy steps inside the house and notices the cool dank, first, the way you will when a home hasn’t been lived in and has been closed up for a while. She stops at a folding table in the foyer manned by family members collecting fees for any items bought. “Can you steer me to the wedding dress you advertised?”

A woman in jeans and an old college tee rifles through papers and hands her a printout with a copied photograph on it. “That’s my mom. She borrowed a little Jackie style and wore the dress in 1970. Isn’t she beautiful?”

“She is.” Amy studies the woman who married over forty years ago now. Stitches, stitches, decades of moments stitched together for this bride and groom, with a look inspired by Jackie. One person’s moments have a way of rippling into others sometimes. “Can I keep this?” she asks the bride’s daughter.

“Oh sure. I’ve got plenty here. The dress is upstairs, second room on the right. It’s been folded up in a cedar chest all these years, so it’s wrinkled. But it should hang out just fine, if you’re interested.”

As she’s talking, a woman passes too closely from behind and turns left into an elaborately wallpapered dining room. Amy notices it’s the same woman who brushed against her outside on the walk. She looks back at the photograph then. “So it’s not an authentic Valentino?”

“Believe me, if it were I’d be selling it at Sotheby’s instead of here. But it’s really clean, no stains, no rips. Worn only once. She and my dad were married for forty years. He passed a few years before Mom.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. It’s a beautiful dress with a lovely story then.”

She turns to find Celia and Grace together in the living room. Celia is showing Grace an oak mantle clock.
Tick-tock, tick-tock
, Amy hears her whispering to her daughter.

Upstairs, the two-piece wedding dress is laid out on the top of a bed, its white chenille bedspread accentuating the rich cream color of the satin and lace. “Oh my,” Amy says under her breath. She knows from one look it’s in pristine condition.

Celia comes up behind her. “Can’t you just see Jackie in that outfit?”

“Can I ever.” She lifts the top by the shoulders and holds it up at arm’s length. Stitches, stitches. What motivated Jacqueline to choose this particular Valentino dress for her wedding to Onassis? What story is stitched behind that decision? Bands of cream silk alternate with bands of floral-detailed lace, the scalloped lace over a pleated skirt giving it Jackie flair. Her new post-Kennedy identity weaves itself into the design. Amy lowers the dress for Grace to see. “Isn’t it pretty? You can help me hang it in the shop window.”

Grace reaches out to touch the lace before Amy folds the ensemble into the pale blue box it came in and heads toward the staircase. As she’s about to step down, that same brunette is coming up the stairs, their gaze meeting long enough for Amy to notice her brown eyes are small, her nose tipped. Once she passes, Amy continues down to purchase the dress.