Blood of Amber

I didn’t notice her when she first walked into the restaurant; I was too occupied with my first coffee of the day and the business section of the Times. “Pardonne-moi, Monsieur. Am I speaking to Timothy Currie?” she asked, her English heavily layered with a French accent. “It’s Tim,” I said, lowering my newspaper and momentarily studying the woman standing beside my table. “And you are…?” Before answering, she asked, “May I sit with you, Tim?” Quite slim and plainly dressed, her hair was short and mostly white, no makeup, slightly stooped shoulders, wire-rimmed glasses, her clothes plain but crispy and fresh. I guessed her to be probably fifty-five, maybe even sixty years of age. “Do I know you?” I asked, while at the same time gesturing to the vacant chair across the table from me. “I assure you, Tim Currie, we never before have met.” Margery, the restaurant owner, hurried to the table with her trademark coffee pot in hand. “Good morning,” she greeted the woman. “Coffee?” “Oh, non merci. I am staying but for a moment.” Margery topped up my cup and hurried on to the next table. “And who are you, exactly?” I asked, setting my newspaper aside. “My name is Rachel Bollard. I am here in Long Falls to assist ma mere.” “By that, I presume, you’re referring to your mother?” “Oui! That is so.” “And your mother is…?” “Amber Underhill.” At the very mention of that woman’s name every nerve in my body drew as taut as a violin string. “My message to you is this,” she went on. “Mere wishes to speak with you.” “You mean to tell me,” I struggled on, doing my best to maintain composure, “that Amber Underhill is still alive, and is back here in Long Falls, and she’s staying up at the big house? Right now? As we speak?” “Oui! And she desires to see you.” “Does she now!” I said, rather bluntly, when I finally found my voice, “but for the life of me I can’t imagine why. I vaguely remember the woman. I haven’t seen her in decades. Not since I was a kid.” “Ah yes,” the woman smiled, “but her memory of you is still quite fine. She has returned to this village for the purpose of meeting you. She wishes to speak of the past.” “And you say that she’s your mother?” “Oui.” “I find that hard to believe.” “How so, Tim Currie?” “Because of your age. From your looks I would say that you are older than I am, and I’m now fifty-three. When I knew Amber Underhill she was in her later thirties, possibly even forty, and she never once mentioned having children.” “I was born to Amber Underhill in France and placed in an orphanage,” she said. “Mere was not yet the age of twenty years when she gave to me life. My home is in France, and I will soon return there. I am here in American only to assist ma mere.” Trying to hide my uneasiness proved useless. The woman would have to be blind not to notice my discomfort. “But how did you find me? How did you know where I was living?” I asked. “Mere employed un detective in finding you. That detective also discovered moi----in France. Tim,” she went on sorrowfully, “Mere is very aged now, and close to death. She wishes for you to visit with her before her time on earth c’est fini----ah, how you say in English----Finished! I do hope you will come and be with her?” “But I can’t understand why she’d want to see me, above all people,” I stumbled along, grasping for any excuse to reject the request. “It was a long time ago. Yes, it’s true, when I was a kid I sometimes worked for your mother up at the big house, but that’s all. It’s not like I was a longtime friend or employee of hers. In fact, I find it odd that she even remembers my name.” “Ah,” Rachel Bollard came back at me with a cynical little smile, “but you did remember her name the moment I spoke it.” She had me there, but there was no way on earth that I wanted to see Amber Underhill again. Somehow I needed to wiggle out of this request without coming across as being coldhearted. “Well, I… I…” “Tim, I know that you were quite young when you were Mere’s lover,” Rachel Bollard said, and said it without the slightest show of embarrassment. “She has told me of this. You were only the age of eighteen years, oui?” I was too stunned to answer. “On your face I see the memory of the event,” she pushed on, “and it is now shameful to you, is it not, Tim Currie?” “I’d sooner not talk about it,” I finally answered, not able to look at her, struggling with my composure. “I understand,” she went on, delicately. “I know that Mere has hurt many people in her life. She has also told me of this. But she has hurt none more than herself. Now she seeks peace and forgiveness before meeting her God.” “Does she now?” I came back, bitterly, I realized a little too bitterly. “Oui! It is so.” “For your information, Rachel Bollard, I don’t believe in souls, and gods, and all that crap. And you can pass that message along to your mother for me. And tell her to stop worrying about hell and damnation. When we die, that’s the end of it. Period! No more worries; no more bad memories; no more regrets; no more anything.” “Aah,” she sighed with noticeable pain in her voice, “I am sorry that you think in such ways, Tim Currie. And I will pray for you. But I did not come here to judge, only to leave Mere’s message. She wishes to explain to you her life. She wishes to help you understand the past. She believes it would give meaning to all that has passed between two troubled lovers.” “We weren’t lovers,” I shot back, angrily, glancing around the restaurant to see if others could hear what was being said. Following a moment of uncomfortable silence, the obvious suddenly dawned on me. When the woman mentioned that she would pray for me was when I noticed the small silver cross pinned on the collar of her blouse. “Would you by chance be a nun?” I asked. “Oui! It is so.” “Look lady----ah, I mean Sister. I didn’t mean to insult you, but I have my own reasons for rejecting the idea of a god. When I was young, I went to church every Sunday, said grace before eating my evening meal, and knelt down beside my bed at night and said my prayers. Then, your mother and the Vietnam War came along and introduced me to the real world. Believe me when I say this; there was nothing spiritual or holy about either of them. But that’s all behind me now, and I wish to leave it there, okay? I prefer to let sleeping dogs lie.” “Ah, but your dogs do not lie quiet, do they, Tim Currie?” She was reading me like a flashing neon sign. She was also quite correct: my dogs do not lie quiet. “And just suppose I did go to visit your mother,” I said, “what could we possibly talk about after all those years?” “I cannot speak of your time with Mere. She has never explained fully the reason for wanting to seek you out. But Mere needs to empty her soul, and so must you, Tim Currie.” A deafening silence filled the restaurant. All around me customers chatted, coffee cups and saucers clicked and rattled, doors opened and closed, yet I was oblivious to it all. All that was on my mind was the memory of one terrifying night that I could not eradicate. “Tim Currie,” she went on, breaking my concentration, while at the same time reaching across the table and taking my hand in hers, “Mere is very sickly now and can no longer harm others. I hope you can find forgiveness in your heart? I hope that God will give you the strength to forgive yourself?” “Sister, that’s asking the impossible,” I said, pulling my hand free of hers, my tone of voice more bitter than I wished it to be.