Kevin O'Brien - One Last Scream

Amelia wished she could remember, but everything was a blank from the time she’d sped away from that party on fraternity row to when she’d woken up here just moments ago. She suffered from occasional blackouts-lost time. It usually happened when she was drinking, but she’d experienced these memory lapses other times, too. On several occasions, people claimed they’d seen her here or there, and Amelia didn’t remember it at all. It was almost as if she were sleepwalking some of the time.

Had she killed her parents and her aunt during one of these sleepwalking episodes? Was it possible?

Amelia put down the tequila bottle, then dug her cell phone from her purse. Squinting at it, she dialed her mother’s cell number. But if they were still at the cabin, the call wouldn’t get through. Sure enough, just as she thought, no luck. Biting her lip, Amelia dialed her Aunt Ina and Uncle George’s house in Seattle. Her Uncle George had stayed home with her cousins this weekend. If something had really happened, he might know about it.

“Could you please make that announcement again?” George McMillan asked the woman at the concierge desk in the Pacific Place Shopping Center.

Nodding, the pretty concierge with curly auburn hair and cocoa-colored skin gave him a pained, sympathetic smile. She picked up her phone and pushed a couple of numbers.

“Stephanie McMillan, attention, Stephanie McMillan.” Her voice interrupted the music on the public address system. “Please meet your father by the first-floor escalators.” She repeated the announcement.

“Thank you,” George said, nervously tapping his fingers on the edge of the desk. He gazed up at the people passing by the railings on all four shopping levels of the vast skylit atrium. No sign of Steffie. He scanned the faces of the shoppers lined up on the escalators. He still didn’t see her. His stomach felt as tight as a fist.

His daughter had wandered off about fifteen minutes ago. Already, George had sweated through his shirt. He imagined every horrifying scenario of what might have happened to her. He saw Stephanie’s face on milk cartons. He thought about the call from the police, asking him to come identify the corpse of a pretty, freckled-faced, auburn-haired five-year-old. He imagined looking for the little strawberry mark on her arm-just to make sure it wasn’t Stephanie’s double. As if there was another like her.

His son, Jody, eleven, was supposed to have been keeping an eye on her. George had taken the kids to Old Navy in downtown Seattle this morning. His wife, Ina, had made out a shopping list that included the kids’ clothes and some other things she wanted him to get. After Old Navy, he’d stopped by Pottery Barn in the Pacific Place Shopping Center to pick up candles-specifically, “eight-inch pillars in fig.” George had had a big bag from Old Navy weighing down one arm and Steffie hanging on the other. He wasn’t sure if fig was tan, brown, or green. Or maybe it was purple-no, that was plum. He had unloaded Stephanie on her brother, then went in search of a saleslady.

At the time, he kept wondering why the hell Ina needed these stupid candles now . She wasn’t entertaining any time soon. Why didn’t she just buy them herself when she got back from Lake Wenatchee? Considering the company and their situation , George hadn’t been up for the trip this weekend. Besides, someone had to look after the kids. Jenna and Mark had volunteered Amelia’s services as a babysitter, but George didn’t have much confidence his niece could handle the task, at least not for the entire weekend.

The last few months had been pretty rough for everyone. The drowning of his nephew, Collin, had hit George awfully hard. Collin had had a special bond with his Uncle George, and he’d been like a big brother to Jody. His death had devastated two families, not just one. George walked around in a dark stupor for weeks afterward. Maybe that explained why he couldn’t see what was happening between Ina and his brother-in-law.

Once George discovered the letter Ina had started to Mark, he realized his wife must have wanted him to see what was happening.

In fact, it had already happened-in the Hotel Alexis. “Dear Mark,” she’d scribbled on the hotel’s stationery.

As I write this, you’re in the shower. I still feel you all over me, and inside me. I know what we did was wrong. I’m not arguing with you about that. But we’re two good people, who are hurting. We’ve found something with each other, something that made our pain and loneliness go away. I’m not sure if it’s love. But I do know I’ve always felt a connection with you. You haven’t-

That was as far as she’d gotten before she’d half crumpled up the note and thrown it away- in their master bathroom , for God’s sake. It lingered there at the top of the trash in the silver wastebasket from Restoration Hardware. George noticed the note while sitting on the toilet. She’d obviously wanted him to see it. Otherwise, she would have tossed the letter away in the hotel room, or torn it up and flushed it down the toilet, or at the very least, buried the damn thing under some used Kleenex in the trash.

Ina didn’t deny her indiscretion.

“You left that love letter in plain sight,” George pointed out. “God, what were you thinking? What if Jody had found it? Hell, I know what you were thinking….” He kept his voice low. They were in their bedroom, and he didn’t want Jody and Stephanie, downstairs, to hear. “It’s pretty obvious you wanted me to find out about you and Mark.”

“Now, why in the world would I want that?” she asked, shaking her head.

“I don’t know. Why did you want it, Ina?”

George wondered if she’d been dropping any more clues about her infidelity. The note-with its cringe-worthy prose-mentioned Mark was taking a shower. Had she bothered to bathe at the Alexis that evening, or did she want her addlebrained husband to detect the scent of another man on her?

“I can’t understand how this happened,” he said finally. “You don’t love him. Did you think screwing Mark and letting me find out about it would make me want a divorce? Is this your way of trying to end it for us? You haven’t said you’re sorry.”

Flicking back her long, curly auburn hair, she turned and headed for the door. “I have to get dinner started,” she murmured.

“Do you love him?” George asked pointedly. The question made Ina stop in her tracks. “Or did you just use him to sabotage us? For chrissakes, he’s your sister’s husband, Ina. Tell me the truth, do you love him?”

Facing the door, she shrugged awkwardly. “I don’t really know,” she whispered. She started to cry, but kept her back to him. “I’m so sorry, honey. Do you hear that? I’m apologizing. I’ve screwed everything up but good. Maybe I did want you to know. You’re probably right about that. God, I feel so shitty about this. You’re a good man, George, and a good husband. You deserve better…”

He stared at her back, and wondered if this was a variation of the It’s Not You, It’s Me speech. “I’ll be honest. Right now, I’m so furious at you, and so hurt, I’m not sure I have it in me to be forgiving. I need to know if it’s worth a try. Do you want to stay in this marriage?”

“I–I can’t say for sure,” she whispered. “I’m not certain about anything right now.”

“Hey, Dad!” Jody called from downstairs. “Dad?”

George brushed past her on his way to the bedroom door. “Goddamn you for doing this,” he growled. Then he went downstairs to their son.

Ina wasn’t the only one feeling uncertain. In the weeks that followed, it got so that George wasn’t sure if he wanted to stay married to her, either. They’d been having problems for at least two years. They’d seen a counselor-six counselors, in fact-until she found one she liked: a “feelings physician” (at least that’s what it had said on her shingle) with gobs of turquoise jewelry and green-tinted glasses. George hadn’t noticed any medical degrees hanging on her wall, but she’d insisted on being called “Doctor.” After twenty minutes of stroking a mangy cat in her lap and listening only to Ina, she’d suggested a trial separation. George had walked out on the session. Ina still went to her once every two weeks on her own. All too often Ina quoted her: “Dr. Racine says I should assert myself. Dr. Racine says I need to be more selfish. Dr. Racine says I need to take time to focus on myself.”