Page 14 of Kill For Me Kill For You
From the passenger seat of the car, Amanda looked up at the first-floor windows of the redbrick building on 43rdStreet. The glass was blacked out with thick paper that had yellowed with time, as if it had been painted with grease.
‘You sure this is the place?’ she asked.
Farrow put the car into park, said, ‘This is the place. Second floor. I know it’s scary, but you just have to give it a chance.’
‘Give what a chance? I’ve spoken to counselors before. It doesn’t help.’
‘Look, this is part of the court order. There’s no getting out of this. You’ve got to go so you may as well try to make the best of it.’
Amanda looked back at the building. There was a street level shop. They sold used musical instruments and a sign said they also did repairs. The store was closed. She couldn’t tell if there was light on the floor above because of the paper on the windows. The door beside the entrance to the music shop had a red buzzer.
‘I don’t feel well enough. Can’t I skip just this one last time?’
‘You’ve put it off for long enough. You were supposed to start counseling before the end of September, it’s now November. Your PO should’ve breached you a month ago. She only relented because I called her and told her I’d be bringing your ass to this place myself,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry. Look, I know you’ve gone beyond the call here. It’s just . . .’
‘It’s just what?’
She fell silent for a moment. ‘I’m not ready to deal with this.’
Farrow leaned over with some effort, wincing as he stretched his back, popped open the passenger door, said, ‘Just go in and be a fly on the wall tonight. For now, let’s not breach the damn court order.’
Amanda nodded. Farrow was only looking out for her and she knew it. She thanked him, gave him a mock salute and got out of the car. Hit the buzzer on the door. Waited for ten seconds. Pressed the buzzer again. The thought of going inside filled her guts with dread. She looked around the street. It was almost eight in the evening and the city was still alive with tourists, New Yorkers and traffic. There was a pizza parlor across the street, beside a Wendy’s. A lot of the stores on this street were pop-up tourist traps selling ‘I NY’ hoodies, ball caps, postcards and miniature figurines of the Statue of Liberty.
Farrow was still parked by the curb. Waiting. She knew he wouldn’t leave until she was inside, but it didn’t look like there was anyone in the building.
Amanda turned away from the door just as it opened.
‘Can I help you?’ said a voice.
Amanda stopped and swung around nervously.
The man standing in the doorway was in his thirties, wearing a burgundy sweater and skinny jeans. He had a thick mop of brown hair that curled over his forehead, onto his coke-bottle glasses.
‘I was looking for the parents T and B group?’ said Amanda.
‘Parental Trauma and Bereavement is right upstairs. It’s my group. Hi, I’m Matt,’ said the man, extending a hand.
Amanda huddled into her black wool overcoat, pulled off a glove, shook his hand and said, ‘Hi, I’m Amanda.’
‘I’ve been expecting you. It’s cold – please come inside.’
She turned, waved at Farrow, who honked and pulled away.
Amanda followed Matt up two flights of creaking, uneven wooden stairs, and into a large room. A single halo of light from a bare bulb hung over a group of people seated in a circle. There were boxes, stacks of chairs and large odd-shaped items covered in white sheets behind them. A photocopier sat in the corner. Matt asked her for ID and she handed over a driver’s license. He copied it, said he needed it for his files, then handed it back. Amanda’s eyes adjusted to the gloom and she saw that this was a storage area for the store downstairs. She made out the shapes of drum kits, double basses and guitars lining the four walls. Just beyond the group was a table with a coffee maker and plastic cups.
There were six or seven people in the group, most of them making small talk. Ordinary-looking women and men, all dressed in sweaters and overshirts, bulky coats resting on the backs of their chairs.
Only a few seats were left in the circle.
‘Before we go over there, would you like to choose a name?’ said Matt.
‘I’m sorry?’ said Amanda.
He spoke quietly, a passive look on his face. ‘This is a closed group, Amanda. And there are two simple rules. Number one, we don’t use our real names. Number two, we don’t give away details, places or names that might allow other group members to identify you. A lot of people here have been through horrific experiences and in order to be able to share them they want anonymity. We talk about our emotions here. Some people don’t want to share if they think their fellow group members will go home and google them. You know what I mean?’
Amanda nodded. If she had to participate in the group, she hadn’t planned on revealing anything about her past for that very reason. Keeping things anonymous made sense.
