Look Again (21 page)

Chapter Sixty-three

Ellen set her DNA instructions on her bedspread and unpacked the two paper bags from her suitcase, the one containing Bill's cigarette butts and the other Carol's soda can. She set them next to the white business envelope that contained the Q-tips with Will's sample. From the corner of the bed, Oreo Figaro watched all of her movements with concern.

Ellen sat down beside the cat, petting his spiny back idly and picking up the Paternity Testing Form she had downloaded. She scanned the first few paragraphs that contained legal terms and conditions, then the form authorizing how to send the results.

The form contained various lines to fill out to identify the sample; name, sample date, race, and relationship, Suspected Mother, Suspected Father, Suspected Grandfather (paternal or maternal), Suspected Grandmother (paternal or maternal), and Other. She filled in Suspected Mother for Carol's sample, Suspected Father for Bill's, and Child for Will's. Then she made matching labels that the form requested, cut them out with a scissors, and taped them on the two brown paper bags and Will's envelope, like the arts-and-crafts project from hell.

She gathered the brown bags, the envelope, and the forms, and placed them in a padded FedEx Pak. She filled in the address slip, sealed the FedEx envelope, and set it on the nightstand. She would mail the FedEx Pak after she dropped Will at school, not that she wanted to think about the juxtaposition of those two events.

She sat back down on the bed and petted Oreo Figaro, but he declined to purr. In three days, she could find out that Will didn't belong to the Bravermans and she could keep him happily for the rest of their life together. Three days seemed forever to wait, and at the same time not nearly long enough. Because in three days she could also find out that Will did belong to the Bravermans, then'

That was where Ellen stopped her thinking. She had promised herself on the plane.

And Oreo Figaro withheld his purr.

Chapter Sixty-four

The next morning was freezing, the sky an opaque gray and the air holding a wet chill in its clenched fist, and Ellen was sitting in her car in the parking lot of a local strip mall. Traffic rushed back and forth on a busy Lancaster Avenue, the car tires stained white with road salt and their back windshields still deicing. She watched idly, and her car grew cold, the last heat dissipating. She had dropped Will off at school only half an hour ago, but it seemed longer. The FedEx Pak containing the DNA samples sat next to her like an unwanted hitchhiker.

Ellen was stalling, and though she knew it, she couldn't stop herself. All she had to do was slide down her car window, pull up the metal handle on the FedEx mailbox, and toss the package inside. As soon as she did that, it was out of her hands. The deed would be done. The lab would charge her credit card, process the samples, and email her the results. Yes or no. Hers or theirs.

Ellen couldn't believe she was still hesitating, not after she'd stalked the Bravermans and placed her professional career in jeopardy, in addition to losing a man she was profoundly attracted to, before she'd even had him. She reminded herself that she didn't have to do anything with the test results once she had them. Even if it turned out in the Bravermans' favor, she didn't have to tell a soul. It could stay her secret forever. Why should she stall, given all she had gone through?

Her gaze shifted to the FedEx mailbox, and she reread its pickup sticker for the umpteenth time. The stores in the strip mall hadn't opened yet, and the glass front of a Subway remained dark, the display counters and cash registers shapeless shadows. She took a sip of coffee but couldn't taste it, and set it into the cup holder. Hot steam curled from her travel mug, which had no lid. She'd been too distracted to find it this morning, dreading the task at hand.

I can forget the whole thing.

Ellen turned on the ignition, and the car turned over, throaty. Her coffee vibrated in the cup holder, a tiny ripple appearing on its surface. She didn't have to mail the samples. She could just drive away and let them decompose or whatever they did. She could stop this insanity right now. Her lawyer, Ron, would approve, and so would her father. He'd kill her if he knew what she doing. The car idled, and the heat vent blew cold air. Still she didn't hit the gas.

I can't forget the whole thing.

She pressed the button and lowered the car window, struck by the frigid blast, then she yanked the handle on the mailbox and tossed the FedEx Pak inside. The drawer closed with a final ca-thunk.

So be it.

Ellen hit the gas, knowing the day was about to get even worse.

Chapter Sixty-five

Ellen pressed thoughts of the DNA samples to the back of her mind, trying to ignore the irony as she drove to Amy Martin's funeral. She steered through the run-down neighborhood outside Stoatesville, its residential blocks struggling to survive after all the manufacturing had gone, leaving behind corner bars and empty storefronts. She took a left and a right among the streets, finally spotting the converted rowhouse that stood out because of its freshly painted facade of ivory stucco, the only well-maintained place on the block. She knew it must be the funeral home, because they were always the prettiest buildings, even in a terrible neighborhood. The thought depressed her. You shouldn't have to die to be in a nice place.

She found a space on the street, parked, and got out of the car. Cold air blew hard, and she drew her black dress coat closer as she walked down the street. Her boots clacked against the gritty pavement, and she reached the funeral home, with a fake gold sign beside the door. The glass door was smudged, and she yanked on the handle and went inside, warming up momentarily and getting her bearings. An entrance hall contained a few oak chairs and a fake walnut credenza, on which rested a maroon vase of faded silk flowers and an open guest book with a vinyl cover. The place looked empty, and the air smelled dusty, only vaguely perfumed with flowers. A burgundy rug covered the floor and a long corridor to the left, leading to two louvered doors. Only the second door was open, and light spilled from the room. No sign indicated it was Amy's viewing, but it was a safe assumption.

Ellen crossed to the guest book and looked at the open page, scanning the list of names: Gerry Martin, Dr. Robert Villiers and Cheryl Martin Villiers, Tiffany Lebov, William Martin. It gave her pause. Amy had been so disconnected from these people in life, but they had gathered here to mourn her, death having mooted the estrangements and differences, the angry words or hurt feelings. Ellen felt moved to be among them, connected in the most tenuous of ways, if at all. She picked up the long white pen next to the book and signed her name.

She walked down the hall toward the open door, lingering for a moment on the threshold. The room was rectangular and large, but only two rows of brown folding chairs had been set up toward the front, where a group of women huddled together. The casket was closed, and she felt macabre admitting to herself she was almost disappointed. She wouldn't get a chance to see what Amy Martin looked like, even in death, to compare her features to Will's. But it didn't matter now anyway. The DNA samples would solve the mystery that was Amy Martin.

Ellen walked toward the group at the front and when she got closer, saw that Gerry was being comforted by Cheryl, who caught her eye and smiled.

"Ellen, how nice of you to come," she said softly, and Gerry turned in her embrace and looked up. Grief deepened the folds bracketing her mouth, which tilted down, and she looked like she was sinking in an over-sized black pantsuit.

"I'm so sorry about your loss." Ellen approached, extending her hand.

"Real nice of you to come." Gerry's voice sounded hoarse, and she blinked tears from her eyes. "I know Amy woulda wanted to meet you. Someday maybe you can bring your little boy over to the house."

Behind her, Cheryl nodded. "I'd like to meet him, too, when he's feeling better."

"I'd be happy to do that," Ellen said, with a twinge. She'd forgotten that she had lied to them about needing Will's medical history.

Cheryl said, "Too bad you missed my husband and my brother. They were here last night and earlier, but they had to go." She gestured next to her at another mourner, a young woman. "This is a friend of Amy's."

"Melanie Rotucci," the girl said, extending her hand. She looked to be in her twenties, and on another day, would have been pretty, if a little hard-looking. Her gray eyes were red and puffy from crying, and her fair skin pale and wan. She had a cupid's-bow mouth, and her best feature was long, dark hair that spilled over the shoulders of her black leather jacket.

Ellen introduced herself, surprised to meet her. Cheryl and Gerry had told her that Amy didn't have girlfriends.

Cheryl must have been reading her mind. "Melanie met Amy in rehab, and they were really good friends."

"Amy was in rehab?" Ellen asked, confused. It was all news to her.

"We didn't know until we met Melanie. It turns out Amy was really trying to turn her life around. She went to rehab twice, for heroin. She was almost better, right, Melanie?"

"I really thought she was going to make it." Melanie's mouth made a resigned line, in dark lipstick. "She was clean for thirty-five days the second time. At ninety days, she was going to tell everybody, all of you."

"My poor, poor baby," Gerry whispered, collapsing into new sobs, and Cheryl hugged her closer.

Strain etched Melanie's young face. "I need a cigarette," she muttered, rising.

"I'll keep you company," Ellen said, intrigued.

Chapter Sixty-six

"This must be hard on you," Ellen said as they stepped outside the funeral home and shared a grimy top step, its small size forcing them close together. Melanie cupped her cigarette against the cold wind, firing it with a thumb flicked on a yellow plastic Bic lighter.

"It's the worst."

"Were you good friends?"

"I mean, we didn't know each other that long, but when you meet people in rehab, you get tighter a lot faster. Amy said that rehab was like dog years, one is like seven." Melanie dragged on the cigarette, and smoke leaked from her sad smile.

"Where is the rehab center?"

"Eagleville, in Pennsylvania." Melanie leaned back against an iron rail and crossed long legs, in skinny jeans and black boots.

Ellen had heard of the place. "Can I ask, how old are you?"

"Twenty-two."

"A lot younger than Amy."

"I know. She took care of me like a big sister, or a mom or something."

It struck a chord. "Did Amy ever mention to you having had a child?"

"No way!" Melanie looked at her like she was crazy. "Amy didn't have a kid."

"I think she did and she put it up for adoption." Ellen almost didn't believe it herself, after Miami. "She had a baby, but I guess she didn't mention it to you."

"It's possible, I guess."

"It was a very sick baby, with a heart problem."

"I didn't know everything about her." Melanie's eyes narrowed behind a curtain of cigarette smoke. "Amy was her own girl, that's for sure, but we went through group together, the seminars they make us take, the lectures, rec activities all day long. We even spent our smoke breaks together. She never mentioned a sick baby."

Ellen set her emotions aside. "She ever mention a boyfriend? His name could've been Charles Cartmell."

"No. She used to date a lot, but she was changing that, too. She said in group that she was sick of hooking up with abusive guys. She wasn't going there, anymore."

"Did any of them visit her at rehab?"

"No. We're allowed visitors on weekends but she never got any. Neither did I, which was fine with me. If my mom came, I'd a kicked her ass."

Ellen let it go. "I'm wondering about one guy in particular, someone Amy was dating about three or four years ago. He wasn't a bad-looking guy, on the short side, white, with longish brown hair. They might've gone on a trip together, to someplace warm. Did she ever mention a vacation with a guy, at a beach?"

Melanie paused a minute, frowning. "No, but I know that a while ago, she used to see a guy named Rob. Rob Moore."

Ellen felt her heartbeat quicken. "What did she say about him?"

"Just that he was a jerk."

"How long ago was this, that she saw him?"

"I don't know, but it was old news."

"Three or four years ago?"

"Yeah. Really in her past."

Ellen gathered that if you were in your twenties, three years ago was history. "Did she mention where he was from?"

"Not that I remember."

"Did she tell you anything else about him, like where he lived or what he did for a living?"

"No, nothing like that." Melanie blew out an acrid cone of smoke.

"How about his age? Or what kind of car he drove or where he was from? Anything like that?"

"No, just that he was a bad dude. Used to smack her around, and she dumped him. She wouldn't take that, forever. That was the thing about Amy. She was the one we all thought would make it." Tears glistened in Melanie's bloodshot eyes. "Two of the counselors came by earlier this morning, they woulda told you the same thing."

Ellen's thoughts raced ahead. "I hate to ask you, but I feel like I need to know. What was it that happened to her? How did they find her?"

"I was the one who found her," Melanie answered flatly.

"That must have been awful for you."

Melanie didn't reply.

"So she overdosed on heroin? How do you know something like that? Was there a needle in her arm?"

"No. She didn't shoot it, neither of us did. She snorted it. There was junk on the table and the credit card she used, a Visa." Melanie tossed her hair over her shoulder. "Anyway, we were supposed to go out that night, but she never met me, so I went over around nine the next morning. She was on the couch, dressed to go out."

"How did you get in?"

"I have a key. She was all stiff. The family thinks she overdosed, but I wonder if it was bad junk." Melanie faltered, then took a drag. "The cops said that she died the night before."

Ellen processed the information. "Why do you think it was bad junk and not just an overdose?"

"You never know with street junk."

"She lived in Brigantine?"

"Yeah."

"By herself?"

"Yeah. She got a room in a nice house and a new job, waitressing at this restaurant. She was going to meetings, too, every day. She never missed." Melanie shook her head sadly. "She's the one who told me to carry Subutex."

"What's that?"

"A pill. If you take it and you do H, you don't get high. Amy always carried two pills with her."

Ellen had heard of drugs like that. She'd done a story once involving Antabuse, a drug that made alcoholics sick if they drank.

"But that night, she didn't take a pill. The bottle was right on her nightstand with the two still in it."

Ellen thought it sounded strange. "So why did she take heroin instead of Subutex?"

"She musta missed it so much. Heroin's like that. You love it and you hate it, so much. She shoulda known better than to buy off the street, even in a nice neighborhood."

"Wouldn't she have mentioned to you that she was thinking of using again? How often did you speak to her, generally?"

Melanie tossed her cigarette butt to the sidewalk. "We talked on the phone, like, every day, and she was queen of texting. She texted all the time."

"Did you look at her texts from before she died?"

"Whoa, weird. I didn't. I totally forgot." Melanie was already reaching into her purse and extracting a silvery phone with a fake-jeweled face, which she flipped open. She pressed several buttons to retrieve the texts, then started scrolling backwards. Ellen edged close to her, and they read the text together:

scored new 7 jeans on sale, wait till u see them! xoxo

Ellen glanced at the top of the screen, which showed the time the text had come in, 9:15 P.M. "She sounds happy."

"Yeah, mos def." Melanie pressed a few more buttons. "Here's another one, from earlier that day, around five o'clock."

Ellen and Melanie put their heads together, and read the previous text, which said:

$228 in tips, my best day ever! going to the mall 2 celebrate! see u soon! xoxo

"That's so random." Melanie shook her head. "It doesn't sound like she was thinking about using."

"It sure doesn't." Ellen thought about it. "Recovering addicts get sponsors, right? Did Amy have a sponsor?"

"Sure, Dot Hatten. She was here this morning. I don't know if she got a call from her that night. I was too much of a wreck to ask her, and she might not say anyway. They keep everything confidential, like lawyers or something."

"You don't think she'd talk to me?"

"I know she wouldn't."

"Do you have her phone number, anyway?"

"No."

"Where does she live?" Ellen could get the number online.

"Jersey, but if you want to know more about Amy, you should ask Rose. She was here before. She's another friend of ours. She's older." Melanie wrinkled her nose. "She was in rehab with me and Amy."

"Great, can I have her phone?"

"I have her cell number right here." Melanie pressed a few keys on the phone, found a number, and rattled it off.

"Hold on, I have to get a pen." Ellen rooted around in her purse, but Melanie dismissed her with a wave.

"You don't need one. Give me your cell number, and I'll text it to you.

"Of course," Ellen said, a reminder of her age, as she stood on the front step of mortality.