CHAPTER TEN
T he emotional weight of the day’s events lay heavy in the air like a thick New Brunswick fog. The car ride back to the Beaumont motel had been a quiet one. We let the radio DJ provide commentary. The news updates and weather reports brought a sense of normality to our car journey. Visiting Frances brought answers but also more questions. Choosing which to unpack first was the hardest part.
I found Amelia by the fire pit, if you could call it a fire pit. It was essentially an old rusty barbecue being used as a log burner with four white plastic deck chairs surrounding it. The motel did their best with a terribly low budget. In the stillness of the night the flames crackled in the fire pit. They cast a warm glow upon Amelia’s hunched form. She was clutching a bundle of letters in her trembling hands. As I got closer, I could see her eyes were filled with tears.
“Amelia,” I said.
She didn’t acknowledge me right away. With each flick of the wrist she tossed another crumpled letter into the flames.
“Amelia, what are you doing?” I asked.
I watched the paper curl and blacken before disintegrating into ashes.
“It isn’t fair.” She sighed .
“What isn’t fair?”
Each letter thrown was deliberate and desperate, as if she was trying to lift a weight off her shoulders.
“Caroline died without saying goodbye to Frances. And Frances is so ill she can’t even remember the love of her life, and when she does it’s for the briefest period. It’s not fair.” Amelia sniffled.
I saw a moment of raw vulnerability I hadn’t seen before. Every instinct I had told me to comfort her. I approached her slowly. My heart ached at the sight of her discomfort. I reached out a hand to touch her shoulder. If I could just offer the smallest bit of reassurance I hoped it might help.
“Hey, it’s okay,” I whispered softly. “I know it’s hard to accept.”
Amelia tossed a picture into the flames. I watched the edges crease as Frances and Caroline’s joyful expressions disappeared.
“Tossing the letters won’t change the past,” I said.
Amelia paused, her breath hitching as she turned to look at me with tear-streaked cheeks.
“There’s no point in me keeping them, is there? They’re only a reminder of what my grandma had to endure,” Amelia confessed.
“I think there is,” I admitted.
“Why? Give me a reason why,” Amelia challenged.
I took a step closer and wrapped my arms around her. Surprisingly, she leant into the warmth of my presence.
“Your grandma loved Frances,” I murmured.
“I know that.”
“If Caroline was here right now, do you think she’d do anything differently?” I asked.
Amelia shrugged.
“Would you have done anything differently? ”
“I don’t know. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be in that position.”
“Exactly.” I brushed the curls of hair from her wet cheeks. “You don’t know what it’s like to love someone for your entire life, to constantly put aside your own feelings, and to rely so heavily on the occasional glimpse of happiness you might get whenever you spend a few hours with that person.”
I gestured for her to sit with me beside the fire pit. The crackling flames were our backdrop.
“It’s what they both wanted, Amelia.”
“How can you say that? They didn’t want to spend their life apart. They were forced to.”
“Nobody is forced to do anything. They chose to. Yes, the reasoning might have been influenced by others, but as harsh as it might sound, they were victim to a right person wrong time situation.”
Amelia wiped at her eyes. I removed the remaining letters from her hand, conscious she might regret burning them all.
“You have to find a way to acknowledge the past, to accept it, and find a way to move forward. It’s exactly what Caroline did when Frances said goodbye for the final time. She chose to remember the good times, not dwell on what could’ve been,” I said.
“You don’t know that. What if she spent the rest of her life in unbearable pain, every knock at the door, every creak of a floorboard, every call of her name, hoping it was Frances coming to tell her she’d made a big mistake.”
“She didn’t,” I said, confidently. “Didn’t you read the final letter?” I asked.
“What letter? ”
“The bunch of letters you gave me, there was a letter from Caroline mixed in with them. She never sent it, but she made peace with their situation.”
“What? Why haven’t I seen the letter—” She turned sharply towards the fire pit.
“Oh God, what if I’ve burnt it?” Panic crossed her face. Her eyes widened. She frantically scattered the remaining pile of letters. Her hands trembled as she desperately tried to find the one I was referring to.
“No, no, no!” she exclaimed.
“It’s okay. Let me help.”
“Please, let it be here,” she muttered, her voice quivering.
“It’s okay. We’ll figure it out,” I reassured her. “There’s a lot of letters left. I’m sure we’ll find it. Take a deep breath,” I urged.
“What if it’s not here?”
“Trust me,” I smiled.
We walked away from the charred remnants of the letters, gathering the remaining ones as we left. I sat beside her on the bench outside our motel room. The smell of bonfire lingered on our clothes.
“It’s okay to feel upset,” I supported.
“Can you remember what the letter said?” Amelia asked.
“Sure, I can remember the gist of it.”
I placed my arm around her shoulder allowing her to lean into me, which she did. Amelia was vulnerable, and all I wanted to do was be a pillar of strength, a support system, a light at the end of the dark tunnel. I wanted to be that for her. Frankly, I would’ve been anything she needed me to be.
“Please, tell me. ”
I cleared my throat, inhaling deeply I composed myself. I had to do it justice. If my words could bring Amelia comfort then I had to get it right. My job required me to be calm and composed when delivering difficult news, and I was good at that, but I was also very detached from the situation. With Amelia I was not. I was more attached than I should’ve been, and that terrified me.
“Caroline said that Frances was the love of her life. She’d captured her heart with an intensity she could never fully understand. She spoke about life taking them down separate paths. Although she spent many years grappling with the ache that came with their circumstance, she was now writing the final letter with a sense of peace and acceptance,” I recalled.
The words weren’t exact. I’d read the letter twice over, but I didn’t have a photographic memory. However, I remembered the context because, like almost everything to do with the Frances and Caroline story, it touched my soul.
“There was one part that really hit home. I think it’s what made me realise Caroline’s strength and that she’d truly made peace with it all.”
Amelia looked up, eyes glistening.
“She said their love will forever remain the biggest, and most impactful chapter in the book of her life. And she released her from the burden of it.”
“Oh.” Amelia pressed her hand to her chest.
“She said she released herself from the longing that had bound her heart for so many years. Despite everything, she carried nothing but gratitude for the love they shared.”
“She released her.” Amelia inhaled. “Oh God, that’s too much. ”
“Mrs. Baker realised what they had was a gift. Even short-lived, it was still the best moments of her life,” I said.
“Do you think she really made peace with it? She never sent the letter?”
“What good would it have done? Frances might not have remembered her, and if it fell into the hands of her family, it would cause unnecessary pain. I think Caroline writing the letter was her way of finally letting go.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Amelia said.
“Can I ask you something?”
I turned to face Amelia. Her eyes filled with tears. With a gentle voice filled with empathy, I asked her, “Why are you so upset by their story?”
Amelia’s body tensed.
“Why am I upset?” she snapped. “Do I not have a right to be upset?” Her voice was laced with frustration.
“I didn’t say that.” I countered, “I understand it’s upsetting, but I can’t help but think there’s a deeper meaning for you.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Amelia challenged.
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”
She wouldn’t look at me. She folded her arms sharply across her chest in protest.
“Look, I’m sorry,” I said softly. “I didn’t mean to upset you. It was just an observation.”
Amelia’s expression softened. The facade of anger faded. I took that as a silent acknowledgment of my apology.
“It’s the injustice, okay,” she whispered. “It haunts me because I know what it’s like.”
“You do?”
Amelia nodded. “I know what it’s like to feel suffocated by other people’s expectations of you, to be forced into a box, told what to do, who to marry, who to love, and what job would be suitable. I can relate to her.”
As she spoke, I watched the effect of Caroline’s story play out in her demeanour. She was picturing her own life. Her shoulders slumped with the weight of unresolved emotions.
“You’re worried your story will turn out like Caroline and Frances’s?” I asked. It made sense now.
“Yes. I’m scared because if my family doesn’t approve of my choices, I’ll be forced to choose better,” she admitted.
“And do you already have a choice?” I asked.
I feared the answer. Since we’d met, I felt as though Amelia had an invested motive in Caroline’s story, something more than her being the grandmother she’d never met. She was desperate to uncover the truth, desperate to understand their feelings and the consequence of the emotions they fought so hard to hide. I figured her mother had something to do with it. She seemed callus in her ways, and Amelia rarely had a good passing comment to make about her, but she didn’t bad-mouth her in the way you would if you disliked an individual. There was still a great element of respect present in her words, as though she was listening, and Amelia feared her words might somehow get back to her mother.
“No,” Amelia hesitated. Her answer wasn’t convincing. “I just worry about my future that’s all.”
“Can I give you some advice?” I asked.
Amelia nodded.
“Only fear what you can’t control.”
“Erm... okay.” Amelia smirked, and for the first time in hours I saw a glimmer of something other than sadness—was that joy in her eyes ?
“Trust me. It might sound all philosophical, but it’s true. You can control what path you take in life.”
“Your mother isn’t Pamela Baker.” She rolled her eyes.
“No, but I have come across my fair share of Pamela Bakers, and the only way to break free from that cycle is to stand up for yourself.”
My best friend’s mother was a Pamela, not literally, she was called Patricia, but it was close enough. Patricia was Brittany’s mom, arch enemy, and reverse role model all wrapped into one five-foot-two inch frame with a pit bull personality. I disliked her. She disliked me, especially after I arrested her for fraudulent activity. Brittany broke free from her control at the age of twenty-three when she tried to send her to a religious camp that specialised in reversing sexuality.
Yes, she was that mom.
“Did you come here to escape?” I asked. It was a question that played on my mind and had for some time. What was she escaping? Her mom?
“I guess.” Amelia nodded. “Me and my mom... We don’t exactly see eye to eye on a few things,” she confessed.
“Like what?” I asked.
“When I first met you, I told you my mom gave me this house. She did, but not out of the kindness of her heart. She didn’t want it, but she only signed it over to me as a bribe,” Amelia admitted.
“Seriously? Why?”
“We disagreed on my future,” she admitted. Amelia pulled back. “I don’t like to get into it, but let’s just say the house was a bargaining tool. Do you like poker?” Amelia asked randomly.
“Erm . . . no . . . I don’t have the bluffing gift. ”
“Same.” Amelia played with the hem of her shorts.
“My mom is good at poker for two reasons: obsessive dedication and patience. Pamela Baker will always play the long game. She didn’t give me the house in the hopes I’d move to another state and she could wash her hands of the disappointing daughter,” Amelia scoffed.
“No, she gave me the house hoping I would come running back with my tail between my legs begging for her to help me “fix” my life. Officially, she gave me two weeks. I overheard her on the phone to her friend.” Amelia laughed.
“That’s rough,” I said. “She gave you a million-dollar home to teach you a lesson?” I raised my eyebrow.
“Yeah, I know, poor me. Look, I get how it reads. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me, but I know what she’s like, and she knows I’ll eventually crack. I have little savings left to continue with the repairs. Eventually, I’ll have to call it a day, and she’ll win,” Amelia admitted.
“So, she’ll just wait around until you need her again?” I questioned. Did she have a job? Maybe her job was having money, which was a nice job to have, but boring.
“Yep. When I was little, I learnt to play tennis. I went to numerous competitions, and I was okay. I wasn’t about to be called up to the Olympics, but I was good enough to win a few competitions. As I got older and the competition got tougher, I lost more often. My heart wasn’t in it anymore, but my mom blamed my coach for not being thorough enough in training. She eventually began attending every session. She shouted obscenities whenever I made a mistake, but they were never aimed at me, always the coach, as though he could physically stop me from striking the ball incorrectly at any given moment. By the time I was sixteen, she’d berated him so much that he moved across state to coach at another club.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Yeah, that wasn’t all. After that, the club couldn’t find another replacement as experienced, so my game suffered, training was often cancelled, and I had to resort to hitting balls against the side of our garage for practice three to four times a week. Pamela wasn’t happy.” Amelia rolled her eyes.
“What did she do?” I questioned. “Please don’t tell me she murdered him. It would put me in a predicament,” I said as a joke, but also slightly concerned it wouldn’t be completely implausible.
“No, no murdering,” Amelia confirmed. I sighed, relief. “I didn’t find this out until I was much older, but she basically sent him hundreds of damaged tennis balls in the mail every week for three months after he left.”
“Hundreds?”
“Yes,” Amelia nodded.
“Why? What is that doing other than causing the inconvenience of trying to dispose of that many tennis balls.”
“Exactly, it’s the inconvenience. She must’ve got a kick out of it. You ruin my daughter’s non-existent Tennis career, and I’ll make you hate tennis balls so much you quit your job, move to Antarctica, and become a penguin.”
“Did he move to Antarctica?” I chuckled.
“No, she gave up eventually when my dad asked why she kept getting large boxes of tennis balls delivered to the house. One sixteen-year-old girl didn’t need that many tennis balls, even if the next-door neighbour’s dog was eating some of them.” Amelia smirked. “I shouldn’t be laughing. It’s not funny. She’s unhinged. Who has the patience to sit and cut holes in that many tennis balls?”
“I can’t lie, I would probably have her on the likely to be incarcerated in the future noticeboard at work.”
“That’s a thing?” Amelia’s eyes widened.
“No.” I laughed. “Do you think we just sit around and choose future criminals like we’re judges on American Idol ?”
Amelia shrugged. “Doughnuts, coffee, criminal selection, seems believable.” She laughed.
“Oh, I see.” I tickled the spot underneath her arm. I learnt during our unexpected activity the night before that the faintest touch caused her to jolt.
“I have an idea,” I said.
“I’m listening.” Amelia turned her body. Her right knee brushing against mine. “We could make sure she doesn’t win.” I smiled.
“How?”
“I have a few contacts. Let me help you with the repairs.”
“You’ve already done so much to help with the house. This isn’t your problem.”
“I’ve had fun doing it. We just need a few extra helping hands to move things along, and I happen to know the perfect people who owe me a favour or two.” I grinned.
“Why does everyone in this town owe you a favour?” Amelia asked, suspiciously.
“When you save a child from drowning, help find a missing pet, or stop an armed robbery, good deeds tend to build up some good will.” I leaned back, smirking.
“I didn’t think police officers were allowed to accept gifts?” she said sarcastically .
“A gift in the form of a large sum of money, no. The odd batch of cookies or a promise from an old friend to help tend to my garden. That’s a little different.”
“Tend to your garden?” Amelia burst out laughing. “I hope you don’t go around advertising that.”
“You’re so rude. I didn’t—” I gave up when I saw Amelia’s head fly back in a fit of laughter.
“I’m joking, but thank you.”
I felt sorry for her, not because she’d essentially been gifted a home, even if it was derelict and damp ridden. It was still a home, which was more than some people had. However, her mom was testing her, and for her to know that deep down her own mother was waiting for her to fail so she could swoop in and say “I told you so” must’ve been a hard pill to swallow.
I still didn’t fully understand the dynamic, and whenever I tried so cautiously to broach the subject, I was met with a sentence followed by a brick wall. Her mom wasn’t approving of her choices, but I was no wiser to the choices she referred to. I assumed it had to do with her career or her failed business, but something else caused my stomach to twinge. The familiar anxious feeling I experienced whenever I knew something wasn’t quite right was ringing like a car alarm in my head.
I refused to push her for an explanation. It wasn’t my place, and this wasn’t an interrogation down at the police station. I’d been accused of using that tactic in previous “situationships”.
I was a big believer in self-development. That could look different for each individual, but if I was presented with an opportunity to change for the better, I tried to take it. When the second to last person I dated told me I needed to stop asking questions like I was tape recording it to be used as evidence, I knew it was time to let go of the need to know everything. These days, I chose mystery. Well, not really, I still asked the most important questions like: Where do you live? Have you ever been to prison? Are you involved in any organised crime?
And the most important question: What’s your favourite homemade Alabama recipe? It might not be important to everyone, but if the person said something out of left field, like carrot fruitcake, I would need to reconsider all of our history to date.
Amelia opened the door from the bathroom. Her eyes met mine with—longing? The day had been stretched and emotionally draining, but my read on people and situations rarely wavered.
Without a word, she invited me to join her. I stepped towards the edge of the bed. The familiar space held echoes of the night before. She reached out and placed her hand against my stomach in the space where my shirt left an opening. My process of getting undressed halted by the sudden change in our behaviour.
I traced the length of her arm with my fingertips. My touch was hesitant, remembering that morning’s regrets. My hands found hers as I reached her wrist, and our fingers intertwined. She didn’t pull away. She pressed her palm tightly to my own, making no mistake that she wanted more.
My gaze locked with hers. In that moment we were both seeking solace in each other’s embrace. Amelia was looking for a distraction, a reason to temporarily forget the torment of her mother’s expectations, and I—
I was trying to prove to myself I could feel something with another human being and to believe those feelings might have a future beyond three dates. At least that’s what I told myself.
The touch of Amelia’s skin on mine came with a gentle reminder. She was unforgettable. The intimacy intensified with each breath. I felt us inhale in unison as we inched closer.
The room was dimly lit. Our shadows danced across the wall as I surrendered to the moment. I leaned in, closing the distance between us with a soft kiss that soon deepened. We moved towards the bed, our bodies moving in sync. The sight of her bare shoulders and curling hair flowing across the pillow brought back arousing memories from the night before.
I pressed against her body, the touch of her hands warm on my bare skin. I closed my hand around her waist. Her shorts hung off her hips to reveal the soft silky skin in the curve of her pelvis. And I was lost. I was officially lost in the green of her eyes, the structure of her cheekbones, the thickness of her hair, and the small scar above her lip. It looked more prominent in the dim motel light because the passion of our kisses left behind remnants of saliva that shone on the surface of her skin.
As Amelia arched her back, inviting me to unhook her bra, I realised I had never in my life wanted another human the way I wanted Amelia Baker. It could’ve been the unwritten excitement that came with having sex with a “straight” girl. Although, they were more than likely going to break your heart, there was still a sense of achievement that made you forget the obvious. Or maybe it was my mind subconsciously making the situation more appealing because she was technically distantly unavailable. Or maybe I just really liked Amelia, also a strong possibility, but the one most likely to leave me concerned and questioning, therefore not my favourite choice.
All I understood in that moment, as Amelia exposed her neck and pulled my body down to collide with hers, was yearning. I wanted her more than I’d wanted her the night before. I wanted to see her body tighten when she climaxed. I wanted to see her forehead crinkle and lips part as she exhaled deeply after her second orgasm. I wanted a repeat of the night before, but I wanted one small difference this time. No regrets.