Though I can’t hear music anymore, I know that soft music always plays in the background: Italian operas like La Bohème and Aida and tenors like Pavarotti and Bocelli. In better days, when David, Nora and I would go to Lo Schiavio’s, Nora would always entertain us with her lip-synched rendition of “That’s Amore.” These days, my sense of sound is limited to its echoes as it travels through air, water, solids. I can feel the clap of thunder, the thrum of loud music, the slam of a door as it vibrates through my bones. Once in a while, I’ll sit in my car, turn up the radio as loud as it will go and lay my hands on the dash and feel the throbbing pulse of music against my skin.
I try to push away the ghosts that somehow always come to me in the memory of sound as the host leads Jake and me up two flights of stairs past casks of wines and shelves filled with olive oil and seats us in a dim corner. Already I know this could be a problem. It’s hard to eat and sign at the same time and if I can’t clearly see Jake’s lips there will be no way we are going to be able to carry on a conversation. As always, he seems to be able to read the stricken look on my face, rises and proceeds to gather up a half dozen of the small votive candles from the unoccupied tables and sets them strategically on ours. It does the trick and the collection of flames is enough for me to decipher Jake’s words.
“Brilliant,” I say as he settles back into his chair. Jake waves away the compliment and opens his menu.
“Remember we’re here to celebrate your new job and not my obvious and incomparable intelligence.”
“Noted,” I laugh.
When our server returns she glances curiously at all the candles illuminating our table.
“Mood lighting,” Jake says, looking straight at me, a huge grin on his face. Like always I can’t tell if he’s serious or just joking. I’ve known Jake forever and he’s still the same handsome boy with the impish smile. He was a four-sport kid in high school: football, basketball, track and baseball. Tall and solid, he’s still exceptionally fit for a forty-five-year-old, though I would never tell him that.
The waitress asks if we’d like a sample of the house wine. I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. I don’t know why I’m embarrassed. Jake knows all about my drinking problem, was the one who gave me a kick in the ass to deal with it. “Just water for me,” Jake requests. And I do the same.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say once the waitress is out of earshot.
“I know.” Jake unfolds his napkin and lays it on his lap. “I did it for me. Until this homicide is closed I have to be stone-cold sober.”
“I read in the paper that you said you may be making an arrest soon.” I change the subject. Jake nods. “Gwen Locke’s husband?” I ask, and the look on his face confirms it.
The waitress returns with our water and then leaves us to peruse the menu for a few minutes. I’m not particularly hungry, but the food here is amazing. “The sky’s the limit, Earhart,” Jake says. “You’re gainfully employed now—you can afford it.” Well, there goes any inkling that this is a date. I guess we’re paying for our own meals tonight. I can’t tell if I’m relieved or disappointed. “Besides—” Jake gives my hand a friendly squeeze “—you deserve it.”
“I do,” I agree with feeling. “Dammit, I do.” Jake signals the waitress over and she takes our orders.
As we nibble on the garlic bread and salad that the waitress brings I say, “I bet you’re relieved to have this murder solved already. I know I’ll sleep a lot better knowing that the person responsible is behind bars.” I see a slight misgiving cross Jake’s face. It’s nearly imperceptible but I’ve known Jake long enough to know when something isn’t quite right. “What?” I ask. “You said you’re going to go arrest Marty Locke tonight. Don’t you think he did it?”
Jake takes another bite of bread, chews and swallows before answering. “Just bringing him in for questioning again. He says he was on the road for work the night Gwen went missing. The kid spent the night with a babysitter because Gwen worked a double at Q & P. According to Gwen’s mother, the two of them have been going through a rough patch. That Gwen talked about a trial separation. Plus, we found her abandoned car. Only prints inside belong to Gwen and Marty.”
“Anywhere near the marina?” I ask, thinking about my theory that whoever killed Gwen transported her by boat.
“Not even close. A highway patrol officer found it on the side of the road north of town.”
“But...” I say, knowing that there’s something not sitting right with Jake.
“But I just have a feeling that there’s more to it. In my experience, a guy who’s royally pissed at his wife—I mean mad enough to kill her—doesn’t do it so...so methodically. There was barely a mark on her.”
“What about the gash on the back of her head?” I ask.
“ME said that would have only stunned her,” Jake explains. “The official cause of death is asphyxia due to ligature strangulation.”
“So you think that if Marty killed his wife he would have beat her or stabbed her? It seems to me that strangling someone is pretty personal—pretty ugly,” I counter.
“Yes, but it’s more than that. This can’t leave this room.” Jake pulls his chair more closely to me. “A guy who strangles his wife or girlfriend uses his hands or maybe an object he finds within reach—a belt, a scarf. But this guy used something else.” He touches his neck. “The marks around her throat... We haven’t figured it out just yet.”
“Lots of husbands are guilty of premeditated murder. What makes you think Gwen’s husband might be innocent? What does your chief say?”
“The chief wants the right guy arrested and all the evidence right now points to the husband. I don’t know if he’s innocent or guilty. I’m just saying that from the initial findings from the autopsy Gwen Locke wasn’t just strangled. She was strangled, revived, then strangled again. And again.”
My stomach churns. “She was tortured? Why?”
“Yeah, she was tortured,” Jake signs. “Maybe she had some info that the murderer was trying to get out of her? I don’t know.” The light from the candles on the table casts dappled shadows across Jake’s face. He looks worn-out and I can tell how heavily this murder weighs on him. I look around the room. The waitress ascends the steps, her tray laden down with our plates of food, and sets them down in front of us. I wait until she leaves before I speak again.
I hate to ask the next question, but I’ve worked as a nurse too long to not. “Was she sexually assaulted?”
“The initial report was inconclusive. It’s tough to tell at first glance. She was found naked. That does indicate a sexual aspect but there wasn’t any noticeable bruising or trauma. They’re running more tests and swabbing for DNA. It will take some time to get those results back.”
In my experience DNA results can never come fast enough and even if the high-profile nature of a case comes into play it could still take well over a week to receive any kind of report. “If it wasn’t sexually motivated why do you suppose she was killed in that way?”
Jake thinks for a moment and then makes the signs for four of the most chilling words in any language let alone ASL. Greed. Hate. Revenge. Evil.
“So you think whoever killed Gwen didn’t necessarily want to rape her but wanted her to suffer, wanted to punish her for something she might have done?” I think of what I know about my old friend. She could be headstrong when it came to advocating for a patient, rubbed some people the wrong way, but she always had the victims’ interests at heart. I couldn’t imagine someone wanting to hurt her so brutally.
“I’m keeping an open mind but if the final autopsy results show no evidence of sexual assault, my guess is that Gwen Locke did something to royally piss someone off and just killing her once wasn’t enough. He...or she, incapacitated her by hitting her in the head and then brought her to the brink of death over and over again by strangling her.
” Jake picks up his fork and pokes at the food on his plate. I think we’ve both lost our appetites.
I let this scenario sink in. The terror of staring into the eyes of someone intent on squeezing the air from your lungs is bad enough. But why would someone loosen the rope, let you catch your breath and then pull it tight over and over again? It’s nearly unimaginable. But so is seeing a car barreling toward you and knowing there’s nowhere to run.
Images of bright headlights and a full moon flash through my brain. Just out of my reach is the sound of katydids, tires squealing and Stacey Barnes’s screams. I can almost remember what they sound like, although I would do anything to forget.
Across from me Jake is waving his hand in front of my face, trying to get my attention. “Sorry,” I say.
“Spit it out, Earhart,” he signs. And I can’t help but smile. Jake always seems to know when I want to say something even before I do.
“I know it’s going to sound crazy, but I just can’t help thinking that maybe there might be a connection between my hit-and-run and Gwen’s murder.” Jake doesn’t tell me I’m nuts so I go on. “For one, we are both sexual assault nurse examiners and we both helped to put some very bad men away because of the evidence we collected.”
“I don’t know.” Jake shakes his head. “You and the other victim...”
“Stacey Barnes,” I remind him. I don’t want anyone to forget her name. I know I never will.
“You and Stacey Barnes were hit by a car and Gwen was beaten and strangled. Two very different MOs.” Jake looks skeptical.
“I know it’s far-fetched but the point is, based on the skid marks at the scene of the hit-and-run, your friends in blue determined that the car sped up before it intentionally ran into us. I’m not saying that it’s the same person, maybe just the same kind of person—a rapist or an abusive boyfriend or husband looking for revenge.”
“Or it could be some freak who has a thing for beautiful nurses,” Jake says, making the sign for beautiful with a flourish.
“Yeah right,” I say, laughing it off. “They probably have nothing to do with each other. It was just a thought.” But I can’t help thinking that maybe there could be some kind of connection. Maybe an old case, maybe Jake’s tasteless comment about a crazy person out there targeting nurses isn’t so far off.
“Try not to worry,” Jake says. “It’s probably the husband—it’s always the husband. We’ll find out who did this.”
I want to believe him, but the police still haven’t figured out who was driving the car that mowed Stacey and me down and whenever I cross a street I can’t help but look twice.
The candles on the table begin to flicker and burn out one by one and our conversation turns to lighter topics. I ask him if he has talked to Andrew lately and if he could please tell him that it was his turn to come and visit me this time. Actually, it was my turn to go out to Denver, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to travel since I lost my hearing. We talk about Stitch and Rookie as if they are our children and by the time dessert arrives the tension has faded and we’re both more relaxed.
We argue over the bill but Jake wins. “Next time it’s my treat,” I declare, pleasantly surprised that Jake foots the bill. Usually we go Dutch. And Jake doesn’t balk so maybe there will be a next time.
We gather up our doggie bags and walk outside. The moon is a frosty orb against a navy blue sky. The air is crisp and still, as if it is listening for what might come next. It smells like it could snow and a childlike excitement fills my chest. I’ve always loved the first snow of the year. We stop at my car and Jake holds my take-out bag while I unlock my door.
“Thanks for a great night,” I say. “I really needed this.” Jake’s face is only inches from mine and he gives me that half smile that has had the capability of making me go weak in the knees ever since I was a kid.
“I had fun too,” he signs, pulling open the driver’s-side door. “Text me when you get home so I know you’re safe and sound, okay?”
“Aye, aye.” I give him a two-fingered salute. “Good luck tonight,” I say, my tone growing serious.
“Thanks. Justice always prevails, right?” he asks as I settle into my seat.
I don’t respond because we both know that life isn’t always just or fair. Sadie dying wasn’t fair, the way I lost my hearing and then lost my marriage wasn’t fair. And Gwen Locke being murdered sure as hell wasn’t fair.
It’s nine o’clock by the time I get home and I sit in the driver’s seat with the engine idling for ten minutes before I get up the nerve to get out of my car. I hate that I’m scared of my own yard. I hate that someone has this power over me. I count to three and throw open the car door and scramble across the driveway and up the steps like a child who leaps under the covers before the boogeyman reaches out from beneath the bed to grab her. With shaking hands I unlock the door and find Stitch lying in the same spot where he was when I left. He ignores me for about twenty seconds before curiosity about what’s in the doggie bag gets the better of him. “Hold on,” I say, “you need to go outside first.”
I’m not so afraid of being outside with Stitch at my side but I keep him in my sights. I remember I promised Jake that I would let him know I made it home okay, so I shoot him a text, and then Stitch and I go back inside.
In the kitchen Stitch watches as I slice my leftover steak into bite-size pieces. “What?” I ask as I fish the piece of pizza from his bowl and replace it with the steak. “Taco pizza isn’t good enough for you?” The steak barely hits the bottom of his dish before Stitch gobbles it up. “Slow down, you’ll choke,” I scold.
I settle in front of my computer and spend the next hour practicing my speech reading by watching episodes of Nurse Jackie online. Multisyllabic, medical terminology is a killer when it comes to reading lips.
I’m still having trouble believing that Monday morning I’ll be working at the clinic. Not as a nurse, just yet, but it’s just a matter of time. I’ll get there. I know I should call David and tell him I got the job but I’m still a little irked about his comment that I was once a good nurse. I guess I can’t blame him. As much as I hate admitting it, I had a problem with drinking. Have a problem with drinking. It interfered with all aspects of my life, especially my marriage.
David may not love me the way he used to but he knows I’m a damn good nurse. I couldn’t imagine a world where I could be profoundly deaf and a nurse and so instead I drank. A lot. At first I did a pretty decent job of only drinking after Nora and David went to bed. For a while David slept with me but each night I struggled to fall asleep. The silence and the dark filled me with paralyzing anxiety and I would break into a clammy sweat, my heart pounded until I became dizzy and would have to turn on a light. With David’s grueling schedule at the hospital he needed every minute of sleep he could get so he would go downstairs to the guest bedroom, leaving me alone with lights blazing and a bottle of wine.
I look at the phone. It’s probably too late to call David anyway but I dial before I change my mind.
“Hello?” the display reads.
“Hi, David, it’s Amelia. Am I calling too late?”
“No, no. Nora is spending the night with a friend tonight. I’m just getting caught up on some work.”
Nora is a quirky little girl who sometimes isn’t sure how to act around her peers so I’m so glad to hear that she is spending time with a friend.
“Yes, apparently they’re going to order pizza and have a movie marathon. Nora was very excited.”
“That sounds like fun,” I say, wishing I was there to see the two girls snuggled into their sleeping bags, stuffed animals tucked in their arms, giggling over whatever movie they were watching, a bowl of popcorn between them. “Hey, I wanted to let you know that I met with Dr. Huntley today. I start on Monday.”
“That’s great, Amelia,” David says. “Go
od for you.”
I wish I could hear his voice. I wonder if there is warmth and pride there or if he’s just going through the motions, being polite. He’s made it quite clear that he doesn’t think it’s a good idea that I’ll be working in the clinic.
“I won’t be working with patients, but who knows, I’ve got my foot in the door. I... I just wanted to thank you. I know that you could have told Dr. Huntley not to hire me and you didn’t do that. I really appreciate that.”
“You’re welcome,” he responds, and I wait for him to say more but he doesn’t. I don’t know what I expected. Maybe an “I knew you could do it” or “They’re lucky to have you.” But I’ll take what I can get.
“Okay, well,” I finally say. “When Nora gets home tell her I said hi and I’ll give her a call.”
We disconnect and I find that my hands are sweating. Am I going to be anxious every single time I have a conversation with David? But I feel something else too. I’m excited. I have a job. And who knows, maybe I’ll be able to start working with patients again. There have to be some deaf nurses out there. I’ll prove to David and Dr. Huntley and everyone else that nursing is what I should be doing. It is what I was born to do.
9
Sunday morning dawns bright and sunny and the craziness of the past few days seems like a bad dream but I know it’s not. I look forward to the quiet and solitude of the weekend that stretches out before me. But I’ve got a little unfinished business to take care of. I need to go make amends with my neighbor.