A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“What kind of messages, and from who?”

“Voice mail from her best friend.”

“Really?” I ask, surprised.

Amanda nods and hands me the phone. “The first one is from the day she went missing,” she says, pushing the voice-mail button and putting it on speakerphone. “Where are you? Helloooo? Call me. Okay, seriously, why are you being so weird? Call. Should I be worried? If you don’t call me in the next five minutes I’m going to call Adam. … Okay, so Adam doesn’t know where you are either. FYI, you’re officially a missing person. … Helloooo! Okay, so, the police told your parents that they found your body in a garbage bag. Your mom screamed and then vomited all over the kitchen floor. Your dad told me and Mrs. Gursky to stay with her, and he left with the police. Mrs. Gursky cleaned up the mess. I took your mom into the living room. I’m not sure what to think. I spent the night in your room with your sister. We just kind of sat up. I kept thinking you’d come home at any moment — and show everyone that this whole thing with search dogs and people canvasing was all a giant overreaction. Your dad got back at about five in the morning. They made him look at your dead body to make sure it was you. How could you be dead? Is it freaky that I’m calling a dead person? I guess I don’t really believe it. It’s like I won’t believe it until you tell me it’s true. You’re the one who always tells me what is and what isn’t, how weird is that? Who am I supposed to talk to now? I went home this afternoon, my parents kept asking if I was okay. I’m not okay, but I couldn’t take the way they were looking at me, like I was a lost dog. I had to get out of the house, and then all these reporters were chasing after me and I went to your house and your family is a mess, which makes sense. The rest of us are, like, in shock. I met Adam at the park; he thinks that it’s all his fault, on account of how he didn’t believe you when you said you weren’t going out with that guy, and that he fucked everything up. …”

“How many of these are there?” I ask Amanda.

“A lot,” she says. They go on:

“Today was your funeral, you would have loved it. Everyone was there, even Mr. Krupatskini, who acted like he was in charge, and of course no one paid any attention to him, but your parents let him announce that there’s now a scholarship in your name. And your mom invited me over and took me into your room and asked if there was something special of yours that I wanted; I took the bracelet you shoplifted in seventh grade. ‘That was one of her favorites,’ your mom said. ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I have a matching.’ And she gave my sister your old blue bike. Your dad looks like he’s going to have a breakdown; he keeps doing that thing where he sweeps his hair back off his forehead, but since he’s bald it looks freaky to see him sweeping invisible hair off his head over and over again.

“Meanwhile, you’ll never guess who killed you: it was the guy with the bumps on his face who Adam thought you were going out with. The reason he knew so much about you was because he had your old journal, so he did kind of know you. Now I keep dreaming that he’s following me. I know this is supposed to be about you, and in the dream it’s like I’m second best.

“Do you think there’s any chance you’ll come back — is that too weird to ask?

“What’s it like there? Is it a real place? Are there other people?

“Miss you.”

Amanda pushes the skip button a few times. “Sorry not to have called in a while. I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but Adam and I are sort of seeing each other. You’re not mad, are you?”

“And then it stops,” Amanda says. “The phone got turned off.”

“Who is she to you?”

“I don’t know. Like someone I never was. I feel very close to her. I’m assuming these will stay on here as long as I keep the phone charged — or do they, like, vanish over time?” she asks.

“I have no idea,” I say, uncomfortably mesmerized.

We part company at the grocery store; she has shopping to do, and I need to get home in time to meet Ricardo’s bus.

“Come for dinner on Friday,” I say as I’m leaving. “Bring your parents.”

“Are you sure?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say. “Six-thirty. I’ll make fish sticks and Tater Tots.”

“I’ll bring a pound cake,” she says.

Friday night, the children help set the table. We lay out a beautiful tablecloth and use the good silver, the good dishes, all the things that have not been out of the closet since Jane died. I have bought fresh flowers and teach Ashley and Ricardo how to cut the stems and arrange them. Ashley makes the salad, Ricardo helps me prep the fish sticks and Tater Tots. When Amanda and her parents arrive, the children are fixed like little ambassadors at the front door.

“May I take your coat?” Ricardo asks, even though they have no coats.

“Would you like a drink?” Ashley says while they’re still in the front hall.

“That would be lovely,” Amanda’s mother, Madeline, says.

I’m wildly proud.

“What a treat,” Amanda’s mother says, shaking Ricardo’s hand.

“Your hands are very soft,” Ricardo says. “Like velvet.”

“Thank you,” Madeline says.

As I’m finishing the preparations for dinner, I peek into the living room and see Madeline on the floor playing a game of jacks with Ashley, and Cy trying to explain the finer points of backgammon to Ricardo.

Amanda sits on the sofa, alone, arms crossed in front of her chest — looking pouty.

I call everyone to the table. The fish sticks and Tater Tots are a big hit. Waxing poetic during the meal, Madeline and Cy drift back in time and talk about great trips they went on, walking from vineyard to vineyard in France, adventures in Italy, how they found themselves hitchhiking through the mountains near Turin.

Amanda recalls being left at home with her sister and an unmarried neighbor woman who knew nothing about children.

Ricardo and Ashley share stories of the trip to Williamsburg, including some of the more “colorful” details — which cause Cy to laugh out loud.

“He’s always loved scatological humor,” Madeline whispers to me.

As dinner comes to an end, I find myself liking Amanda’s parents better than Amanda herself.

After pound cake and berries with fresh whipped cream, Ashley, Ricardo, Amanda, and I are clearing, and when we come out of the kitchen, Amanda’s parents are gone. I catch a glimpse of her father’s back as he’s heading up the stairs.

“Christ,” Amanda says.

“I’ll go,” I say.

Her parents are standing in the master bedroom. “Could I trouble you for some tea?” her mother asks. “And I fear our luggage has not yet arrived.”

“How do you take your tea?” I ask.

“Not too dark,” she says.

“Two lumps,” he says.

“Would you like some as well?”

“None for me — but she always complains that it’s too dark and not sweet enough. Have you got a finger of Scotch?”

“I can certainly check,” I say, and go back downstairs. “They seem to be settling in for the night,” I say, putting on the kettle for tea.

“Are they having a sleepover?” Ashley asks.

“Not sure,” I say.

Amanda marches up the steps and returns a few minutes later. “They said they’re happy that I joined them on their trip and are so glad to be traveling again and that all of this reminds them of how much they like trying new places. And then they said I could have the rest of the night off and that they would see me again sometime soon.”