Chapter 15 At Amelie’s
At Amelie’s
But it wasn’t until the following week that Sam went to check on Amelie. She had, quite honestly, forgotten. After Amelie’s
no-show, Sam had sent an email: Hey, Amelie!
We missed you in workshop. Please get in touch to reschedule—and let me know everything’s okay.
Then Sam had gone back to writing The Rumrunner, or rather writing about that new novel, and exploring it further with William—including a meeting on the Cape before one of his events at which they
admittedly did more body-surfing and naked frolicking in the dunes than talking about the book. Which was fine with Sam, since
she still had an unsettled feeling about it and couldn’t tell exactly why. Was it the fact that she was cheating on her contract,
sneaking around with the rumrunner when she was supposed to be with the gold miner? Was it that the idea was too connected
to Hank’s alcoholism, and she hadn’t gotten the requisite distance to write about it? Was it that Sam wasn’t used to collaboration,
or that William was, ever so charmingly and with the best of intentions, pushing her? Sam wasn’t sure, so it was a relief
to turn from her own screen to this week’s manuscript for class—whereupon, as soon as she settled into her chair with her
pen, she thought: Amelie. Fuck!
Now Sam was in the vestibule of her missing novelist’s building in Fort Point Channel, a harborside neighborhood as different from Sam’s historic district as it was possible to be.
The Point was all industrial warehouses converted to, initially, artists’ lofts; Sam had come to grad school raves here where the only light was old films flickering on the walls and everyone was on X.
Then the area was gentrified, the creatives forced into the exurbs.
Amelie had to be doing pretty well at her graphic designer day job if she could afford to live here.
Sam buzzed Amelie once, twice, not really expecting a response and not getting one. If Amelie wasn’t returning texts or emails,
why would she come to the door? There was a management company listed, so Sam tried them next.
“I’ve been trying to reach my sister for a week,” she said to the gruff-sounding man who answered, “but she’s not picking
up, and I’m worried. Is there any way you could let me in?”
“Sorry,” the man said. “Can’t. Security.”
“Not even if you come in with me?”
“No can do.”
“Please?” Sam persisted. “I think it’s an emergency.”
This time the man’s voice sounded softer. “Look, if you really think she’s in trouble, call for a wellness check. You know
what that is?”
Sam wanted to smack herself on the forehead like a cartoon character. Of course she knew what a wellness check was. She’d
used them for Hank—twice. On the second occasion, the emergency crew had reached him just in time.
“I’ll do that,” she said. “Thanks.”
“Good luck, hon,” the man said.
Sam called 911 and was routed to the appropriate line. Did she think her friend might be in mortal danger? Yes. Were there
drugs involved? Maybe. Mental illness? Ditto. The dispatcher said they’d send somebody ASAP.
Sam stepped outside to wait. The vestibule was a sweatbox, the streets not much better.
It was Labor Day weekend, and the sun was an angry orange ball, the sidewalk Sam was standing on literally steaming.
The air smelled of garbage and brine. Yet Sam’s arms prickled in goose bumps as she realized how alone she was in this maze of old buildings.
Was the Rabbit watching Sam right now? Or maybe it was William’s complication: William had ruled her out; he’d spoken with her, he said, and been quite firm, and he felt very strongly that she would not bother Sam.
Sam wasn’t so sure. Women in love could be deceptive. And dangerous.
Whoever the stalker was, she could be anywhere: in that doorway, behind that dumpster. Sam hadn’t received any more emails
or notes, but she had an ominous feeling that it wasn’t because the woman had given up, it was that she was re-strategizing,
recharging and planning a next-level offensive. All it would take was one good bonk on the head and a push, for instance,
for Sam to disappear forever into the dark water of Boston Harbor.
She was relieved when a delivery guy arrived on a Vespa with a sack of chicken so she could slip behind him into the air-conditioned
building. Ha ha, who’s the Rabbit now? thought Sam. Amelie’s elevator was an industrial cage à la Fatal Attraction—one of Sam’s favorite movies as a teen, which probably explained a lot. She didn’t trust the contraption now, so she took
the metal staircase, which shook and clanged disturbingly, to the top floor.
Amelie’s door was bright purple. Sam knocked without much hope. “Amelie,” she called, “it’s Sam from class. Are you there?”
She disliked the way the words bounced around the stairwell and echoed: . . . am . . . ass . . . err . . .
No answer from within. On a lower floor, though, there was a clank clank clank!, as if somebody were hitting a pipe with a hammer . . . or coming up the stairs. Sam rubbed her arms and looked around for
a weapon, an umbrella, a rolled-up newspaper. There was nothing.
“Jesus, girl, get a grip,” she muttered. Then there was a BANG!, and something flew at Sam’s face. She wheeled around, fists
up in her old boxing stance. But it was only the shadow and noise of the elevator coming to life.
The cage rose into view, containing two Boston police officers, one carrying a pry bar. “Ms. Vetiver?” said the other, whose
name tag read Hayes. “You call for a wellness check?”
Sam said she had and showed her ID. Officer Hayes banged on Amelie’s door. “Ms. Stutz,” he called, “Boston PD. Open up, please.” He did it again with the same result. Meanwhile, his partner took to the stairs, and Sam heard him knocking on neighbors’ doors. He returned, shaking his head.
“Ms. Vetiver,” said Officer Hayes, “you believe Ms. Stutz is in mortal danger?”
Sam prayed Amelie was not just away on vacation, and if she was, that she would forgive Sam for what was about to happen.
“Yes,” she said.
“Stand back, please,” said Officer Hayes.
The other cop rammed the bar just above Amelie’s doorknob. The noise was terrific, and Sam covered her ears. The door popped
open, releasing a flood of brilliant light into the hallway, along with the smell of incense and something meatier, like dead
mouse.
“Give us a few,” said Officer Hayes. “We’ll look around, let you know what we find.”
Sam paced the hallway to the chicken-wired window at the end, which overlooked an air shaft. More shadows stirred above: pigeons,
waddling over the skylight. Sam knew she should reach out to Drishti or William; the time you least wanted to ask for support
was the time you most should. But she didn’t. She had a very bad feeling.
She thought of her hand on the doorknob. In the motel. How it had smelled of smoke and wet metal even outside the door, in
the hallway. The ruined rug.
The elevator banged and descended, and this time when it came up there were two EMTs in it, with a gurney. Sam covered her
mouth. “Oh my God,” she said.
Officer Hayes came out of Amelie’s apartment, removing his cap. “Ms. Vetiver,” he said, “I’m very sorry to have to tell you,
Ms. Stutz is deceased.”
Oh, Amelie, thought Sam. I’m so sorry. “Was it—how did she—”
“We’ll do a more thorough investigation, but we found several empty bottles of prescription medication. It seems pretty conclusive
Ms. Stutz took her own life.”
Sam nodded. She bent and put her head between her legs.
“Can I get you some water?” said Officer Hayes.
“Yes please,” said Sam faintly.
She concentrated on her five senses, a behavioral therapy trick Hank had taught her. Static of police radios, squeak of EMT
Crocs and gurney wheels. Taste of blood. Smell of sandalwood and dead mouse. Sam should have known. Should have come sooner.
She knew Drishti and her group and Hank and even his group would say there was nothing Sam could have done, but Sam didn’t
buy that. She never had. What if she’d persisted, called Amelie again, asked her what was wrong, why she had missed class,
could Sam do anything? Did Amelie want company, another heartbeat in the house? Sam knew what it was like to live alone. What
if she had just come to sit quietly on the couch so Amelie knew somebody was there? Instead Sam had been at the fucking beach
with William. Literally, the fucking beach. They’d probably been banging their brains out while Amelie was pouring that final
glass of water or wine. Whatever anyone said, Sam had been through this before. She should have known. She should have come.
Can you hear me? Open the door!
You’ll have to pay for that carpet, you know.
Ghost voices from another room, a place that was never really very far away.
The EMTs emerged wheeling the gurney, which had a shape on it zipped into a gray bag. “Oh my God,” Sam moaned. She reached
out as if to touch Amelie but did not. I’m so sorry, Amelie, Sam thought. And, as the cage carried Amelie down: Why? Why did
you do it?
Officer Hayes brought Sam a glass of water, which she drank gratefully, her stomach hitching at the iron taste. “Was there
any evidence of foul play?” she asked. She sounded ridiculous to herself, like she was on some true crime show.
“None.”
“Did she leave a note?”
“Not that we saw. You’re welcome to take a look around if you don’t disturb anything.”
“No, that’s okay,” Sam said, and stepped over the threshold anyway.
The first thing that struck her was the reason for all that light: two walls of windows overlooking Boston Harbor and the
skyline. Tugs, the Tea Party schooner, boats of all kinds swooping back and forth: No wonder Amelie wrote about pirates, Sam
thought inanely. Amelie’s small-press book jackets, blown up to poster size, lined the walls: pirate queens wielding swords,
standing on prows, kissing half-dressed men in ripped pantaloons. Oh, Amelie, Sam thought again. Why?
She walked around gingerly, scanning surfaces for a note. Refrigerator, coffee table, Amelie’s desk—an enormous teak thing
piled with ledgers and a cutlass letter opener: nothing. Nor were there any photos of people. No family, no PirateCon pals,
not even a parrot. Had Amelie succumbed to killing loneliness? Was that why she had done it?
Because the loft was an open floor plan, Sam didn’t realize she was in the bedroom until she came upon the bed, a wooden four-poster
with a canopy like sails and a long dark stain down the center of the duvet. Sam backed away—she knew what that meant. The
dead mouse smell was stronger here too. The officers had collected the prescription bottles, but nothing else was disturbed.
Sam tipped her head to read the book titles on the bedside table. Moby-Dick; The Wreck of the Whaleship Essex; The Bell Jar; the poems of Emily Dickinson. Had Amelie had depression? What Billy Styron called Darkness Visible, Sam heard William say.
“Ms. Vetiver,” Officer Hayes called, “we’re about to lock up.”
“Of course. Is it all right if I use the bathroom?” Sam realized only as she asked how badly she had to go.
“Sure. Just don’t touch anything.”
In the bathroom, the only room with a door on it, Sam tried not to look at the pink and purple bras on the shower rod, the mini-skyline of toiletries on the counter.
An octopus-sized fern stretched fronds toward a skylight, and Sam felt so heavy with sorrow she could barely breathe.
Who would take care of the plant? Her dad, Ethan, had died when Sam was six, so she was familiar with death but not with its apparatus.
Would Sam have to sign anything, do anything?
But she had already done nothing. Now it was too late.
Something buzzed on the counter, making Sam jump: Amelie’s phone, in its bedazzled skull-and-crossbones case, pushing itself
around amid the cosmetics as if it wanted Sam’s attention. Sam watched it. It would be wrong to pick it up. Invasive. Probably
illegal. Instead Sam reached over and poked it with one finger, flipping it as if it were a rock that might have something
nasty underneath. The screen was deeply cracked, as if Amelie had stepped on or thrown it, and on it, beneath a text inviting
Amelie to receive $5 off her next noodle bowl, was a stack of messages from somebody Amelie had named MR. DELICIOUS POISON.
Huh, thought Sam. Maybe it hadn’t been mental instability or loneliness but heartbreak. Had Amelie been grieving Mr. Delicious
Poison? Was that why she had done it? Sam picked up the phone by the edges and carried it out to Officer Hayes, who was standing
patiently in the kitchen with a roll of yellow Do Not Cross police tape.
“Sorry, I touched this,” Sam said. “I thought you might need it.”
“Just put it over there,” said Officer Hayes, nodding toward the counter.
Sam thanked him and left the apartment, kissing her fingers and pressing them to where a mezuzah would have lived, had Amelie
been Jewish, for protection.
This time Sam used the elevator, and as she cranked the gate closed and hit the black button for the ground floor, she felt
so weighted with sadness, in that familiar and despairing way, that she could not move. She descended, the skylight receding
above her. Why? Why had Amelie done it? Sam had been told over and over that if somebody really wanted to take her own life,
there was nothing anyone could do—that person was the captain of her own soul, and that responsibility belonged to her alone.
Still. If Sam had reached out. If she had brought Amelie to group or William’s Darlings. Would that have made a difference?
And . . . what if it hadn’t been Amelie’s choice?
Sam was quite sure this wasn’t true. The officers were right about the cause of death.
This was an old game Sam was playing with herself because it was easier than the reality.
But . . . what if Amelie hadn’t been alone at the end?
What if somebody had been with her? What if someone had been sitting on her big wooden bed, nodding kindly and training the gun on Amelie as she took the pills?
Suddenly Sam knew, as surely as if lightning had struck her from the skylight. The human part of her felt terrible about it;
the writer nodded and said: Yes. Sam might never know why Amelie had done it, but as the iron cage carried her down through the heart of the building, she
knew exactly what to write. Sometimes a novel was a question that in life had no easy answer. It was not what Sam had expected
to write; it was neither the rumrunner nor the gold miner; it was a pivot, a complete departure, the greatest literary risk
possible. But: The dead writer had just given Sam her next book.