Chapter 44

“What’ll happen to him, Amy?” Cindy asked.

Amy glanced at her sister. Since the last time she had been home, Cindy had a new series of piercings on her ears and one in her lower lip, evidence of the Goth influence her mother had been so critical of just last month. They sat on the front porch glider and looked out over the front lawn. Early snow had fallen on Iowa and covered the yard with a pure white blanket. Amy, glad to be with Cindy again and with Thanksgiving dinner preparations at a lull, they had bundled in heavy jackets and went outside.

“He’ll spend the rest of his life in federal prison. The irony is he didn’t want that. He wanted me to kill him, you know? The worst I did, though, was force him to live the rest of his life as a mute quadriplegic. Maybe there’s justice in that. He’ll have to depend on someone else to feed him and change his diapers until the day he dies.”

“He’ll have to live with his thoughts, too,” Cindy said. “I for one hope they’re tormented. After what he did to you and the others, that only seems fair.”

Cindy blew out a breath and watched as the steam faded into the icy afternoon air. She chuckled. As children, when the air chilled, the sisters would pretend to smoke cigarettes, something forbidden around their house. Now, after nearly three days locked up with a murdering chain smoker, Amy didn’t see the humor any longer.

“I know I should feel vindicated but, even though he deserved it, I take no comfort in destroying his life. Cindy, I learned something that week. Not just people like Tony, but most of us focus our energy on vengeance, retaliation, striking back with a bigger fist. For that, our world is a screwed-up place. When you take decency and forgiveness out of humanity, the void is filled with something very ugly, worse than hatred, and I don’t want to live in that world. Knowing I could have done more but didn’t, I saved Tony, in part, to save myself from toting guilt to my shrink’s couch for the rest of my life. But more, I saved him because he needed to be saved and there was no one else to do it. At least some good may come out of it, though.”

The last three and a half weeks had been a furious whirlwind of unexpected events. After a brief hospital stay in Spokane, Washington, she had flown back to LA where she faced a battery of local and national news reporters. Within days she had been contacted by “Dateline,” “Nightline,” “Entertainment Tonight,” and even Oprah Winfrey booked her for her show. It had been almost too much to take in.

“What’s that?” Cindy asked folding her legs under her.

“Now that people recognize my name, I’ve been contacted by the Office on Violence Against Women to act as a spokesperson. After the first of the year, I’ll be helping to raise national awareness of brutality against women. It may not be much but, if I can help one woman avoid the kind of trap I fell into, it’ll worth it.”

Behind her, Amy heard her dad’s work boots scuff against the hardwood living room floor. Even on this holiday, he had started the day working on the tractor in the barn. The front door opened and he spoke through the screen door.

“Amy, you have a phone call.”

“Who is it, Dad?”

“Don’t know, he asked for you.”

Amy looked at Cindy and shrugged. “Didn’t think anyone but you and my friend Maggie in LA knew I was here.”

Amy shifted off the glider, pulled the screen open, and stepped inside. Cindy walked two steps behind her.

As she stepped into the kitchen, Amy inhaled the deep the familiar aromas of the family’s feast. For a while, she thought she’d never smell turkey, stuffing, fresh cranberries, rolls, hot from the oven and pumpkin pie again. She shrugged out of her coat, hung it on a hook next to the wall phone, and picked up the receiver which lay on the hutch.

“Hello?” she answered with a question in her voice.

“Amy Westerhill?”

“This is Amy.” Natalie had fought so hard to forget Amy Westerhill for the last two years but the events of that week, and the fire in the barn, purged her desire to be anyone else.

“You’re a hard girl, well, woman to track down.”

Not only the Aussie accent but the line “well, woman” tickled at the back of her memory. She scrunched her eyebrows and looked at Cindy trying to bring it forward. “I’ve . . . been kind of busy lately.”

“So I’ve noticed. Look I won’t take much of your time. I know it’s an American holiday and your home with your family, but I’m wondering when you’re planning on coming back to Hollywood?”

“Is this who I think it is?”

“I don’t read minds but perhaps. You might remember me if I remind you of a little kiss I gave you a few weeks ago.”

Now it came clear. The opening line of this conversation was the line Ansell Parker had delivered on the set just before he kissed her. “You’re such a beautiful girl, well, woman, obviously.”

“Ansell? Ansell Parker?”

She looked at Cindy again. Her eyes were about the size of that pumpkin pie her mom had baked. Cindy mouthed the words, “Ansell Parker?” Amy nodded her head and gave her sister a wink.

“Yes. I just signed a new movie contract and I’m looking for my newest costar. Would you be interested?”

“Why would you want me? Why Amy Westerhill? Until this happened, no one knew who I was. I was a nameless, voiceless extra. Even that day on your set I was a dead girl. You don’t know if I have talent.”

“But I do . . . and you’re feisty too. I like that. Amy, I’ve watched you on TV over the last couple of weeks. You’re a natural. The camera loves you and I’ve done my research. Guess what I found?”

“I have no idea. A playbill from my high school?”

“No . . . that sounds interesting but . . . no. I found a taped pilot with you. You remember that?”

How could she forget? That unaired show for the after-school market was supposed to launch her film career. She thought it lost in obscurity. “That? I only had one line.”

“And I only have one question, Amy. How many takes did they shoot for that one line?”

“One.”

“See? I told you you’re a natural. My instincts are rarely off. If you’re willing to give it a try, I want to meet you after the holiday.”

“You’re taking quite a risk.”

“I find that we are defined by the risks we take, not by our hesitations. How about I pick you up at LAX on Monday afternoon? I’ll have a messenger deliver the plane ticket before the weekend is over.”

It had only been four weeks since Tony Alonso had made just such an unbelievable offer.

“That seems rather presumptuous, Mr. Parker. The last guy who did that almost got me killed.”

He chuckled. “No one’s trying to kill you now. Will I see you on Monday?”

Something about Ansell Parker had a ring of honesty. True, her escape brought her to national prominence but Ansell needed talent, not notoriety. She remembered on the set that day, just after the “kiss of promise,” he’d taken the time to congratulate her on the scene. Did he see it then?

Amy looked back to Cindy. She couldn’t have fit a bigger smile on her face if she tried. Dad stood at the end of the table with a stack of plates ready to set them out but the table-cover had not been laid yet. He grinned from under his dirty St. Louis Cardinals baseball cap. Her mother, though, a tattered sheet in hand, as expected, wore a denigrating frown.

“Mr. Parker,” Amy said, “yes, I’ll see you Monday.”

After she hung the phone up, Cindy charged across the room screaming with a giddy laugh, “Ansell Parker?”

“Yes,” Amy said as Cindy wrapped her arms around Amy’s neck. Amy nodded to her dad. “Before you put those plates on the table, I have something for Mom. I’ll just be a moment.”

Amy tugged out of Cindy’s grip and slipped out of the kitchen toward her old bedroom. She pulled a gift-wrapped package from her blue suitcase and turned. Her mom stood in the doorway. Amy didn’t want a confrontation but, from her mother’s judgmental expression, whether it happened today, next week, or next year, Amy needed this conversation. She hoped her mother did too.

“Mom, I’m not the daughter you wanted me to be, I know that. My high school years were a rough patch for both of us. But, now I’m becoming the woman I want to be. I’m almost nineteen. I . . . I know that doesn’t sound very old to you but, remember, you and dad got married when you were about my age. I’ve learned a lot being away the last couple of years and that last week of October . . . Mom, I thought I’d never see you again. I made it, though. For that, I’m thankful, not just because it’s Thanksgiving Day, but because I’m here under our roof with the people I love most. The thing is, Mom, I don’t know if it was circumstance or your God who saved me.”

“Our God,” her mom interjected. “Why can’t you ever say ‘our God’ or ‘my God?’”

That was the question. It didn’t seem the right time to bring it up. Today was a day of thanks. Truth is, it had never been the right time. Yet, it had been the root of the bitterness between them all these years. A truth her mother never knew. A truth she may never accept. Amy chose to go on.

“Mom … Do you remember a few years ago I asked to beg off my chores so I could spend the afternoon with a friend? You must remember. It didn’t happen often.”

“Of course,” her mom said with a quick bite at the response as if the disappointment had happened yesterday.

“I lied. I told you it was a girlfriend but it was Alex Daniels. We went on a bike ride.”

“Reverend Daniels’ boy?”

“Yes, the same boy who the Sunday before gave a short sermon on Youth Day . . . on morality.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“I don’t expect you would,” Amy said with an even tone, “and I wouldn’t have either since it was more than four years ago. Except for his hypocrisy.”

“Hypo . . . what are you talking about?”

“Mom, I’ve never told this to anyone, especially not you, because it was so traumatic. If I tell you now, though, maybe it’ll help you understand me.”

“What’s this great secret, Amy?” she asked her inflection revealing condescension.

“Mom, Alex tried to rape me that day. He started to rip my clothes off.”

“Surely you misunderstood his intention. I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t believe me?” Amy’s initial shock turned to anguish. The disappointment of her mother’s refusal to accept the truth was a weight so heavy. Tears began to well. “You think I’m making this up?”

“He’s always been such a good boy, Amy, polite, helpful. Why—”

“So you’ll accept him because he was a ‘good boy,’ but because I became difficult, you won’t take my word. Mom, I’m your daughter.”

“He’s away at Bible College studying for the ministry now.”

“Maybe he’s repented—”

“As should you,” her mom shouted.

“Maybe I should . . .” Amy paused long enough to put the brakes on the torrent of anger threatening, “but I never pretended to be anything I wasn’t. His duplicity made it impossible for me to accept your God on your terms.”

“And so you ran away to LA to get away from me and my God. If you hadn’t, none of the evil of that week would have happened. If you had just stayed right here and accepted our beliefs you wouldn’t have been—”

“After all I’ve been through, you still want to judge me?” Amy didn’t want to raise her voice but an unwelcomed intensity cranked up the volume. “I’m your daughter no matter what my choices. You gave me life, Mom. You taught me that this incredible gift comes with free will. I may not now nor ever choose the path you want for me but it’s my path, my choices. I have to live with the consequences. You should be happy I lived through this one.”

Amy saw no point in this going further. She just wanted to hug her mother until the frustration drained away but she felt it best her mom take the initiative. She stepped around the bed with the gift extended in her hand and looked into her mother’s eyes. They were moist and tired. Even though she wasn’t quite forty, the tanned skin of her face, lined from the labors of the farm in the hot sun and frigid winters, drooped.

“I am happy your home, Amy,” her mom said with restraint. “We’re all glad you’re home and safe. What that man . . . those men did to you is deserving of Hellfire. It’s just that . . . I worry about you always. The way you fled from us was so hurtful. And now you’re going to leave again.”

“Yes, come Monday I’m going back. My home is there now. I have a job and friends. This time, though, I’m not running away from you, Dad, or your church. This time I’m running toward my life.”

“Who knows when we’ll see you again.” Her mom said it like a fact, not a question.

“You’ll be seeing plenty of me, Mom. You just wait.”

“Well, time will tell,” she said, took a step back into the hallway, looked away from Amy’s face, and to the box still in Amy’s hand.

Amy shoved her disappointment down. Why couldn’t her mother extend her a hug and see beyond the expectations she had for her oldest daughter? Why she couldn’t offer the same unconditional love she said her God gave freely, left Amy’s heartbroken. She had learned a couple of things under Tony’s tutelage, though—swallow your tears and after forgiveness comes acceptance. Her mom, just like Tony, might never change.

“What’s this gift?” her mother asked.

“In the kitchen, Mom. Open it in the kitchen with everyone else, okay?”

Amy followed her mother into the kitchen. Dad still stood by the table with the stack of plates. Cindy had stepped to the stove to stir the gravy. Her mom stopped on the opposite side of the table from Dad. Amy handed her the bright yellow box. On top of the wrapping paper, Amy had scrawled a message. “I love you, Mom.”

“What is it?” Cindy asked as she turned from the stove.

“Go ahead, open it, Mom.”

Her mom shot Amy a glance and cocked her head. She turned her mouth into a subtle smile. “Well, let’s just see,” she said as she ripped the paper free. She opened the box. “Oh! I’ve never spoiled myself with one of these.”

A pang of guilt stabbed Amy’s heart like a dull knife. It’s not that they couldn’t afford a tablecloth but, they lived such a frugal life, an old bedsheet was enough to cover the scratches and dents on the tabletop.

“What is it?” Cindy asked again.

“Why . . . it’s a new tablecloth,” her mom said. She pulled it from the box. Amy watched her eyes travel around the room from herself, to their dad and then to Cindy. Then, as if she needed to distract herself from a tear that threatened, she handed the still folded white linen to Cindy. “Here, put the old sheet aside today. Now, before dinner gets cold, get that table set.”

“It’s beautiful,” Cindy said grinned at Amy. She shook the cloth to unfurl the folds and, after Amy removed the sheet, draped the table.

Amy glanced around the kitchen to those she loved. Dad headed around the table to set the plates and flatware in place. Cindy pulled some serving dishes from the hutch. Mom had turned her back and faced the counter. She busied herself with a large spoon and dug into the cavity of the turkey to remove the stuffing.

The moment had passed and her mom hadn’t extended Amy that hug—maybe someday. Amy gave a silent sigh and again buried her disappointment. In its place, she let a smile crinkle the freckles on her nose and expose her soon-to-be-famous dimples.

“What can I do?”