by Ann M. Noser
I’ve got to get away from the crowd. It’s the only way I’ll be able to settle in.
Liam follows my lead.
A half mile in, sweat breaks across my upper back. The crowd thins slightly, but it’s still hard to maneuver to the front. Then we’re at the first mile. A 6:30 split.
Okay. We just need to keep this up. There are aid stations every two miles with water and sports drinks. Mentally, I break down the race by aid stations.
I keep pointing. We pass person after person without over-doing it. There’s still a long way to go.
Mile two. 13:01. We can’t get sloppy. Need to stay on track. Only the people ahead of us matter, not the exact time. But we can’t get slower with each mile, or we’ll lose our focus. I grab a sports drink, swallow, and toss.
We pass more people, picking them off, one by one. Once I can see we’re in the top ten, I settle in to ride it out. All I have to do is keep them in sight. Let them reel me in.
I relax my shoulders into the mountain yoga position then clench and release my hands. Can’t waste energy in the upper body. Use the core. My head sweats under the cap.
Miles three and four. My eyes start to water. The wind tunnel between the tall buildings grabs at my hat. With one swift move, I tighten it. Liam races beside me. So far, he isn’t favoring the leg. If he does, I’ll have to forge ahead alone, but I don’t want to do this by myself. I shove the thought away.
Miles five and six. More sports drink. I wipe my brow, get the salt out of my eyes. We’re in the top pack. Our times are on target.
“Silvia!” Mom screams from the sidelines. “Go, Silvia! And Liam, you too!”
Then she’s gone from view. We press on through mile seven.
A flash of red hair distracts me. I see my father pushing through the crowd and almost trip. Then the stranger bends down to hand a little girl some ice cream. I force my gaze back to the road.
Get a grip. Focus. Your father’s dead. Forget about him.
My right calf spasms. I wince. Why does it hurt? I’ve never had a problem with it before.
Never mind. Ignore it. Doesn’t matter.
We’re pulling up to mile eight. I need more sports drink. The electrolytes will fix my leg; I’m sure of it.
The refreshment table is up ahead. Volunteers hand cups to the few runners left in front of us. A red-haired girl dashes out to hand me a drink. Amelia had two younger sisters. What if this is one of them?
It is. She’s wearing a black scarf of mourning. I veer away, almost tripping over Liam to escape her.
“What are you doing?” he sputters, grabbing two cups from the girl and handing one to me.
As I take the cup, my vision clears. The girl’s not wearing a mourning scarf. She just has a black T-shirt on. I’ve got to relax.
No, I can’t relax. We’re only halfway into the race. Got to focus. Forget about the red hair, for once.
A half mile later, I notice that my leg stopped hurting. Now, pain shoots across my back, instead. I raise and drop my shoulders, stretch my neck side to side, do what I can to alleviate it. Despite the screaming crowds, my own breath echoes the loudest in my ears.
Mile nine is history.
Mile ten at 1:04:50. Another refreshment table. This time I force myself to approach. No more surprises. As I reach down for a glass, the table wavers, transforming to a gurney. Amelia Brown’s body appears, surrounded by glasses of water and sports drinks. I yelp.
It’s not real. I know it’s not real.
I force myself to grab a glass.
Amelia reaches up to grasp my arm.
I scream and flail.
Liam grips my shoulder and steadies me. “What’s wrong? Come on, let’s go.”
We drink and toss. I point, and away we go.
“I see we’re picking up the pace,” gasps Liam.
By mile eleven, we’re in the top five. My feet burn. There’s a crick in my neck. My right Achilles tendon feels tight. Just in time for the last 2.1 miles, all a gradual uphill.
I lean into the incline, my hamstrings on fire. Semimembranosus and semitendinosus muscles twang in unison. We’re almost there but still not in the lead.
At mile twelve, I see them along the sidelines—a red haired mother with two younger girls, all wearing black mourning scarves. I’m not sure if they’re real or my imagination. I tear my eyes away and surge ahead.
Liam grunts from behind me. “Are you crazy? You can’t flat-out sprint the last mile!”
“Just watch me.”
My feet falter, then I regroup. No. Mustn’t think of Dad. Mustn’t think of anyone. Not Franco. Not Linda. Only this race matters.
The wind swoops down and blows off my hat.
I leave it behind.
We’re nearing the end. Only a few blocks left.
I blaze past three other runners, no idea if Liam’s with me or not. I can’t see anything but the road. Can’t hear anything but my breath. Can’t feel anything but the wind.
The flags are in sight. The clock’s overhead. 1:21:08.
I’m almost there. I’ve got this.
“And our winner is…” the announcement comes over the loudspeaker.
Representative Waters-Royce steps forward, a medal in her hands. She’s all I can see. Her sharp suit gathers at her small waist.
Mom’s voice rings in my head: How do famous people manage to look so good pregnant? No bloated faces. It’s not fair.
No woman could look that good right after having a baby. Maybe she had more plastic surgery? Or maybe—
No. Not that.
I stop. Right in the middle of the road.
My mind flashes to the pre-race speech, the red-haired baby, less than a month old.
It can’t be.
What if Representative Waters-Royce stole Amelia Brown’s baby because she couldn’t have one of her own?
I think she did it. In fact, I know she did. I want to pull out her hair, punch her in the nose, and demand to see her stretch marks.
“What are you doing, crazy girl?” grunts Liam, who grabs my arm and drags me across the finish line.
“Our winner is… Liam Harmon!”
epresentative Waters-Royce narrows her eyes. “She’s in shock. Take her to the medical tent, immediately.”
“Liam, will you go with me?” I ask, but he’s already gone, whisked away by Representative Waters-Royce herself. They climb up the stairs to a podium and wave to the crowd.
“Come with me, please.” A race attendant offers his hand. “You need to get out of the way of the other runners.”
I shake my head, stubborn. “But I don’t want to—”
“I’ve got her.” Franco swoops in, puts an arm around my stinky, sweaty back, and hauls me away.
“I’m fine,” I argue. “I don’t want to go to the medical tent.”
He raises his brows. “You don’t look fine.”
There it is again—his sympathy. He feels sorry for me, that’s all.
I pull away from his touch. “I can walk myself. I’m not an invalid.”
“Suit yourself.” Franco points. “There’s the aid tent, right over there.”
I shake my head. “I don’t see why I have to go in there.”
He stops walking and turns to me, his face grave. “Okay, then explain to me why you stopped running less than a hundred feet short of the finish line?”
“Well, I—”
He leans in close to whisper. “Your choices include: exhaustion, dehydration, and disorientation… or an open protest against the most popular Representative in the New Order party. Which is it going to be?”
I pause. “Disorientation sounds nice.”
“I knew you’d see reason.” Franco puts his arm around me again, guiding me into the medical tent. As soon as we step inside, he declares, “We’ve got a fainter.”
Everyone swarms me, pushing me down on the medical bed and touching me everywhere. Franco steps aside to watch my humiliation.
“Ar
e you thirsty?” someone asks.
“Yes.” Of course. I just ran a half-marathon.
“Is your mouth dry? Does your tongue feel swollen?” someone asks from the other side.
I turn but can’t figure out who’s talking. “Yes. And no.”
“Do you feel weak or dizzy?” a third voice pesters me.
“Uh… yes, sort of. I’m kind of tired.” After all that running. Duh.
A freezing cold stethoscope slides up my shirt. I flinch.
“Does your heart feel like it’s pounding?” the med tech asks
I take a deep breath, trying to avoid telling her exactly where she can shove her frigid stethoscope. “Yeah, well, I recently raced a half-marathon, and I really think I should go stretch inside of lying here. I’m going to stiffen up.”
The stethoscope is removed. “She’s hyperthermic, her heart rate’s elevated, and she’s babbling. We need to cool her and perhaps start an IV.”
I try to stand but hands hold me down. “Are you kidding? I don’t need IV fluids. I just need lunch.”
“You called?” Gus, my savior, appears in the tent, one of his fabric food bags in hand. “I’ve got her.”
“Please, step aside,” an assistant puts a hand on Gus’s shoulder. “We’re medical professionals here.”
“Really? I couldn’t tell.” Gus pushes through to sit by my side.
A pale-faced runner staggers into the tent, vomits all over the floor, and collapses.
Gus gestures at the prostrate man. “Looks to me like that fellow over there could use your assistance. Why don’t you help him instead and leave us alone?”
The crowd around me disperses.
“Sandwich?” Gus asks, handing over his lunch bag.
“You’re a total life-safer.” I eat a banana first then the sandwich. At the same time, I stand and stretch my super-tight quads.
“Franco…” Gus growls. “Why did you bring her in here?”
Franco cowers. “I’m sorry. I thought it was best.”
“Why don’t you act out of character and go do something useful—like finding Yoshe and bringing her here?”
Another vomiting runner enters the tent.
Gus cringes. “Scratch that. Bring Yoshe to that bench across the way. We’re out of here.”
Franco disappears as Gus helps me hobble over to the bench. I’m still eating. I can’t get enough food.
I drain his drink canister and nod toward the refreshment table. “I’m still thirsty. Do you mind?”
“Your wish is my command.” Gus strolls over to the stand and returns with two water canisters and two sports drinks.
“Oh, thank you.” In one hand, I hold up the drink. With the other, I lean against a pole to ease my tight IT bands.
Gus peers into the crowd, a hand over his eyes. “I see your mother approaching. Are you okay to walk home?”
I nod. “I better walk now, or else I’ll regret it later.”
Mom races toward me. “Why aren’t you in the med tent? Are you okay? Did you faint? I heard you stopped right before the finish. What happened?”
“Yeah, I got disorientated. You know, no food in my stomach and all that running. I just got confused. Thank goodness Liam was there to help me.”
“Yes. He’s off with Franco, Linda, and the girls now.” Yoshe cocks her head. “But you need rest; I can see that. Let’s go home.”
She slips an arm around me, Gus takes my other side, and we retreat slowly back to the apartment, one step at a time.
ours later, after a long soothing salt bath—Mom doesn’t even raise an eyebrow this time—and an even longer nap, I wander into our tiny living room to discover Gus and Mom having tea.
“Hey, Gus.” I rub my weary eyes. “I’m sorry I’ve been sleeping. I didn’t realize you were still here.”
Gus stands, glancing at his watch. “Well, now, look at the time. I’m afraid I’ve kept you from your day, Yoshe.”
“No need to apologize.” Mom takes his cup and sets it on the kitchen counter. “And thanks so much for your help with Silvia today. It’s good to know her boss is so considerate.”
“Wow.” I place a hand on my heart. “That’s the best thing you’ve ever said about my job.”
Mom sighs. “Silvia, would you please try not to embarrass me in front of our guest?”
Gus chuckles. “Don’t worry, Yoshe. I’m familiar with your daughter’s tactics. I’m quite sure she gives me just as much heck as she gives you.”
Mom groans. “Oh, no. Now, I’m even more embarrassed.” She glares at me behind Gus’s back as he heads for the door.
I trail after him. After that race, I can’t walk as fast as usual. “You don’t have to leave—”
“I’m afraid I do.” He turns back and pats my shoulder. “It appears you’ve got quite an evening ahead of you. You’d better prepare yourself.” He points to Mom’s open bedroom. A mountain of fancy gowns covers her bed.
My eyes widen. Am I seeing things? “What in heck is that?”
“Your new uniform if I’m not mistaken.” Gus waggles his eyebrows. “Now, have fun, and be careful. There’s bound to be powerful people at that ball. Watch what you say and do. And it’s probably best if you don’t drink any so-called ‘adult beverages’ while you’re there. Drinking makes people do stupid things.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t worry. I’m not interested in drinking. In fact, I’m not even interested in this ball anymore. I’d rather just eat and sleep some more.”
“I’m afraid that’s not an option.” Mom crosses her arms as she enters the now-crowded small hallway. “Thanks again, Gus. And you are more than welcome here, anytime.”
Wait, really?
He tips an imaginary hat, then he’s out the door.
My mind buzzes as we enter Mom’s room together. I knew she’d like Gus if she just gave him a chance. The idea that they might even become friends makes me smile like a kid at a carnival.
Inside, I count ten fancy ball gowns, in various colors on her bed. Grimacing, I discard the two red ones without even trying them on.
“Isn’t this amazing?” She runs a hand along the shimmering fabric. “I’ve never seen such dresses. Your father would’ve—”
“I won’t wear the red ones.”
“I expected that.” She hands me an envelope of soft paper. “This came with the gowns. I already opened it.”
I slide out the invite.
Silvia Wood and guest are invited to an evening of celebration at 7 p.m. at the New Order Tower, Penthouse floor. This party is invite only.
Mom smiles, her eyes alight. “I’ve always wanted to go there. The view is supposed to be amazing from the top floor. I mean, you don’t have to take me, or anything. I realize that you might want to bring someone else.”
“Of course you’ll come with me. I don’t want to go alone.” And Franco is not an option, at this point, because all he does is pity me. “I bet one of these frou-frou dresses will fit you, too.”
“Yes.” Her face flushes with excitement. “Three of them do. I already tried them on while you were sleeping.”
I laugh. “Which one will you wear, then?”
“Gus liked this one.” She points at a slender black gown with sequins highlighting a lower neckline.
“He did, did he?” This is new.
“Be nice, Silvia,” Mom warns. “I admit that you’re right—your Gus is a lovely man. And I’m sorry I’ve given you so much grief over your job. Now, I understand why you enjoy working for him. And I promise not to bother you again on the subject.”
“That will be a nice change,” I reply warily.
“I’m serious, Silvia. I don’t suppose you could understand this because you’re not old enough to have any kids of your own, but I felt that your not getting into Plant Production was my fault.”
I pause to look Mom in the face. “Your fault?”
She squeezes my arm. “I know I let you down after your father died…” Tears threaten
to take over her newly-found happiness.
I can’t let this happen. “Don’t worry, Mom. Everything will be fine from now on. I promise.”
Mom wipes her eyes. “That’s quite the grand promise.”
“I mean it.” I smile, hoping she’ll return the expression. “Now, help me try on these dresses.”
I squeeze into every dress, except the evil-colored red ones, then trudge up and down our small hallway, seeking Mom’s approval. One by one, I toss them to the side in a crumpled mound of lush fabric and move on to the next. While Mom waits for me to decide, she gets ready. She’s all set before I even wrestle into the fourth gown.
“Why do you have to tromp around like that?” Mom complains as I slump past her in yet another tight, scratchy dress. “It sounds like you’re going to bust through the floor!”
“I’d be more comfortable in my own clothes.”
“But you never minded the costumes Daniel made for you from the scraps at work.” She turns to her bed. “In fact, this red gown looks remarkably similar to the one—”
“I know. Like the one Dad made. It’s eerie.”
She bites her lip. “Do you want to try it on?”
No. Yes. Maybe. Why does it have to be red?
My hands shake at my sides. Is this some sort of warped test by the New Order? Or am I getting as paranoid as Franco?
I sigh. “Okay.” I take it from her and slip into the silky-smooth fabric.
It fits perfectly, like it was made with me in mind. I stare at myself in the mirror, entranced by my image. If only this was eight years ago when life was still fun.
“You look lovely,” Mom whispers in my ear. “And it doesn’t look like a girl’s dress at all. In fact, I’ve never seen you look so grown up before.”
“That decides it. I’m wearing this one.” I grab a small purse. “Let’s go.”
“Not so fast.” Mom shakes a finger at me. “First, we have to do something about your hair.”
Twenty minutes later, we leave the apartment. A long, black car waits outside the building.
The driver gets out and interrupts us as we approach the walkway. “Silvia Wood?”
I nod. Why is he talking to me?
“Please get in.” He bows and opens the shiny passenger door.