The Dime Box

by Karen Grose

  “Strange dream?” Hand back at her ear, Detective Perez was twisting the earring between her fingers. “They sound more like nightmares to me.”

  She nodded. At the time, she’d found them strange too. At about the age of eight, she’d stood in the cabin, unable to call to mind a thing before she’d gone to school. Minutes, hours, days, months could have elapsed for all she’d known. At that point, she wasn’t even sure she really existed. But there was proof she’d lived in the cabin as a baby. She’d seen herself in the pictures on the walls. In photos on the mantle in the living room. In little framed Polaroids on the dresser by her mother’s side of the bed. That’s my face, she’d said, her face staring back at the camera. She’d found old paintings, too; some painstakingly drawn, others more carefree, stored away in boxes underneath the bed. Rainbows and flowers and floating butterflies, a prison horse in a meadow leaning against a rickety fence—pictures only a young child would paint. Certain she’d lived in the cabin, it was like looking out through a window in a rainstorm. She almost had it, but then the fragments would float away. And while Ian had made it clear he didn’t want her there, she had known it was where she belonged.

  Detective Perez leaned back in her chair, her rough, veined hands pressed together. They were mottled with sunspots, and Greta wondered whether they got that way from gardening or vacations, or even from the years she’d spent patrolling the city streets. “I’m having trouble with this. If these memories aren’t real, you’re wasting my time.”

  Greta looked at the wall. Eleven-thirty had come and gone, and the discussion was going nowhere. To make matters worse, she was hungry.

  “I can’t help you if you won’t help me,” the detective said, red-faced.

  Her pulse quickened. “I’m trying.”

  “You certainly are.”

  She stopped to catch her breath. So much of her early childhood was lost, the memories faded, like pieces of a puzzle she’d never been able to solve. Hand to her head, she brushed her fingers to the tip of the scar, and ran them along the jagged edge under her hairline. What she saw stopped her from breathing at all. She pointed to the notebook, took a shaky breath and the words streamed out.

  The night before school started, Greta watched her parents from her hiding place at the top of the stairs. “You need to reconsider,” her mother said to Ian.

  Ian smacked the TV to try to make the channel clearer, and then picked up the remote and turned up the sound.

  “Please. It’ll be the library all over.”

  He turned it up again.

  “Do you want the same thing?”

  Greta wasn’t sure what would be the same. She loved the library and she wanted to go to school.

  Ian snorted. “They were three. Little kids are stupid. They can’t remember yesterday.”

  Her mother shook her head. “They’re not the ones healing from a concussion.”

  Greta looked her mother up and down. Was she sick? She hadn’t thrown up. If she had, she would’ve heard her, and Ian would’ve made her clean it up right away. Had she missed it? Had she left a mess somewhere he’d stepped in? Was that why she heard her mother crying? Was that what they had been fighting about last night?

  Her mother lifted her knees to her chest and turned to face her father on the couch. “They’ll tease her the second they see her,” she said. “Her hair. Her clothes. Do you want them dancing around chanting Wretchen Gretchen again?”

  Greta ran her hand along her head. Some days her hair got messy, so for school she’d try to keep it neater. She’d flatten it down on the bus in the mornings before she got there.

  Ian reached for his glass. It left a wet circle on the top of the table. “Better than Feta Greta or Peta Greta or whatever the hell they called her.”

  Butterflies fluttered in Greta’s tummy. Those rhyming words were familiar; she’d heard them somewhere before. Was her mother right? She wiped the sweat from her upper lip and wrapped her nightgown around her. Maybe school wasn’t a good place to go after all.

  “We dealt with it then,” he went on. “Told the kids to stop. Told the parents—”

  Her mother waved her hand. “But they didn’t.”

  Ian held his glass in midair. Brown liquid sloshed over the side. “So it’s my fault, is it?”

  “No,” she offered quickly. “I’m not saying that. Just that… Well… They didn’t listen to you.”

  What? Someone didn’t listen to him?

  Cheeks red, her father swallowed the remainder of what was in the glass. “If she had my blood, she’d be tougher.”

  Greta straightened. She stretched her arms in front of her, rotating them to examine the undersides. They were fish-belly white. Whose blood was in there?

  “How’d you do it anyway?” her mother asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Register for school.”

  “Used what we have upstairs.”

  “That piece of paper? Are you serious?”

  She glanced at her parents. What? She had papers?

  “Photocopied it at work.” Ian poured himself another. “Said it’s the birth certificate we got. Life isn’t all peaches and roses, you know.”

  “That’s an ignorant expression,” her mother said. Greta had heard her father use it before and she hated it, too. “And,” she added, “you didn’t get it right.”

  Her stomach dropped. She liked peaches and she liked flowers. Why was the expression wrong?

  “It’s cream,” her mother told him. “Peaches and cream.”

  Everything happened so quickly then. Ian’s fist shot out across the couch and landed squarely on her mother’s jaw. As she fell backwards, he grabbed her wrist, wrenching her towards him. She raised her free hand to protect her face. He shoved her upper body down, pinned the back of her head flat to the couch with one hand, and jammed an elbow in her back.

  “Who’s smart now?” he asked, venom thick in his voice.

  Greta felt her nightgown dampen and her heart leap up into her throat. Ian’s hands twisted her mother’s head around, and he jerked it in the direction of the TV. He leaned in, inches from her ear. “Shut up, stop crying, and watch the fucking show.”

  Greta snuck back to her bedroom. She rolled from one side of the bed to the other, the sheet wrapped around her, clutching Bunny. She didn’t hear another word. Just dead silence.

  SEVEN

  G reta waited for the detective to stop writing.

  “Was this another dream?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “The night before school. What was it like for you to see that?”

  “Thinking about it now makes me sick.”

  The detective smiled and cocked her head. “Do you need a minute? How are you?”

  She tried to smile back. “You know.” But she knew she didn’t know. Nobody knew.

  “Alright. Let’s continue.” Detective Perez’s face dulled as she turned her attention back to the notebook. “How did your parents seem the next day?”

  “Like it never happened. My dad left for work and my mom and I went up the laneway.”

  “To get out of there?”

  “Would I be sitting here if we did?”

  “Point taken. Did your dad often get violent when he was angry?”

  “Yeah, he did. But my mom never left him. She always acted like it didn’t happen. After that fight, she walked me to the school bus.”

  Detective Perez looked up. “Do you think your father gave you that concussion?”

  “I was a little kid. All I know is I fell down the stairs. I mean, I blame him for a lot. But that one… Well, I can’t be sure.”

  Detective Perez paused to tuck her hair behind her ears. “Did you like school, Greta?”

  “You mean Kindergarten? Absolutely.”

  “Come on,” Greta whined. She pulled down hard on her mother’s arm. “You’re walking like a big lazy elephant.” Her mother shot her a sharp look. “I’ll miss the bus.”

  Emily ro
lled her eyes. “Relax. We’re ten minutes early. It’s oodles of time.”

  Greta stopped, held her hands out in front of her and counted. Ten minutes was the same as all her fingers, plus her thumbs. That wasn’t a lot and she was right. When they got to the top of the laneway, the bus was waiting.

  “See?” she said, accusingly. “I nearly got late ’cause of you.”

  Emily sighed. “We’re here now so stop it.” She leaned down to hug her but Greta did her best to wiggle away. “Good luck today. I’ll miss you.” Her mother turned and pointed to the side of the road. “I’ll be standing right there when the bus drops you off.”

  Greta didn’t hear her. By the time her mother turned back around, the bus was pulling away and Greta’s nose was pressed to the pane, staring at the countryside passing by through the window. Thick forests of pine eventually gave way to cleared lots, handmade signs and scattered buildings, gas stations and white faded convenience stores. Then came the houses. Lots of them, all in long, skinny rows, some hidden in thick hedges, some wide out in the open, some with bikes lying outside the doors, and some with flowerpots on the porches.

  When the bus slowed and pulled up in front of her new school, Tall Pines Elementary, the chaos of the first school day didn’t scare her. Her heart pounded as she took it all in. Cool grass flowed to a low brick building with windows, full of paper flowers. Yellow dresses heightened the glow of the morning sun, and backpacks in neon corals and blues floated and bobbed as children ran laughing to greet one another after the long summer break.

  She stepped off the bus as the school bell rang and followed a line of children inside. She stopped, put her backpack beside her on the floor, and bent down to touch it. “Hello,” she said to the face staring up at her.

  “Hi,” it said. “Welcome to Kindergarten.”

  She leaned down until her nose nearly hit the floor and whispered, “Thanks. I’m happy to come but a bit scared, too.”

  The floor gave her a reassuring smile. “Your secret’s safe with me.” Then it glanced at her clothes. “You look pretty today.”

  She plucked at the trim on her dress and flattened the fabric against her skin. It was her favourite.

  The floor continued. “Want to be my friend?”

  Greta beamed at the unexpected opportunity. “Me?”

  The floor nodded.

  “That’d be good.” She gathered up the sides of her ratty dress and sat down beside her. “What do you want to play?”

  The floor shrugged. “You choose.”

  She tapped her finger to her lips and, as she did, looked up at the sound of snickering, straight into the faces of the children gathered around her. When a tall boy in shorts and a T-shirt with pale skin and bright red hair leaned in, she sucked in her cheeks and stumbled backwards. It was like a mop of fire was stuck to the top of his head. Even his eyebrows looked like flames. He looked like a devil.

  “Nice friend,” he said. “Are you a freak?”

  The other kids giggled behind their hands, and a girl standing beside him in a jean skirt and white cowboy boots stepped forward. “Does your new best friend like your pioneer dress?”

  Unsure what to do, Greta inched her way back on her hands and toes, grabbed her backpack, then bolted straight up and marched down the hallway, rushing in the direction the other kids had headed a few minutes before. As she stepped into to the classroom, her mouth dropped. Octagon tables overflowed with baskets of paper, and pencils and crayons. Plastic water tubs and sand boxes were filled to the brim. Boas and jackets and old people clothes hung in a dress up centre tucked into a corner. With hats. So many hats. More than she’d ever seen, even at church on a Sunday. Two large beanbag chairs surrounded by bins stuffed with books sat underneath a large window. She squealed out loud, clapped her hands, and ran across the room. As she rummaged through the books, she heard her name called. Her stomach lurched. A classroom full of eyes stared out at her from beside the teacher’s feet on the carpet. She struggled out of the beanbag chair and walked quickly across the room.

  “Hello, Greta,” the teacher said. “I’m Mrs. Harvey.”

  If Mrs. Harvey was stern, Greta couldn’t see it. Folded into a rocking chair, she was wearing a yellow dress that hugged her large tummy. Her curly hair was tied into a loose brown knot.

  “Please,” she smiled at her, “join our circle.”

  Greta knew it was an expectation, not an invitation, and looked around for a spot among the children, all sitting cross-legged in front of her. As two children squabbled, moving over to make a small space, she twisted in shame, folded her arms on her chest, and then sat.

  Detective Perez held up her hand. “What was your teacher’s name?”

  She repeated it.

  “Spelled as it sounds?”

  “H-A-R-V-E-Y.”

  “And the school?”

  “Tall Pines.” She’d said that, too. What the hell had she been writing?

  “I’ll assume you spent two years in that class.”

  She nodded.

  “How did it go?”

  She paused. “A bit of an adjustment at first, I suppose, but I got the hang of it.”

  The first week of Kindergarten, Mrs. Harvey scolded Greta four days in a row. “Greta,” she said on the first, not unkindly, “please don’t throw sand from the sandbox.”

  She scowled and put the sand down.

  “Greta,” Mrs. Harvey reminded her on the second, “the water in the play table isn’t for drinking.”

  She spat it back out.

  “Greta,” she begged Thursday as she showed the class how to sneeze into their sleeves and make long stringy snot worms from their elbows, “that’s disgusting. And do not wipe your nose on the curtains. We have tissues for that. Get one and use it.”

  She did so, albeit begrudgingly. Why had her mother not prepared her for this?

  By Friday, Mrs. Harvey had all but given up. “Greta, no hitting other children. Where are your social graces?”

  Greta looked at her. “My what?”

  Mrs. Harvey wrung her hands in despair. “You need to apologize to Hitesh.” Greta stood stone-faced in front of her victim. “A heartfelt look-in-their-eyes-and-shake-their-hand-type of apology,” she demanded.

  “Sorry I punched you in the gut.” She stuck out her hand.

  It didn’t stop there. The next week, each time she was reminded lying was forbidden, she couldn’t shake the conviction white lies held less weight.

  Yes, that outfit looks nice, when it didn’t.

  No, the story you’re reading isn’t boring, when it was.

  I didn’t mean to kick her, honestly, I walked into her by accident.

  She survived her first trip to Principal Parthi’s office after swearing ten times over she hadn’t done what she had, but no matter how hard she tried to explain to Mrs. Harvey why white lies were sometimes acceptable, she always lost the argument with one question.

  “Does your father tolerate lying at home?”

  “You mean Ian?”

  “I mean your father, Greta.” Mrs. Harvey frowned with disapproval.

  Greta sighed. She had to explain everything, but most times when she did, Mrs. Harvey still didn’t understand. It was tiresome. “I’m supposed to call him Ian. And no, he doesn’t like lying.”

  Mrs. Harvey looked at her strangely and went back to her desk at the front of the class.

  “Did you like…” Detective Perez eyes flitted across the page.

  Again? She sighed. “Mrs. Harvey.”

  “Thank you.”

  “She was great.”

  “And the kids in the class?”

  She flushed. That she didn’t know every kid had invisible friends back then had caused her considerable grief. She muttered idiots through her teeth.

  As a result of her frequent missteps, Greta spent most of September in the hard wooden time-out chair. When Mrs. Harvey judged her adequately reformed, she was allowed to return to the group. The first week
back, she spread her arms out either side of her, lowered her nose to the table, and slurped.

  “What are you doing?”

  She glanced up, the eyes of her classmates upon her. “Juice.”

  The boy beside her rubbed the top of the table with end of a crayon. “It’s from yesterday.”

  She examined the purple stain. That couldn’t be right. “No, yesterday was apple juice and carrots.” Then she licked it.

  Her classmates jumped up from their seats. “Teacher,” they called out, “Greta’s being gross.”

  Mrs. Harvey surveyed the group but didn’t say a word. Later that morning, she pulled Greta aside. “I need some help.”

  Eyes to the floor, she stared at her sneakers. A warm hand on her back guided her to the far end of the classroom, and she swiped her feet at the toys strew over the carpet. She didn’t want to help. She did enough chores at home. She hadn’t done anything and it wasn’t fair. Beside the sink, Mrs. Harvey knelt down and cupped her ear. Her eyes widened and she leaned in and listened.

  Snack helper? Her tummy rumbled.

  Could she do it? She’d sure try.

  Could she start tomorrow? She nodded, reached up and hugged Mrs. Harvey.

  Every morning, she watched for the signal. When it came, she stopped what she was doing, went to the back of the room, found the opaque container beside the sink and, after washing her hands, pulled it to the edge of the counter. She lifted the corner of the lid and sniffed, then reached inside to taste-test its contents. Apple slices, muffins, veggies and dip, sometimes granola bars, too. After she approved it—which always happened save for once when the broccoli was brown—she laid it out, one piece at a time, in simple, neat rows, and passed the emerald-coloured tray around the classroom. When someone was away with a cold or nits in their hair, it was her job to eat anything left over, and there was always something untouched because lice were hard to get out.