Catch Me

by Lisa Gardner

  Four thirty A.M. Pitch-black outside. Brutally cold. Definitely night, not day. All over the city, sane, well-adjusted people were snug in their beds, sound asleep.

  I stood alone in the middle of a twenty-four-hour gym in Cambridge and pounded the crap out of the heavy bag. I’d been at it a bit. Long enough that my long brown hair was plastered to my head, I’d soaked through my quick-dry gym clothes, and my arms and legs were glazed in sweat. When I landed a particularly forceful blow, perspiration sprayed from my arms onto the blue mat.

  I’m not a pretty girl—my figure is too gaunt, my face too harsh these days. But I’m strong, and in the wall of mirrors across from me, I took pride in the muscles rippling across my shoulders, the curve of my biceps, the fierce look on my face. If there were men in the gym right now, working their way through their own regimens, they’d feel a need to comment. Make light of my sweaty form, raise a brow at my go-for-broke style, ask me what his name was and what he did to make me so angry.

  Even better reason for me to arrive at four in the morning, running from uneasy dreams and a screwed-up internal clock that wasn’t used to sleeping at night anyway.

  Alone, I could hit as hard as I wanted to for as long as I wanted.

  Alone, I didn’t have to apologize for being me.

  Girls get a raw deal, I think. When boys brawl, tumble, tackle, it’s all boys will be boys. A little girl lashes out, and immediately it’s “Hands are for holding, hands are for hugging.”

  Boys are encouraged to grow strong, to inspect their scrawny arms and thin chests for the first sign of muscular bulk. Girls, by the time they’re eight, are already overanalyzing their waistlines, worrying about the dreaded muffin top. We have no concept of gaining muscle, just an enduring aversion to gaining fat.

  Girls are complimented on beauty, flexibility, and grace. But what about the upper body strength it takes to scramble up a tree, or the core muscles involved in swinging across the monkey bars? Young girls perform natural feats of strength on parks and playgrounds all across the country. Parents rarely comment, however, and eventually girls spend more and more time trying to look pretty, which does earn them praise.

  Until recently, I wasn’t any different.

  I had to learn my aggression the hard way. Through practice and repetition and painful reinforcement. By experiencing the cracking neck pain that follows an uppercut to the chin, or the immediate eye-welling sensation of taking a fist to the nose. Pain, I discovered, was fleeting. While the satisfaction of standing my ground, then retaliating fiercely, lasted all afternoon.

  I had to learn to go deep inside myself, to a tiny place that had managed to survive all those years with my mother, a place where I could finally stop apologizing and start fighting back.

  Around the fourth month of boxing, I happened to catch my reflection in the mirror. I noticed lines in my shoulders, curves on my back. Muscles. From fifty push-ups every morning and every night. From jump roping and heavy bag intervals and speed bag drills. From tripling my daily intake of protein, because for all of my philosophizing, boys are different than girls. They start with more muscle mass, add to it more efficiently, and retain it more effortlessly. Meaning if I wanted to bulk up, I had to eat, eat, eat. Egg whites and chicken sausage, six ounces of boneless chicken breast, six ounces of fish, protein shakes supplemented with peanut butter, plain Greek yogurt supplemented with protein powder.

  Eventually my boxing coach moved me on to “tire work.” Big heavy tractor tires. I sledgehammered them, flipped them, jumped on top of them. By the six-month mark, I’d both leaned down and filled out. People stared at my arms when I went out in public. Teenage boys took notice of the way I moved, granted me more space on a crowded subway. Men looked me in the eye with a bit more respect.

  And I liked it. Physical pain is nothing, I’ve realized. It’s letting go of your fear, finding your rage, and feeling strong that make the difference.

  Unless it’s 2 A.M., and you’re dreaming of a baby who couldn’t have existed, or your homicidal mother who certainly did, or Stan Miller and the iron spikes protruding from his bloody chest.

  Did killing someone make me a badass? Or did it take more courage to continue pounding the heavy bag while my own hollowed-out face mocked me in the far mirror?

  I worked the bag for another thirty minutes. Next, I hit the weight machines. Then the StairMaster, followed by jump roping. This was it, my final workout before my once-in-a-lifetime main event. The next thirty-eight hours would be spent on rest and recovery. Like a professional athlete, I would take the final two days before the marathon off. Gotta be fresh for 8 P.M. Saturday. Gotta be ready.

  Six A.M., people started arriving, beginning their own daily rituals. I left them behind, staggering into the locker room, where I headed straight into a hot, steamy shower.

  I stood there a long time, soaking exhausted muscles.

  And I wondered, if I was so strong, if I’d made so much progress in the past year, why was I still so terrified of a baby girl named Abigail?

  * * *

  IWALKED HOME FROM THE GYM. Watched my breath puff into the single-digit air. Watched the sun crawl its way over the gloomy gray horizon. I strode past yawning college students and hunch-shouldered morning commuters, all of them heading into the brick sprawl of Harvard Square as I worked my way out.

  I kept my hands jammed deep in the pockets of my coat for warmth, while my ears were wrapped in a plain brown scarf. The cold didn’t bother me. It felt refreshing after my time in the gym. I moseyed along, my body finally wrung out and ready to collapse on my bed.

  Times like this, I could almost admire the world around me. I could almost feel the tang of a snowflake on the tip of my nose. Appreciate the way the dawn painted the horizon with streaks of pink and orange and made the densely packed buildings glow.

  I didn’t want to die.

  It came to me, walking fifteen minutes toward my lonely room.

  I had regrets. I wasn’t a great person. I’d engineered another man’s death. I’d done something terrible to my own mother. And I’d lost both of my best friends.

  Put it in those terms, and why I even cared about what was going to happen at roughly 8 P.M. tomorrow was a mystery. But I wasn’t ready to give up. Maybe my life was one giant fuckup. But I felt…I didn’t know. As if I was on the edge of discovery. Finally realizing the power of my own arms and legs. Finally, twenty-eight years later, learning how to be me.

  I wanted more mornings like this one. More rounds with a heavy bag, more crisp winter days. I wanted to walk the dog that was not my dog, smooth my hands over her sweet face. I wanted to run and laugh and, someday, what the hell, fall in love. Have a couple of kids. Raise them in the mountains where everyone would know their business, but also look them in the eye and smile.

  I thought of Officer Mackereth. His invitation to brunch. The fact that I’d worked my final shift tonight and probably wouldn’t see him again.

  Thirty-seven hours to live.

  What was I waiting for? I was who I was. I’d done what I had done. And in a day and a half, what would happen would happen.

  No more training. No more planning. No more preparing.

  Living. That’s the only thing I had left to do. All thirty-seven hours of it.

  I started to think about it. Really, truly consider it.

  Then I turned the corner toward my house, and discovered my aunt Nancy standing there.

  I HAVE KNOWN MY AUNT for nearly twenty years. She is a practical woman—gets up early, goes to bed late, works hard in between. Life has problems, but none that can’t be quickly identified and properly tackled. Elbow grease resolves most things. If not, perhaps a plate of freshly baked brownies will do the trick.

  In our years together, we’ve cried a little, hugged on occasion, but laughed most of all. My aunt believes in laughter; you need it to run a business, especially in the hospitality trade.

  I valued that about my aunt. What you see is what you get, whic
h made her one of those people you immediately liked when you walked into a room.

  So it was doubly strange to stand awkwardly in front of her now, positioned on the covered front porch of a Cambridge triple-decker I’d never expected her to visit. We stood four feet apart, my hands still jammed in my coat pockets, my face more shuttered than I would’ve liked.

  “Charlene,” she said at last, breaking the silence first.

  “How did…? When did…?”

  “It’s time, Charlene. Come home.”

  I stared at her a moment longer, trying to process. My post-workout glow vanished. In its place, I felt uneasy.

  “Why don’t you come inside,” I said at last, reaching into my pocket and fumbling with the house key.

  She nodded briskly. I realized for the first time that she wore her long winter coat but no hat or gloves. Her normally pale cheeks had turned pink with the cold, and her slight frame trembled beneath her coat.

  I felt bad, hugging her belatedly and feeling her gratefully return the gesture. It should’ve broken the ice, returned us to normalcy, but instead I felt more confused. Of course my aunt knew where I lived. She was the only person with whom I’d kept in contact. I’d even planned on calling her today to make arrangements for Tulip.

  But to see her here. Now. So suddenly. The day before the twenty-first. It spooked me, and I found that as I ushered her into my landlady’s house, I kept her slightly in front of me, in my line of sight.

  My landlady was an early riser. She looked up from the kitchen table as we entered. She still wore her pink-and-purple striped day robe, but being a woman of a certain age, she could carry it off. She registered my aunt’s presence, my first ever guest, and performed a little double take.

  I did the honors: “Ummm, Fran, this is my aunt Nancy. Aunt Nancy, this is my landlady, Frances Beals.”

  My aunt crossed to shake hands politely, and up close, even Fran could see her shiver.

  “Have you been outside in this weather? Goodness, you look chilled to the bone! Let me get you a cup of coffee. How do you take it?”

  “Black, thank you. Lovely home.”

  “Hundred and fifty-three years old,” Fran volunteered, “but I like to think the old gal doesn’t look a day over a hundred.”

  “I know how she feels,” my aunt responded.

  Frances laughed as she bustled about the kitchen, fetching coffee. I took my aunt’s coat, pulled out a chair for her, offered breakfast.

  Aunt Nancy shook her head, but in such a way that I didn’t believe her. I hung up both of our coats, then returned to the kitchen, inspecting the shelf in the pantry that was marked with my name, before finally settling on some whole grain bread for toast.

  Behind me, Frances resumed talking with my aunt, about the house, Boston, New Hampshire, landlady versus innkeeper. I welcomed their distraction, so that my aunt couldn’t see how badly my hands were shaking, and Fran wouldn’t notice that all of a sudden I couldn’t remember how to work the toaster.

  My aunt and I had last spoken by phone two weeks ago. She hadn’t mentioned coming. I hadn’t mentioned returning. We had a drill. It involved never speaking of the twenty-first. That was the foundation of our relationship after all—love each other, support each other, and never mention unpleasant truths.

  My early childhood had been “unfortunate.” My mother had been “misguided.” What happened to Randi, then Jackie, “tragic.”

  You gotta love New Englanders. We can take anything we don’t want to face, whitewash it resiliently into a faint echo of itself, then simply lock it away.

  I finally managed to get out two slices of bread and slide them into the toaster. While they browned, I found the carton of egg whites and set to scrambling. Working on the stove kept my back to my aunt and my landlady. They seemed content to chat, but from time to time, I could feel my aunt’s gaze upon me, assessing.

  When the toast popped up, I split the pieces between two plates, topped them both with scrambled egg whites, and carried my concoction to the table.

  My aunt looked up from talking with Frances, and her voice immediately trailed off. She stared at my exposed throat, and so did Frances. Belatedly I fingered the bruises from yesterday’s session with J.T.

  “Good Lord,” my aunt whispered.

  “Sparring,” I said defensively.

  “Your neck…your hands.”

  Several of my knuckles were bright purple, my left hand abraded, my wrist slightly swollen. I set my aunt’s plate down, tucked my hand behind my back. “Hey, you should see the other guy.”

  My aunt and landlady continued to regard me with equal levels of horror.

  “It’s okay,” I said at last, voice firmer. “I’ve taken up boxing, that’s all. And I like it. Now, eat.”

  I pulled out a chair, sat down next to my aunt, picked up my toast. After another moment, my aunt nodded, maybe to me, maybe to herself, then regarded her own breakfast. She eyed the egg white–topped bread curiously, then gamely took a bite.

  “Very nice,” she declared after swallowing. “Never been a huge fan of egg whites, but with the toast, it works.”

  “She’s a healthy eater, that one,” Fran said.

  I looked at my landlady in surprise. I hadn’t realized she’d noticed what I ate, one way or another.

  “Hard worker,” Fran continued, apparently taking it upon herself to vouch for my character to my own aunt. “Tends her night job, comes home to sleep, then is always ready to report to work the next evening. No nonsense, this one.”

  “Charlene’s got a good head on her shoulders,” my aunt agreed. “She was always a huge help to me in the B&B. This past year, I’ve missed her.”

  I ate another bite of toast, starting to feel like an outsider in my own life.

  “Lease is almost up,” Fran commented. She faced me, instead of my aunt. “You coming or going?”

  “Sunday,” I said.

  “You’ll give me the answer?”

  “Sure.”

  My aunt, who understood the relevance of Saturday, frowned at me.

  “Gonna include the dog that’s not your dog?” my landlady continued. “You know, the one that’s supposed to be outside but is in your room instead?”

  I flushed. My aunt arched a brow.

  “Yeah…um…Gonna talk to my aunt about that. See about finding a home for Tulip.”

  “Hmmm,” my landlady said. “By Sunday?”

  “Yeah, by Sunday.”

  “Dog pees, dog chews, it’s out of your pocket.”

  “Agreed.”

  “I like her,” my aunt said, referring to Frances.

  I finally smiled. “Figured you would.”

  BY THE TIME I led my aunt down the hall to my little room, I felt nervous again. Like a teenager, anxious to impress her parent with her first dorm room. Look at me, look at the life I created all on my own. Clean sheets, made bed, hung-up clothes, the whole works.

  Tulip met us at the door. Judging by the look on her face, she hadn’t appreciated being shut up for the morning adventures. Maybe you can take the dog off the street but not the street out of the dog. I thought I knew how she felt.

  She refused to greet me, but worked her charm on my aunt instead. My aunt had the typical questions. What was Tulip’s name, breed, what a sweet face, what a nice disposition.

  While she fawned over the dog that I hoped would become her dog, I went through the requisite hostess motions—found my aunt a chair, refreshed her coffee, then closed the door behind us for privacy. We sat, me on the edge of the bed, her in the lone wooden chair, and Tulip on the floor in between. The conversation almost immediately sputtered out.

  “Sorry you had to drive down,” I said at last, not really looking at her, but at the floor beside her chair.

  I was thinking of Detective Warren’s assessment of Randi and Jackie’s attacker. It would be up close and personal. Someone I wouldn’t immediately fear. Someone I would welcome with open arms.

  I could
n’t really be afraid of my aunt.

  Could I?

  “Have the police learned anything more?” my aunt asked.

  “About Randi and Jackie’s murders?” I shook my head. “No. But I’m working with a couple of Boston detectives now. They have some fresh ideas.”

  “You still think you’ll be next,” my aunt said, a statement not a question.

  I nodded.

  “You’ve lost weight, Charlene. You look different. Harder.”

  “Probably.”

  “It’s not good for you, Charlene. The way you’re living right now. It’s not good for you.”

  I surprised myself. I looked up, stared my aunt in the eye, and asked, “What happened to my mother?”

  My aunt’s pale blue eyes widened. I don’t think I could’ve shocked her more if I’d blurted out that I was a man trapped in a woman’s body. But she caught herself. Fussed with her hair for a second, fingering the fringe around her neck, tucking a short Brillo curl behind her ear.

  Her hands were trembling. If I looked harder than she remembered, then she looked older than I remembered. Like the winter had been long and taken some of the fight out of her.

  Or maybe she’d spent the past year performing her own countdown to the twenty-first. Which was more stressful, fearing for yourself or for someone you loved?

  “What do you think happened to your mother?” she said at last.

  “She’s dead,” I said flatly. “And it’s my fault. I think…I did something…resisted, or maybe finally got angry, lost control. I hurt her, though. Badly, and that’s why I don’t remember. I don’t want to face what I did.”

  “She’s not dead, Charlene. Least, not last I knew.”

  “What?”

  “Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant,” my aunt stated, and her tone was different now, testing.

  “I don’t understand.”