by Strauss, Lee
Not that Katja wished anyone dead. She just didn’t want her fiancé’s ex to show up on the same night they’d agreed to be married. A low groan erupted from her belly. That woman had a way of ruining everything, and Katja hadn’t even said one word to her.
She dragged herself to Micah’s room, and tore her dress off in a huff. She pulled on a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt and returned to the living room window, her eyes searching.
He just needed a few answers. He was in shock. She could understand that. He needed some time to process this twist of fate and sort through his emotions.
But, he’d come back to her, right? He’d remember they were celebrating the beginning of their life together and come back to her.
Where was he?
Finally, when the anguish of not knowing where he was and what he was doing became too great, she tried calling and then texting, but he didn’t respond.
The hollowness in her being was spreading. She wanted to believe in him. She had to give him the benefit of the doubt. Soon he’d be bounding up the stairwell, back to her.
Like it always did in moments of extreme emotion, her guitar called to her. She unclicked the case and gathered it into her arms, caressing it gently. She strummed a melancholy chord, letting the simple beauty of the music soothe her. As the minutes ticked by and then the hours, words started to come.
Don’t go now
I know it’s late and the light is growing dim
But I just like the way
You feel beside me on the front steps, not yet
Sing me one more song,
The one about the girl who finds the whole wide world
She stopped picking and put the pen down. Did she just hear footsteps in the stairwell? She waited. Nothing. The pain in her heart deepened, her sadness consuming her until she couldn’t bear it anymore. The aching, empty hurt gradually morphed into anger.
Where was he? She was going to kill him when he got home. Right after she knocked off his ex. She knew she shouldn’t have let her guard down. She knew she was stupid to believe a boy like Micah could love a girl like her.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
And as quickly as the anger flared, it melted and the sorrow returned. Tears streamed down her face. Her sadness was thick and heavy like an entity of its own.
Don’t go now
I know it’s late and the dark is folding in
But I just like the way
Your fingers close around my hand, so grand
And sing me one more song
The one about the girl who finds the whole wide world
The black sky turned deep purple, then bruised blue. Black birds cawed as the morning dawned. She fiddled with her ring, choking back the tears. Immense pain and anger wrenched her soul. How could he do this to her? How could he so easily leave her for Greta?
Katja’s first instincts about Micah were right. He hadn’t moved on. She’d merely been a replacement for the person he really wanted, the person he thought he’d never find.
She wept hard and long until every bone and muscle hurt as much as her heart, using up all the tissues in the box. She didn’t throw them in the trash, but left the messy pile like a bitter monument for Micah to find when he finally returned. She packed up her guitar and her bag, and tossed her ring into the fruit bowl before leaving.
Katja wished she’d never met Micah Sturm.
Katja’s first impulse was to run to the coffee shop, but it wasn’t open yet. Maybe it was a good thing. Saying goodbye to Renata would be too hard. She couldn’t bear even one more gram of pain.
She kept walking, her mind in a fuzzy daze, and she hadn’t even realized where her legs had taken her until she arrived at the door of the Blue Note. She pulled on the handle, but it didn’t budge. Of course the establishment was closed, too, this early in the morning. She collapsed on the steps and let her head fall into her hands. Her face was wet, and she wiped it with her sleeve.
Suddenly, she was exhausted. Not sleeping a wink overnight and getting your heart stomped on would do that. She rested her head against the door and closed her eyes. Within minutes she was sleeping. Her dreams were a mashup of the day: shopping with Micah, making out on his bed, his proposal. Her subconscious wanted to hold on to those memories, to hold on to Micah. Greta’s face would flash, and she’d cry out and pull back the restaurant scene so she could listen to Micah’s declaration of love once again.
But she couldn’t fight the nightmare that followed: Greta and Micah under the streetlamp, walking away. Greta glancing back and shooting her a wicked look, like a shard of glass stabbing Katja in the chest, stealing her very breath.
Her eyes snapped open.
“Katja?”
Maurice stood over her, a frown filling his round face. Katja blinked. Her mind was so busy torturing her, for a second she didn’t remember why she was sitting on Maurice’s steps.
Then she did. It wasn’t just a bad dream. The whole thing was horribly real. A new lump filled her throat, and she had to work to swallow.
Maurice reached for her hand and helped her to her feet. “What happened, ma Cherie?”
Katja opened her mouth but the words didn’t come. It was too painful to speak the truth of what had happened aloud.
“I’m here to say goodbye,” she finally managed.
“You’re leaving?”Maurice asked, his frown growing deeper. “But why?”
Katja worked to control her features. She must flatten out the pain. She didn’t want to blurt out what a fool she had been to anyone, but especially not to someone she respected. Besides, one word about it and she’d turn into a blubbering mess.
“It’s just time,” she said.
Maurice shifted awkwardly. “Come in for a drink first. I’m talking orange juice, though I have a feeling you really could use something stronger.”
“You’re a prophet. Add a cup of coffee and you’re on.”
Katja sat on a bar stool she’d sat on dozens of times and took in the shadowy pub with fondness. This was where she got her sea legs as an artist, where she tried out her new songs and developed confidence to keep playing. It was where she had introduced Renata to Maurice and watched their affection take root and grow. It was where she and Micah…
No, she wouldn’t think of him. She shook her head, as if that would rid him from her thoughts.
Maurice provided a glass of juice and a cup of coffee. “On the house,” he said, concern still deeply etched on his round face.
She gulped back the juice, her throat parched from weeping. “Thank you. And thanks for everything else, too.”
“Like what?”
“Like letting me play here. For believing in me.”
“That part was easy, ma Cherie. You’re very talented. And beautiful. And smart. As they like to say, you have the whole package.”
She grimaced. A lot of good it had done her. She finished her coffee while watching Maurice clean the bar. He didn’t pry, and she was thankful.
“Please say goodbye to Renata for me,” she said.
“Are you sure you don’t want to tell her yourself?” he asked gently. “She’s very fond of you.”
Katja knew Renata was already at the coffee shop but it was too close to Micah’s flat. She couldn’t risk running into him.
“I know, and I’m very fond of her. It’s just, I have to go right now. I’m so sorry I can’t tell her in person, but I’ll call her. Tell her I’ll call her later, okay?”
“Of course.” Maurice threw a tea towel over his shoulder. “We’ll miss you here.”
Katja forced a smile. “I’ll miss you, too.”
She picked up her guitar and bag, and pushed on the front door.
“Wait!”Maurice called after her. “Where are you going?”
Katja shrugged. “Wherever the next train is headed.”
The parking lot of the train station was filled with bicycles owned by people who rode their bikes to the station in order to catch a train to work
. Katja cut through it, jig sawing her way, struggling with the weight and bulkiness of her baggage.
She entered through the tall, wide doors into the bright, busy building. The ceilings were high, peaking with a glass pyramid-like topper, echoing the sounds of footsteps and chatter in many languages: German, French, Polish, English to name a few. The perimeter was lined with food kiosks and book stores, and on another day, she might’ve taken time to peruse the selection, of both the food and the books. Instead, she went directly to the ticket center and stood in line. When she reached the front, the attendant asked her where she wanted to go.
“Where is the next train headed?”
The clerk checked the schedule. “There’s one leaving in fifteen minutes for Berlin, and one ten minutes later to Frankfurt.”
Frankfurt or Berlin? Frankfurt would be a clean start. She didn’t know anyone there. She also didn’t know her way around. It would be starting over from scratch, and she didn’t know if she had the energy for that. Berlin, the city, was still home. And truth be told, she deeply missed her mother and sister. Suddenly, she needed their comfort.
“Berlin.”
“One way or return.”
“One way.”
She went directly to the platform stated on her ticket and waited. The chairs were all occupied, so she leaned against a cement post. The sadness weighed heavily in her cheeks, making the bones of her face ache, and her eyelids felt heavy and hooded. She just wanted to lie down and sleep, but that would have to wait until she got to Berlin.
Time seemed to drag. Again, she checked the large, white clock that hung in the middle of the platform: ten more minutes.
“Katja! Katja!”
Her eyes popped wide open. Was she seeing things?
Micah stood on the platform on the other side of the tracks.
“Katja!” he shouted again. “Don’t go! Please, wait!”
Katja’s heart thumped against her chest. A train arrived on Micah’s side of the tracks, blocking her view of him. She stood still, feeling paralyzed. The train left, and she searched for Micah but he was gone.
She folded her arms tightly around her chest. Maybe she’d imagined it. She was sleep deprived and emotionally distraught. Her mind was playing evil tricks on her. She glanced up at the clock again: five minutes.
Come on. She was so tired. She just needed to leave this place and start over. No more Dresden. No more Micah Sturm.
“Katja!”
She turned, and he was there. Right in front of her. She wasn’t imagining it.
“Go away,” she said.
Three more minutes.
“Please, Katja, hear me out.”
“You chose her over me. Now go away.”
“I didn’t choose her. I’m choosing you. I want you.”
Katja felt her lip quiver. “You left with her.”
“I had to hear her story. Please understand.”
“You didn’t answer your phone.”
“She took it from me and wouldn’t give it back until she was done talking.”
“You didn’t have to stay with her. It was our engagement night. You spent it with her!”
“I had to know, Katja. I’m so sorry. I was just so stunned to see her after so long. And I had to know why.”
One minute.
“Did you kiss her?”
“What?”
She knew he’d heard her. “Did you kiss her?”
His hesitation was her answer. She turned away and he grabbed her arm. “Just a goodbye kiss. That’s all.”
She narrowed her unforgiving gaze at him. “At least you got that from one of us.”
Thirty seconds.
Her phone rang. She fumbled to remove it from her purse. “Katja Stoltz.” Her frown deepened. “Sibylle, calm down… Oh my God… Okay, stay home. Just lock the door. I’m actually at the train station. I’ll be there soon.”
“What is it?” Micah asked.
She glared at him. “Horst beat up my mother.”
His expression darkened. Did his mind go to the same place hers did? That it was his fault?
The train pulled up, and the doors opened in front of Katja. She picked up her bag with one hand and her guitar with the other, conveniently making it impossible for her to hug Micah, or worse, for him to reach out for her.
“Katja?”
She hardened her heart to spare herself more pain. “Bye, Micah,” she muttered. She boarded the train and never looked back.
Her phone buzzed repeatedly in her pocket, each time like a branding iron in her side. She knew who it was, and she didn’t want to talk to him. How could she talk when she could barely breathe? He’d maimed and injured her soul, tearing it to pieces.
But, maybe it was Sibylle? The thought forced her to check her phone—his phone—and to feel freshly wounded everytime she saw his name. When she refused to answer his calls, he switched to texts.
I shouldn’t have gone with her. I’m sorry. Please, can we talk?
I know you’re mad, and I don’t blame you. I was a jerk. Just talk to me!
Katja, I love you.
She powered it off. If Micah really loved her, he wouldn’t have gone with Greta. He could’ve made plans to meet her the next day, or the next week if all he needed to do was to satisfy his curiosity. At the very least, he should’ve come home before dawn.
The glaring fact was he’d made a choice, and he hadn’t chosen her.
She leaned her tear-stained face against the cool window pane. Her hot breaths fogged up her view of the passing villages, their red tile rooftops a blood-like blur.
The train finally arrived at the main station in Berlin, and Katja hefted her guitar and bag down the narrow aisle, trying hard not to bang into anyone. It was a difficult feat in the full train, and she got more than one dirty look. She jostled her way through the crowds on the platform until she reached the outdoors. The last time she’d viewed this city, she was with Micah and she’d thought her biggest threat was his colleague, Anna. Well, if Anna was still interested in Micah, she sure had her work cut out for her.
The sky was an angry grey with dark storm clouds billowing in from the east. It fit Katja’s mood, but for now she had to push thoughts of Micah out of her head. Sibylle’s frightened voice rang in her ears, and she hurried to catch the next city bus that would take her to her neighborhood. The promise of rain arrived with a fury, pelting Katja at sharp angles as she exited the bus at her stop, and she leaned into it. Her damp hand cramped around the handle of her guitar case, and her bag strap bore a heavy groove on her cramped shoulder. By the time she reached the front door of her building, she was soaked and shivering, and her key almost slipped out of her hand.
Exhaustion and cold zapped her strength, but she rallied herself to make it to the second floor.
She accidentally banged the door of their flat with the end of her guitar, but it sounded like a knock, and she heard her sister’s voice from the other side. “Who is it?”
“It’s me. Katja.”
Sibylle turned the lock and opened the door. Katja dropped her things and embraced the frightened girl. She kissed her head. “I’m home now.”
Katja closed the door behind her and locked it, though she knew it wasn’t enough to keep Horst out. Her mother sat on the sofa, and Katja’s heart sunk when she saw her bruised and swollen face.
“Oh, Mama,” she whimpered. She sat gently beside her and took her hand. “Everything’s going to be okay,” she said. “I’ll take care of things. I promise.”
Katja didn’t know where all these brave words were coming from. Her time away had changed her. She was stronger now. She had to be.
She instructed Sibylle, “Get me the phone book, sweetie.” Katja looked up the number for a locksmith and dialed. A speedy job to change the lock cost extra, but she had the fruit bowl money and a little more that she’d saved over the last couple months. And this was an emergency.
Afterward, she put the kettle on. A cup of str
ong coffee would help to both wake her and warm her. A cursory glance around the place told her that her day’s work had yet to begin. She walked through each room opening the windows to air out the stale smell. The rain had subsided, but the wind still blew cold, and she made another round to again. Then she grabbed a garbage bag from a kitchen drawer and marched into her mother’s room. She tossed all of Horst’s things into it.
“What are you doing?” Gisela asked, aghast.
“I’m kicking him out.”
“You can’t do that. He’ll…”
“He’ll do nothing. I’m calling the police and social services. He’s an abuser and it’s not safe for Sibylle for him to be here. You’re pressing charges.”
Fear flashed across her mother’s face. “I don’t know if I can do that.”
“Then I will.” Katja looked purposefully into Gisela’s tired eyes. “Mama, he attacked me. It’s why I left.”
Her mother’s mouth fell open, but no sound came out.
The kettle whistle blew. “Can you get that, Sibylle?” Katja called out. “It would be great if you could pour it into the bodum carafe.”
The young girl seemed relieved to have something to do.
Katja’s jaw tightened, and she continued her unpleasant task. She hauled Horst’s things into the hall, praying the locksmith would get there before Horst was finished his pub crawl.
She sipped her coffee, but kept moving. She knew if she stopped to rest, her body would revolt and she wouldn’t be able to get started again. She counted on the a surge of adrenaline that had kicked in as she started washing the dishes. Her mother watched her and after a few moments, she picked up a tea-towel and began drying. Sibylle pitched in and collected the garbage strewn around the flat, distributing the items in the proper receptacles.
Before too long, the place looked livable. Respectable.
The next thing Katja did was wash all the linens. She attacked the bathroom like her life depended on it. In the other room, she heard the whirl of the vacuum cleaner, and her lips tugged upward. Her mother was alive in that shell somewhere.