SHE WAS IN Donna Turley’s bedroom. Donna was playing Like a Virgin for the eight millionth time and was probably dancing like a spastic chicken around the room.
She couldn’t open her eyes for some reason, but for some reason, that was okay. She felt good, warm. Young. Warm and cozy and . . . well . . . sexy, kind of.
But why can’t I move? How come I can’t—
Maddie, she thought. Her body was suddenly wracked by a wave of fear and guilt. I’m drunk and I don’t know where Maddie is.
Not drunk but . . .
‘Hello.’ The voice came from right in front of her. Just a few feet away. She squinted, trapped a shadow or two, but still couldn’t bring the man’s face into focus. He tapped her gently on the forehead, as if knocking on the door to her mind. ‘Question for you,’ he said. ‘You up for a question?’
Amelia stirred, tried to gather her wits, her bearings. Where was she? Why did her shoulders suddenly feel so heavy? Why couldn’t she move? Was she tied up?
Jesus Christ, was she tied up?
‘How does it look from the inside?’ he continued. ‘I mean, from inside the buzz? Can you see me?’
She could. Sort of. But why did he sound so weird? And why was he dressed like that? He wore a white jumpsuit and a black sequined mask.
Was it Halloween?
She remembered, vaguely, the hum of the car, the thrum of the freeway. Slam. Slam. Slam. Then: loud, oily machinery. A pinch in her arm. That’s it. Her memory in toto.
Five more minutes, Mom. It’s soooo warm.
‘Because this is what it looked like to Julia, see?’ the man in the white jumpsuit and black mask said. ‘This is what it looked like that night. From the inside. All fuzzy around the edges, that good/bad feeling in your stomach.’
The bad part of whatever he was talking about reached her, made her feel sick. But only for a few seconds. Then it was gone. Floating again . . .
Amelia decided to take a little nap.
Somewhere, in the distance, Bono sang about how he just can’t live with or without her.