You Are Not Alone(36)
“I’m not sure if that’s what you call them, but it’s stuff about phobias and how many people commit suicide. There’s a whole page about nurses, too. Like what percentage of nurses commit suicide, and what kind of drugs they have access to when they do it. I mean, who researches stuff like that?”
Valerie is too stunned to speak. Luckily Jody mistakes this for shock at the revelation.
“She’s obsessed with death, I think. It’s just really creepy, and I wish she’d move out.”
“Yeah, I can see why.” Valerie turns around under the guise of filling her glass again to buy time to compose herself.
She’s desperate to rush Jody out so she can call Cassandra and Jane, but she can’t. Jody could be an important resource in the future. Valerie has to behave normally for the next thirty minutes, until Jody’s allotted time is up.
They spend it chatting, sipping wine, and putting the clothes away. But all the while, Valerie’s mind is consumed by questions.
Why is Shay continuing to obsess over Amanda’s suicide? And how much does Shay actually know about what happened to Amanda Evinger?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
SHAY
Nearly 500 million pieces of mail are delivered each day and 146 billion pieces are delivered every year. Mail theft is a felony punishable by up to five years in prison, and up to a $250,000 fine. Some estimates are that one in three people have had packages stolen from their homes. To combat this, some police departments use “bait” packages with a hidden GPS locator, left on the porches of volunteers. As soon as the package is moved, officers get an alert and can track it.
—Data Book, page 25
I FIND SEVERAL WOMEN with the name Eleanor Evinger, but only one who is the right age.
With a little more research, I discover an online site that verifies she is related to Amanda.
She lives in Wilmington, Delaware, about two hours from Manhattan.
On my next day off, I rent a Zipcar, which I’ve only done a few times before.
Traffic isn’t too bad, since I leave the city after rush hour. I keep the speedometer at a steady sixty miles per hour as I head south on I-95. I listen to a TED Talk by a man named Daniel Kish to distract myself not only from the problems that feel like a dull, constant ache in my mind—my lack of a job, not to mention an apartment—but also from what I’m about to do: pay a surprise visit to a grieving mother.
My plan is to be honest with Amanda’s mom. I’ve told too many lies lately, and they only make things worse by twisting around me, ensnaring me. I’ll just explain that I found the necklace, I thought it was Amanda’s, and it’s not actually hers. When I practice saying it like that, it sounds so simple.
It also sounds coldhearted. But I don’t know what else to do.
I turn down Pine Street two hours later. The quiet neighborhood has nearly identical single-story brick homes filling both sides of the street. I find the right house—it has a little wooden front porch—and pull up to the curb across the street.
I pick up the bouquet of zinnias that I’ve been keeping fresh with a damp paper towel wrapped around the stems—by now I associate the flower so strongly with Amanda—and step out of the car. I reach for my blazer, since it seems more respectful than just wearing the plain shirt I have on, and smooth back my hair.
The first thing I notice is the bedraggled look of the lawn, as if it hasn’t been weeded or mowed in weeks. A peeling wooden two-seater swing is in the side yard.
It’s so similar to the house my mom and Barry live in—the one we moved to when I was ten—except that Barry scrupulously maintains the yard. I see a few fuzzy white dandelions growing by the front walk, and I picture Amanda as a little girl, picking one and blowing away the fluff. Just the way I used to.
The tinge of guilt I felt earlier expands. I force myself to keep moving.
I open the screen door to the porch, wincing as it loudly creaks. I intend to take the few steps to the front door and knock.
But I can’t help looking around first. It’s crowded with a rocking chair and a few other pieces of furniture, including a side table cluttered with stacks of mail, magazines, and newspapers. A recycling bin next to it is close to overflowing.
In the corner, asleep on a wicker settee, is the woman I’ve come to visit. Amanda’s mother. I recognize her from the memorial service, where she sat in a chair near Amanda’s picture, accepting a hug from Cassandra.
Her mouth is slightly open, and she’s lying on her side with her hands curled up beneath her chin. On the table before her is a mostly empty bottle of Chardonnay, an overturned wineglass, and a half-eaten tuna sandwich. I hear the drone of a fly buzzing around the sandwich.
It feels voyeuristic seeing her like this; there’s an intimacy in watching someone sleep. She looks so vulnerable, and much older than the fifty-something I imagine she must be.
I wish I’d called to let her know I was coming. But I’d figured the element of surprise wouldn’t give her time to come up with a lot of questions. Or worse, tell me I should stay away.
I step toward her, then stop. To be shaken awake by a stranger on your front porch would alarm anyone.
Maybe I should go back to my car and wait. But this doesn’t look like a catnap. I could be here for hours.
I consider a few options—clearing my throat loudly, going back outside and knocking on the porch door—but then I look at the stacks of mail again. They appear to have been piling up for some time.