Kevin O'Brien - One Last Scream

Amelia shook her head.

“I’m just trying to piece this together, Amelia,” Karen explained. “Earlier you said, ‘When the screaming stops, then we can go home.’ Who’s ‘we’?”

“I told you, I don’t remember,” she replied, a bit edgy.

“Okay,” Karen nodded, reading her discomfort. “Let’s move on. Is there anything else from your early childhood you’d like to tell me about? Did you have any friends or playmates?”

Amelia took a moment to answer, and Karen quickly jotted in her notes: “Young A in car alone @ nite-screams outside-go home when screaming stops.”

“I remember there was a little playhouse in a neighbor’s yard. I think it was a toolshed, but he’d fixed it up like a playhouse with a small, red, plastic table and chair inside. I have this vague recollection of eating cookies at that little table.”

“Tell me about this neighbor. He sounds nice.”

She nodded. “He was Native American. I liked him, but I don’t think I was supposed to be around him. He had beautiful, long black hair almost down to his shoulders. I couldn’t tell you how old he was. Everyone over twelve at that time seemed like an adult to me. He wore a denim jacket. I wish I could remember his name, but I can’t.” She sighed. “When that one therapist tried to hypnotize me, that’s what I was hoping for most of all-to remember the name of that nice neighbor man.”

“Have any names from that time stuck with you?” Karen asked.

Amelia frowned. “Unca-dween. I’m not sure if it was a person or a place. It could have been a nickname. I know it wasn’t my Native American friend, because when I think about Unca-dween, it doesn’t make me happy.”

Karen scribbled down the name, not quite sure of the spelling. “Any other fragments you might remember?”

Amelia took a swig from the water bottle. “Well, I have a feeling I might have been attacked or molested somewhere along the line. The other therapists all said I was repressing something. But I have this memory of being in my underpants and standing by a tub-I think it was in the bathroom at home. My mother was shaking me and asking me over and over again, ‘Did he touch you down there?’ I sort of knew what she meant. But she seemed so angry and upset that I pretended not to know. I just cried and said I was sorry. I don’t know why I was apologizing. I guess I was just scared.”

“But the incident she was questioning you about-”

“I don’t remember it at all,” Amelia said, shaking her head. “And I have only this vague impression of what my biological mother looked like. She had long, wavy black hair. I remember this one blouse of hers-white with a pattern of gold pocket watches and chains. I thought it was just gorgeous.”

“Do you have any memories of your father?” Karen asked.

“None,” Amelia answered quickly.

“You mentioned your mother talking to you in the bathroom. Do you remember any other room in the house?”

“I think there was a bomb shelter in the basement.” Amelia fiddled with her hair for a moment. “It could have been someone else’s house, maybe when I was older. But I remember standing in the basement just outside this big, thick door. I was talking to someone inside the little room. It could have been part of a dream for all I know. But the memory’s there.

“The only other thing that stands out about that time was I used to talk to myself in the mirror a lot. I don’t think I had many playmates my age, because all I remember is being alone and talking in the mirror.” She let out a little laugh. “So what do you make of that? Early signs of a split personality?”

Karen laughed. “Boy, you have been to a lot of therapists, haven’t you? But let me do the analysis, okay?”

Amelia had started them down memory lane, so Karen let her continue. She asked if she recalled spending time in any foster homes before the Faradays adopted her. In so many cases with adopted children, there were horror stories involving foster parents. But Amelia had no such memories. “I think they were all pretty nice. I didn’t stay with anyone for very long. I have a feeling I was on the market for only a short while before the Faradays picked me up. My poor parents, they probably thought they were getting this great deal, because I was a pretty little girl. What a letdown it must have been to find out I was damaged goods.”

“Why do you feel that way, Amelia?” Karen asked.

Amelia shrugged.

“Have your folks ever said or done anything to make you feel that way?”

Amelia smiled and shook her head. “No, from the very start, they made me feel loved….” She described going for a walk with her potential new mother on her first day with the Faradays; her first impressions of a playground and a Baskin-Robbins 31 Flavors ice cream parlor not far from their house. She remembered some time later, after the adoption was official, when she learned she would soon have a baby brother or sister to play with. She had her first sleep-over-at her Aunt Ina’s apartment-the night Collin was born.

“Is this-the brother who died recently?” Karen asked hesitantly.

Amelia nodded.

“Do you have any other brothers or sisters?”

“No,” she muttered. Then she cleared her throat. “It was just Collin and me.”

“I’m sorry,” Karen said. “Were you…very close to him?”

She nodded again. Amelia had tears brimming in her eyes, yet she was stone-faced. There was a box of Kleenex right beside her on the end table, but she didn’t reach for one.

“I was told he died in a drowning accident. Is that right?”

“No, that’s not right,” she whispered, staring at Karen.

She was almost expressionless, yet a single tear slid down her cheek. “My brother’s death wasn’t an accident. I know it wasn’t.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Amelia quickly wiped away that one tear. “Because I killed him.”

Karen remembered the silence in her study after Amelia had made that statement. It had lasted only a few seconds, but seemed longer, like the silence in the car now, as they reached the West Seattle side of the bridge.

“Stay on this road for a while,” Amelia said tonelessly. “The turnoff for my uncle’s house is after we pass California Avenue. I’ll tell you when it’s coming up.”

Karen took her eyes off the road for a moment, and looked at her.

Her head tipped against the window, Amelia stared straight ahead with the same stone-faced expression she’d had after telling Karen that she’d killed her brother. And once again, there were tears locked in her eyes.

Amelia’s Uncle George answered the door with his 5-year-old daughter in his arms.

Karen hadn’t expected him to be so handsome. He wore jeans and a long-sleeved white T-shirt that showed off his lean, athletic physique. He had a strong jaw with a slight five o’clock shadow, and wavy black hair that was ceding to gray. Though his green eyes were still red from crying, there was a certain quiet strength to him.

Karen watched him set down the little girl so he could hug Amelia. The child then wrapped herself around his leg, and pressed her face against his hip. George held on to Amelia for a few moments, whispering in her ear.

“Thanks, Uncle George,” she said, sniffling. She turned and nodded toward Karen and Jessie. “This is my therapist-and she’s also my friend-”

“Hi, I’m Karen,” she said, stepping in from the doorway to shake his hand. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” She introduced him to Jessie, who was carrying the bag full of food. “Jessie figured you and the children could use a home-cooked dinner tonight-”

“Just point us to the kitchen,” Jessie announced. “Oh, never mind, I see it-straight ahead.” And she started off in that direction.