The small ranch-style house sat in the middle of a row of similar unassuming houses in the better part of town, from what Elliott could tell, if there was a better part of town in Pryor, Oklahoma. Driving in, he’d notice there wasn’t much about this tiny village to get too excited about.
Brandon said his mom usually got home from her job at the nursing home around 5:30, a little later if she stopped by the liquor store on the way, which Brandon noted was pretty much every afternoon. A glance at the time on his IAC told him she should be pulling into the driveway any minute now.
He’d considered calling, but he knew she wouldn’t believe it was him. Cadence had filled him in on how she’d spoken to Amanda Keen at the funeral—his funeral—so she thought he was still dead. Brandon hadn’t told her anything otherwise, mostly because he had been avoiding speaking to her as much in the last three weeks since the portal opened as he had the first eighteen years of his life.
At 5:37, an older model sedan pulled into the drive and a few seconds later, a small woman with long, wavy red hair climbed out of the driver’s side, carrying what appeared to be a purse, lunchbox, and a brown paper bag—the big kind, the kind that carried more than one bottle.
“Jesus,” Elliott muttered under his breath. When Brandon had mentioned she had a bit of a drinking problem, he’d imagined the kid might be exaggerating a bit. If she was bringing multiple bottles home every night, his son was more accurate than he’d given him credit for.
He gave her a moment to get inside and get settled before he took a deep breath and pushed open the door to the Buick Enclave he’d parked across the street from the small house. He unfolded his large frame from behind the steering wheel, stretching. It had been a long time since he’d spoken to her, though he had sent her one email right before he died, and memories of the night they met flickered through his mind’s eye, reminding him of how beautiful, how full of life she’d been. Even though it had only been one night, he’d remembered every detail for nearly two decades. Something told him the Amanda Keen he was about to interact with had changed a bit over those years. He approached the house with disinclination.
He pulled open a creaky metal screen door and knocked twice on the thin circa-1970s front door. He heard an exasperated sigh from within and the sound of footsteps drawing closer. He doubted she was expecting anyone. Except for maybe Jack Daniels. Or Brandy Wine.
Amanda pulled the door open, words already flying out of her mouth. “What do you want?” she asked, tipping her head up to meet his eyes as the last words exited her lips. Her countenance changed, and she stared at him in confusion and then recognition.
She didn’t look the same—not even a little bit. When they’d met, Amanda had beautiful alabaster skin, a spray of freckles across her nose. She’d worn her hair shorter then as well, but there were more wrinkles on her face than should’ve been. She reeked of cigarette smoke, and there was already a trembling in her hand as she braced herself against the doorjamb, like he hadn’t quite given her enough time to down whatever fix she’d carried in in that brown paper bag.
“Hi,” was about all he could manage as he stared down at her.
“What—what are you doing here?” she asked, punctuating the “you.” She looked him up and down. “You died. I was at your funeral. It was… ridiculous. Just like you.”
“Nice to see you, too, ‘Manda,” Elliott said, forcing a smile he wasn’t quite feeling. “I’m back. I’d explain it to you, but I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t believe it anyway.”
She nodded and raised her eyebrows as if to say that’s probably true. “So why are you here?” she asked again. The tremor in her hand increased and she shifted, bringing it down to her hip, as if that might hide it.
“Why don’t you let me in. Let’s chat,” Elliott suggested. “Something tells me you could use a drink.” He wanted to add that he could use one, too, but watching her battle her own body made him think about giving it up altogether.
Amanda didn’t argue, just backed out of the way, headed for the kitchen, he imagined. Elliott took his time, walking in slowly, surveying his surroundings, and pushing the door closed behind him.
The living room was a mess. Dirty dishes, discarded clothing, an overflowing ashtray, and other countless items were flung all over the furniture. The carpet was littered with debris like it hadn’t been vacuumed in weeks, and even from the front door he could see a layer of dust accumulated on all of the surfaces Amanda might not have touched recently, like the television and the stand it sat on in the corner.
The kitchen must’ve been off to the right since that’s where he heard a barrage of opening and slamming cabinets. He headed that direction, walking in to see an even more disgusting situation here. The dishes were piled out of the sink, the trash literally overflowing onto the floor, and the stench of cat piss emanated from a litter box by the back door that looked like it hadn’t been changed out in a month.
Apparently unable to find anything suitable in the cabinets, Amanda grabbed a glass off of the counter, rinsed it out and poured herself a stout glass of Vodka swallowing it down straight in a big gulp. She drained over half of the glass before refilling it and turning to look at him. “What do you want, Elliott?”
So many answers flooded his mind all at once, but he didn’t know which of them to choose. She’d left him speechless before, but never like this. Finally, he said, “Amanda, what’s going on?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, leaning back against the counter next to the sink, which caused a bit of a landslide, and glass dishes clattered into one another loudly.
“What do I mean?” he repeated. Elliott ran a hand through his thick curls and leaned on the counter in front of him for a moment. With a deep breath, he looked up and tried to keep his voice even. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
