by Karen Grose
The detective’s eyes darted up. “That was nice of her.”
“I thought so, but not the other kids.”
“Because?”
She grinned. “She let me keep the job the rest of the year.”
The detective nodded. “At that age, it’s hard for kids to understand different kids need different things. I’m sure you saw that at home.”
“Your point being?”
“Growing up I mean, with your—”
“Brothers and sisters? I didn’t have any.”
Later that Fall, Mrs. Harvey gathered the class in front of her rocking chair and waggled a finger at a chart. Greta shuffled forward from her assigned seat to study the images and, when her eyes reached the bottom of the piece of paper, she sprung up from the carpet.
Mrs. Harvey glared. “Sit down.”
Greta stepped over the children and returned to her place. She crossed her legs, put one hand in her lap, raising the other up high, and waited. She wiggled her fingers. She smiled. She waved. Unsure whether Mrs. Harvey could see her, she shook her whole arm so hard in the air she thought it would break. But nothing worked. Careful not to touch the children around her, she rocked herself slowly forward and backwards, and then she grunted.
Mrs. Harvey abated. “Yes?”
She pointed to an image. “I’ll do that.”
Mrs. Harvey sighed, but wrote her name with a marker in perfectly formed letters beside the picture of a tree. She stood, ran her hands down the creases of her skirt, and skipped across the classroom. Brush in hand; she got down to work.
“Greta,” a voice called out heatedly from across the room.
She jumped back from the easel, paint splattering everywhere.
“Stop right there,” the voice said.
She fell to her knees and rubbed her sleeves across the mess. Two brown-laced shoes stopped directly in front of her.
“That’s wonderful,” she heard Mrs. Harvey say.
She cracked open an eye and exhaled. She wasn’t being sent back to the chair.
“Tell me about this,” Mrs. Harvey said after she waved a hand at the painting.
She stood, paint up to her elbows, and beamed. “It’s my family.”
Mrs. Harvey pointed to the smallest figure. “Is that you there in red in the middle?”
Her shoulders sagged. It wasn’t obvious? Who else would it be?
Mrs. Harvey ran her finger along the page to the right. “And who’s this?”
“My mother.”
“What a lovely green shirt.”
She cringed. “It’s a dress.” Ian would have a fit if her mother wore anything that short.
Mrs. Harvey gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Who’s in the blue pants beside her?”
Greta peered at her teacher, hesitant. “Ian.”
Mrs. Harvey’s lips pressed into a thin line and she moved her finger to the left side of the easel. “What about these two?”
Greta stared at the ceiling. She wasn’t totally sure. Did they look like that? “My real parents.”
Mrs. Harvey stopped and rubbed her chin. She focused her eyes to the right and tapped her pencil to the painting. “So you’re in care?”
Greta thought of Ian and then pointed to her mother. “Only she does.”
Mrs. Harvey frowned, hands to her temples. Her eyes shifted back to the left. “Why are these two red inside?”
Greta extended her paintbrush to the image herself. “They’re like me. We have the same blood.”
“Ahh.” Mrs. Harvey nodded slowly, then she bent down, hands on her knees, and looked her straight in the eye. “Got it.”
Greta stayed silent. Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Obviously, a teacher would understand. Maybe Mrs. Harvey could be the one to explain it? She sucked in her breath and rose up onto the balls of her feet.
Mrs. Harvey smiled. “You’re adopted.”
What? She’d never heard that word before.
EIGHT
D etective Perez ran a hand across her face. “You’re adopted?”
“Yeah. It’s not like it’s a secret or anything.”
“Hadn’t your parents told you?”
“My mom did. On the back patio when I was around eight.”
“Why not earlier?”
Greta shrugged. “I dunno. I asked her to tell me the story of when she and my dad first met and it came up that she got me.”
Detective Perez nodded. “That’s very sweet.”
Greta sighed. Clueless. “No. What she said. She said got.”
“I missed it,” she said, her voice low, almost apologetic. “So it was the night you found out you were adopted?”
The detective missed the point again. She wanted to slap her. “No. I knew the word. It was the first time my mom opened up about it.” She stopped. “Did you get that?” She waited for the detective to answer. “Good. Because it was one of the best things she ever told me. It was late, but I’ll never forget it. What she said. My Mom said she chose me.”
That night, the wavering shadows across the back patio were gone, replaced by still black. The only light came down from a fingernail moon, luminous above them. Greta felt warm, like toast with sticky brown cinnamon. She’d sat there and basked in the coziness of her mom’s words.
“That’s me,” she’d repeated quietly.
Greta had peered at her mother through the moonlight and the edges of her lips pulled up into a sleepy smile. She was beautiful. In a flowered cotton wrap dress, legs tucked neatly under, folded close into the seat of the chair, she brushed the fallen strands of hair away from her eyes and tucked them back into the bun that sat loosely on the top of her head. While the story of her parents meeting had finally got better, her eyelids drooped and she drifted, in and out, in and out, with the warm, sticky haze. Her head tilted slowly backwards and hit the edge of the chair.
“So how’d it all happen?” Greta whispered, after she felt herself being lifted gently upwards and walked upstairs to her bedroom.
“It’s late. Another night.”
“No,” she begged.
Her mother dragged her hand through her hair, loosened her bun, and allowed her hair to swing down onto her shoulders. “Okay, skooch over and give me some room.”
Eyes drifting closed, she’d squeezed her skinny frame up flat to the wall and when her mother lay close beside her, the heat of her body seeping over her, she wrapped her arms around her and hung on as tight as she could.
“So, my dear,” her mother had said softly, “about getting you.”
Greta’s eyes cracked open. From the look on her mother’s face through the sliver of moonlight on the pillow, she could tell her memories were resurfacing. Vividly. She burrowed her hands in the sheets and found Bunny.
“We’d been living here less than a month when we got the news,” her mother said.
She’d frowned. News? What news?
“You see, the lady from Parry Sound had explained to us that the timing of these things was never carved in stone, so when the news came—and so quickly—your father was shocked. But as appearances mean everything to him, he downplayed it all and promised to take it in stride.”
Careful not to give herself away, Greta smiled a big smile. It was the first time she’d heard of Ian promising something to her mother—promising anything—but she didn’t understand the reference to timing and appearances.
“You always ask me why you weren’t born from my tummy and I don’t have an answer. I can’t recall what led up to it all and, frankly, it doesn’t actually matter. All that matters is you’re here now.”
Greta wasn’t so sure about that. Sometimes things mattered. Sometimes they didn’t. Like the time her mother lied to Mrs. Harvey. She was sure her real mother never would’ve done that.
“It wasn’t something your father and I talked about. It was something we accepted between us.” Her mother’s face turned bitter. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to block out her feelings. “My gen
es were clearly a sticking point to him, but I put my foot down. Told him he’d best explore options.”
Greta’s mouth hung open. She’d been an option? That didn’t feel right. She glared at her mother. She was smiling, proud of herself, but she had no idea why. Maybe she was a good option? She felt a little better.
“But,” Emily flicked her hand in the air, “as usual…”
Greta’s heart sank. From the tone of her voice, she knew what was coming. He didn’t explore anything. That figured.
“I took charge and arranged your adoption myself.”
Greta’s eyes widened. Of course, it was her mother. The best mother in the world who stepped up and made it all happen. She was the reason Greta was here.
“When we first saw you, it was like being blown back by a tidal wave.” Her mother looked at her with the warmth in her eyes that made Greta feel a bit safer. She grinned. She loved her mother so much sometimes.
“Your father cried. Messy tears, all over. I turned my back so he didn’t see me staring.”
What?
Red-faced, Greta sat up in her chair. “Can you believe it? No crying was the second rule on the list. The one after silence.”
Detective Perez looked at her strangely. “The list?”
“The one on the fridge. Never mind. At the time, I didn’t really believe he cried anyway—it was another lie—but I remember thinking that, if he had, I’d hate even him more. It was so unfair, all of it. I thought about all sorts of consequences for him, like being forced to drink poison or being hit by the truck like my cat, maybe even pulling his toenails out one by one. I was so mad. I wanted him dead. I thought about…”
Detective Perez stared at her, stone-faced.
“Now what?” she said.
“Then your thoughts became true, didn’t they?”
The question dangled mid-air between them. She wanted him dead but she hadn’t thought about killing him. Not that day. She scoffed. “It’s completely different. I was a kid. Didn’t you have an imagination like that?” The expression on the detective’s face wasn’t one she’d seen before, so when she gestured for her to continue, she shrugged. Guess not. “Anyway, then my mom told me what happened when I got to the cabin.”
“When the lady handed you over,” her mother had said, “you were wrapped in a tiny green blanket, soft as butter. You had this head full of incredible thick, black hair. And these amazing crystal-like blue eyes. Who knew babies were born with blue eyes? I remember looking at your long, slender fingers and knowing you’d be tall.”
Her mother had been right. She was taller than all the other kids at school.
“That made your dad happy. He’d been clear what he’d been stuck with the past three years was too short. A little too plump. Definitely too chatty. Could you turn down the volume? A little bit more. No, right off. Keep it there now.”
That part of her story had made no sense. But whatever.
“Your father called you Gretchen after a great aunt on his mother’s side.”
She’d wondered what her real father would’ve named her. She waited for her mother to go on, but she stopped. Had she fallen asleep? The muscles on the side of her cheeks moved. She was thinking. Maybe about the name Gretchen. When the bed shifted, she closed her eyes and waited.
“When you got older, we shortened your name up. Gretchen became Greta. Like a nickname.”
She was aware of that; like honey and sweetheart and dear. Her mother called her those names all the time.
Then her sheets straightened and the wood creaked and her mother’s feet faded across the floorboards.
Detective Perez smiled. “Sounds like you and your mom had a good heart to heart that night.”
Greta nodded.
“And what about your father? Did he ever talk to you about your adoption?”
She smirked. “You’re joking, right?”
“Why would you say that?”
“I tried once and I paid for it.”
“So you never brought it up again?”
She stood and jabbed a finger in her face. “He’s nothing to me.”
The detective didn’t bat an eye. “Sit down, please. Let’s talk about it.”
She made a rude noise. “The bastard didn’t care I existed.”
NINE
G reta stood at the edge of the main room, a white envelope in her hand. She passed it to her parents.
“Can I go?” She stood and waited; hopeful.
“Sure,” Ian said after he read it.
She took the invitation back. “Can we leave now?”
He leaned back on the chair, his ankles crossed and hands behind his head. “The party’s Thursday.”
“You’ll take me?” she asked.
“No.” He reached for his beer can and drained it.
Her face fell. “Then how do I get there?”
He swiped his hand across his mouth, belched and stood. “You’re in Grade Two, dipshit. Figure it out.”
When Ian left the room, Greta turned to her mother.
“Don’t look at me,” she said, palms up. “I don’t have a car.”
She groaned. “You don’t even have papers.”
Her mother batted a hand in the air. “Details, Greta, details.”
She tugged at the bottom of her shirt. Those weren’t details; they were rules. She’d seen Ian pass papers through the front window when he was stopped for driving too fast. Wait… Was her mother suggesting she’d drive without them? Ian would never allow it.
“Then I’ll walk,” she said.
“To Clear Lake?” Her mother’s eyes widened. “It’s twenty kilometers.”
Greta sat down beside her. “So? That’s only forty there and back.”
Her mother groaned. She took the invitation from her hand and left the room. When she returned, she reached across the couch and batted her on the shoulder. “Latoya’s mom said you can take the bus home with her.”
“Tomorrow?”
Her mother shook her head. “Thursday.”
Greta paused. “She’s coming to the party, too?”
Emily sighed. “It’s at her house.”
Greta hugged her mother and ran upstairs to her room. She couldn’t wait to share the news with Bunny; only one question he had made her head spin. He asked it softly first, then over and over, until he became so loud she shoved him under her pillow. Why had she never had a birthday party?
Four days later, when the bus dropped them off at the bottom of the driveway of a blue and gray shuttered house, Greta’s jaw dropped. The front yard was fenced, the flowerbeds full, and streams of balloons floated at each side of the porch. A stone pathway led to the front door. As soon as they stepped inside, a wave of warm air laden with cinnamon flicked at her nose. Her mouth watered.
Down the hall, Latoya threw her backpack on a chair, her lunchbox on top, and sat down at the island in the kitchen. She pointed to her left. “Mom, this is Greta.”
A woman with tight hair and deep brown eyes looked over her shoulder and gave her a smile. Greta waved and climbed onto a tall chair beside Latoya as her mother shut the fridge and placed a white casserole dish on the counter. Her tummy rumbled. Hotdogs? Kraft dinner? Soup? Shepherd’s pie? At least she wouldn’t be eating cereal again for supper.
“Right, girls, I need you out of my kitchen,” Latoya’s mother said as she leaned into a cupboard and rummaged through a sea of bottles. “I’m fixing roti and oxtail.”
Latoya took Greta by the hand, and she trailed her through the house, flip-flops slapping on the tiled floor. It reminded her of the TV show Ian didn’t know she watched after school. The walls were white. The furniture was white. Everything looked new. It sparkled. Like the rest of the house, Latoya’s room was filled with toys. Heat rose in her cheeks when she thought of hers. Not much more than a closet; and the paint was cracked, leaving winding patterns to chase through sleepless nights in her mind. And the single mattress tucked into the wall was lumpy, with coils tha
t dug into her back, leaving marks; and though the summers were hot and the threadbare sheet was all she needed, winter was worse and she was constantly cold.
When Latoya’s mother called them downstairs, the first thing Greta saw was a kitchen full of people. Some were standing, others sitting, but all were talking and laughing. She squeezed between the adults, looking up at them as if their appearance might answer her question.
“The kids are out there,” she heard someone say.
With a hand shading her eyes, she stood in the back doorway. On the grass, girls on a blanket sat laughing in front of a table. When she saw what was on top, her stomach dropped.
“I gotta pee,” she told Latoya through her squint.
Back upstairs in her bedroom, she searched through her desk and found what she was looking for. She picked up a marker and wrote her name on a piece of paper. She maneuvered her way back through the adults in the kitchen and, when finally outside, took the biggest present she could find and pressed the card onto it.
Unfamiliar with party games, all Greta could do was her best. At dinner, she piled her plate so high that, by the end of the meal, her stomach ached. When it came time to open the presents, she positioned herself on the blanket next to Latoya. The sun cooked her head as her best friend opened her gift. Latoya’s mother and her grandmother exchanged a glance as Latoya hugged her. The bright red scooter was a hit.
By mid-evening, with the guests gone, Greta settled with Latoya in the living room. Her father, in corduroys and slippers, read a book while her mother flipped through a magazine. Her brothers, both older, knelt side by side at the coffee table and put the pieces of a skyline together in a puzzle.
“Bath time,” her father announced fifteen minute later as he dropped his book in his lap.
Latoya groaned and, while she did what she was told, Greta watched out the front window. She couldn’t see a single set of headlights on the street.