The Dime Box

by Karen Grose

  Everything at home was fermenting; an earthy decay that left an aggressive, acidic aftertaste in her mouth. Her thoughts and opinions went unrecognized. She lived like a ghost. At night, Ian demanded total obedience. She lay in bed, unable to sleep, and heard everything.

  “I’m not asking you… Put the book down.”

  Pictures flashed before her eyes; scenes she tried hard to forget. Ian’s eyes bulging as he strode across the kitchen. Her mother, jaw tense, lowering the book to the table.

  “Give it to me,” she heard him snarl. His face would be rigid and red.

  There was no use arguing because it always led to something worse. She heard him grab it from her hands and throw it in the garbage. Just like Bunny. She knew her mother would be left sitting in the chair immobilized, her face ashen, frozen in fear. She’d felt that fear, too, and she knew it wasn’t enough for him.

  Greta’s heart pounded in her ears as Ian slammed her mother hard up against the wall and punched her close-fisted in the face. Her mother cried out and fell, and Greta knew she’d be holding her hands upward to protect her head from what was yet to come. Fists clenched, her father used her body as a punching bag, inflicting more pain than he felt. Head in the pillow, nauseous from the dull thump of pounded flesh, she willed it to stop. She wanted to go down and help her, but she couldn’t move. Her own bruises, rimmed a yellowish-green, hadn’t faded, and she didn’t want to add to her collection. The clock ticked by in silent minutes. When she thought it was over, her father lifted her mother up and shook her with such force she was sure she heard a snap. Then silence. Then something fell on the floor. She imagined her mother, limp as a rag doll.

  Greta scrambled out of bed and flew down the stairs to the kitchen. Her father stood, his hair a mess, his hands spread on the counter, staring out the window. To his right, her mother had dragged herself across the room, her trail marked by a bloody smear streaked across the floor.

  “Mom,” she said. “Wake up. Please.”

  She bent down and cradled her head in her lap, unsure of what to do. Ian stooped, fists clenched, and looked her in the eye. She dropped her mother’s head and cowered backwards to make herself tiny.

  “Greta,” he whispered, his breath hot on her neck. A shiver ran down her spine. He rubbed his hand gently along the top her arm, and hot urine flowed down her legs, drenching her beige nightgown. “Greta,” he said after he closed the gap between their faces another inch. He gave her a penetrating, unrepentant stare, then he pulled away from her and left the cabin.

  His look had stopped her short. After what felt like an hour, with her legs weak, she crept across the kitchen floor. The back of her mother’s head was covered with thick, congealed blood. She took a tea towel from the sink and pressed it gently to her nose and lips to try to stem the blood. Eyes glazed, her mother groaned softly, her skin translucent. Every movement painful and slow, she sat with her all night, safe beside her in the silence. How she thought they were safe there, she didn’t know.

  The next morning, daylight spilled across the kitchen. Her mother’s face was unrecognizable—deep purple—and she could barely walk; her body stiff and swollen. No amount of make-up could cover the damage. Not this time.

  Greta counted fourteen days her mother was housebound, waiting for the sprains to heal and the bruises to fade.

  From that fall forward, Greta felt helpless; she couldn’t bear to see her mother beaten down. When Ian wasn’t with them, she saw her in a totally different light. She was free to be herself. When he worked late, they watched TV or sang silly songs and played tag through the house. When they baked chocolate chip cookies, her mother never worried about the crumbs in the sheets. She smiled, picked them up, and popped them back in her mouth. Then, when the plate was empty and her mother said she was still hungry, she reached down the bed for her toes. Greta didn’t believe her when she insisted they tasted just as good. Her mother’s sure didn’t when she tried them.

  Great’s fear and hopelessness eventually morphed to anger, and she took that anger with her when she ran. She hated her father. She hated herself for not helping her mother. She hated her mother for being so weak. She hated the adults who weren’t helping her. The adults underestimated children, thinking they didn’t know what was going on, and who lied to them. Why didn’t adults just tell the truth? They told kids to. Why couldn’t it be that simple?

  When Principal Parthi appeared at the door of her classroom six months later, the look on his face told her everything she needed to know. Something was terribly wrong. He was with another man she half-recognized. Was he a visitor? The guidance counselor? She wasn’t sure. He stood beside him in a crisp navy blue suit.

  Principal Parthi looked straight at her. “Can I see you for a sec?” he said.

  She looked left and right. “Me?”

  “Yes,” he said gently. “And bring your backpack and coat.”

  Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she could feel the eyes of her classmates all over her. She had no idea why she was in trouble or how much, but from the pit in her stomach, she assumed it was a lot.

  Her friends whispered as she slunk silently between the rows. The time it took to get to the front of the room was longer than any five-kilometer race she’d ever won. She grabbed her things from the peg at the front of the room and stepped out into the hall.

  “Hi Greta. This is….” Mr. Parthi mumbled.

  She didn’t hear the name. Mr. Parthi closed his eyes, swayed back and forth, and pinched the bridge of his nose. He hadn’t said a word, but what passed between them confirmed she was going to be in need of some ‘guidance’.

  “Your mother had an accident this morning,” he said slowly.

  She blew warm air out through her nose. Though Mr. Parthi’s voice sounded unusually high, it seemed she wasn’t in trouble after all. She wanted to dance on the spot. “Is she okay?” she asked.

  Mr. Parthi coughed and jerked his thumb to the suit on his left. “Mr. Katz here will explain.” Then he took a step back and turned the conversation over.

  She had an ugly feeling about what Mr. Parthi had said; he’d avoided saying anything much at all. What was he hiding? She’d been in situations like this before. Her stomach dropped and she shivered. Why didn’t adults just tell the truth?

  Before Mr. Katz opened his mouth, from the way he knelt down in front of her and looked her straight in the eye, she knew something terrible had happened at home. She covered her ears with her hands and crouched down on the floor in a ball, bracing herself for the impact. When it hit, it hit hard.

  Over and over. And over again.

  SEVENTEEN

  “I ’m sorry,” Detective Perez said.

  Greta sat silent, eyes cast to the floor.

  “For you. Your mother. For the short time you had with her.”

  When she looked up, Detective Perez rocked back on her heels, her hands gripped together so tight her knuckles were white.

  “I should’ve known,” she said. “I had no idea what you’ve been through.”

  “Yeah,” Greta agreed, “you should’ve. And how about you give it a try? Instead of trying to pin my father’s death on me, think for a moment what it’s like to know my father killed my mother.”

  The detective sat back behind her desk. “Go on, please.” Her hand shook as she picked up the pencil.

  Mr. Parthi and Mr. Katz explained her parents were home together that morning and there’d been an accident in the kitchen. Her mother was baking and fell backwards, hitting her head on the edge of a small metal table. Rather than helping her right then and there, her father, distraught, lost his senses. This was common, Mr. Parthi assured her; anyone in the same sort of crisis might find himself or herself in a similar state. Mr. Katz told Greta her father had then jumped into his truck and drove as fast as he could to get help from a neighbor, but they had no idea which neighbor it was when she asked—nor did she because, ten years into her life, she still hadn’t met one. When this neighbor retur
ned with her father to the cabin, it was apparently too late. Her mother had passed away.

  That was the story. That’s what they said. Her mother had passed away.

  Passed.

  The word echoed in her mind. Passed what? Passed where? What were they were trying to tell her? She wasn’t stupid. She knew the truth. Passed meant dead. So why didn’t they say that? Her mother was dead. She’d died. She pictured her bleeding out from a gash on the back of her head in the middle of the kitchen floor. When Greta thought things couldn’t get any worse, they did. Mr. Parthi opened his arms to comfort her.

  “I’m sorry, Greta,” he whispered sadly.

  Sorry? Was all that he had to say?

  Her despair boiled over. She ran down the hallway, smashed the stairwell door open, and tore outside to the back of the school. When Mr. Parthi and Mr. Katz caught up to her, she was on the edge of the track, head in her hands, inconsolable. They sat down beside her. No one moved. No one said a word. Greta cried until she couldn’t cry any more. When she lifted her head, heavy with grief, she focused her eyes straightforward. “There’s more to the story,” she said, resolutely.

  The two men looked at each other. “What do you mean?” Mr. Parthi’s face was creased with concern.

  The secrets she’d held for years bubbled to the surface. She didn’t try to stop them; she needed them to be in the open, for everyone to hear. That way, if anyone wanted them later, the missing pieces of her mother’s life had been told. She didn’t want to take the chance anyone could make something up. Like they all thought they knew what happened. They didn’t. They couldn’t. They hadn’t been there. They didn’t have a clue.

  She let it all spill out.

  “My mom and dad don’t get along.” She knew calling her parents by their first names made adults uncomfortable so she didn’t. “My father was sent home from work and he wasn’t happy about it. His boss forced him to finish his leftover vacation days. He told him it was a use them or lose them situation. This week he’s been restless and cranky. A real asshole. He and my mom had a huge fight last night. I heard it all.”

  Greta stopped and took a deep breath. Mr. Parthi and Mr. Katz waited for her to continue.

  “When I woke up this morning, I could still feel the tension from the fight. I told my mom I’d stay home with her but she told me I should go to school. She’s had years of dealing with my father’s moods; she can usually ride them out pretty well.”

  Mr. Parthi and Mr. Kristensen exchanged glances.

  “So I made my lunch. Mom felt bad because my dad hadn’t been to the ATM and there was nothing to eat in the fridge. I made a butter sandwich and stuck it in my backpack and when I left for school, she was still alive.”

  She started sobbing. Mr. Katz put his arm over her shoulders and walked her inside the school. While she sat in his office, waiting—for what, she didn’t know—she pulled out the sandwich and threw it hard against the wall. She wanted to go home, curl up underneath the covers of her bed, and disappear off the face of the earth.

  Mr. Parthi drove her home early afternoon. Down the laneway, rocks pinged the underside of his car. As he pulled into the barren patch of grass outside and squeezed his car between Ian’s truck and an OPP cruiser, from the front seat, she could see the cabin was dead still. Reluctant to go in, she summoned up her courage, got out of the car, and opened the front door. Mr. Parthi followed along behind her. Past the kitchen. Down the hallway. To the main room where her father and the officer sat talking.

  “Excuse me,” Mr. Parthi said.

  The two men glanced up.

  “Greta,” Ian said.

  When he stood and reached out his arms to hug her, she stepped back. She thought she was going to throw up. A hand squeezed her gently on the shoulder.

  “Why don’t you put your backpack in your room?” Mr. Parthi said.

  She climbed the stairs as he extended his right hand to the officer to introduce himself and, when she returned, they were deep in conversation. Unsure whether they had heard her, she took a deep breath and backtracked to the kitchen. She left the lights off and stepped through the archway. Lost in the shadows, overpowered by the scent of Pinesol, at first she felt nothing.

  Someone had cleaned up the blood. It was a substandard effort at best. There was a pink tinge under the table. When her stomach started to churn, she grabbed the back of the kitchen chair to help settle the dizziness, but her legs buckled, and she landed on her butt on the seat. She waited for the nausea to pass and opened her eyes slowly, adjusting to what was around her. Three strands of her mother’s long auburn hair hung from the side of the metal table, stuck in the congealed blood. She had no idea why at that moment she needed to blow on them, but she did. Gently. She wanted to be sure they were real. They waved ever so slightly.

  She sat stalled. Mr. Parthi and Mr. Katz’s story prickled her mind. It didn’t make sense, and she hated being the one to point it out. Anger cursed through her as she crossed the kitchen. Unable to contain it, she flung open the oven door. A cold chill hit her, the floor tilted, and she grabbed hold of the kitchen counter. There was nothing in there. She ran around the kitchen in a frenzy.

  Not a single crumb on the floor. No dirty bowls. No cookie sheet. No buttered loaf pans. No muffin pans either. No raw, half-baked, or fully baked anything anywhere.

  Her world split apart and she sunk to her knees on the floor.

  News of Emily’s death travelled quickly. The next day, neighbours dropped by the cabin with homemade meals packed in Tupperware and wrapped in words of comfort to help soothe the grief. Their sudden presence with glazed berry tarts and crusted casseroles sickened her. Why did it take her mother’s death to meet the neighbours for the first time in ten years? What did they want? And who wrecked butter tarts by mixing shriveled old grapes up into the syrup? Her mother never would’ve done that. Grateful for the meat and devilled eggs they delivered, she left the desserts untouched.

  Upstairs in her room, she perched on the end of her bed with what was left of Bunny. Annoyed by the persistent banging, she drifted towards the window, forehead pressed against the cold glass. Below, the neighbours whispered to each other before climbing back into their cars; parked haphazardly at the bottom of the laneway. Cheap talk and banter. She overheard it all.

  “Poor man. What happened?”

  “Heard she fell and hit her head right there in the kitchen where we were standing.”

  “They have a daughter?”

  “Tragic, losing your mother at that age. Didn’t see her inside, though. She’s a track star. A runner.”

  “Rings a bell. Wasn’t it her photo in the Examiner last year?”

  “This whole thing is awful. Lucky she has her father.”

  “He’s kind. A pillar of our community.”

  “Horrible for him, too. Widowed at that age.”

  Greta wanted to gag. When she arrived home the afternoon before, she’d overheard what the officer had asked Ian. Why were you home today and not at work? What time was it and where were you when the accident occurred? Did you drive to your neighbours’ house? Walk? Did you run? Is there anything you’d like to tell me about your marriage?

  Twenty-four hours later, the laneway was flooded with people, and not one was asking the same questions.

  ***

  Night fell, and Ian and Greta sat in the kitchen. Ian shoved a plastic container across the table. “Eat.”

  She pushed it back. The thought of eating anything made her sick.

  He shrugged. “Fine.” He pulled the container back. “All the more for me.”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  His fork stopped in mid-air.

  She glared at him. “I don’t give a shit if you eat it all.”

  Ian’s hand shot across the table. He squeezed her wrist hard to show her how it could snap. “Stop sulking,” he said, squeezing harder. “I’m warning you.”

  Her eyes brimmed and tears slid down the sides of her cheeks. She cou
ldn’t look at him.

  “What?” His jaw dropped and he let go of her wrist. “You think this is my fault?”

  She didn’t know what to say. Wasn’t it obvious? Now she’d never have her adoption papers.

  Ian picked his fork back up and stabbed at the lasagna. “Your mother wasn’t exactly easy to live with, you know.”

  She lifted her eyes, incredulous.

  He stuffed a big piece of pasta in his mouth. “You’re a kid.” He waved his fork in the air. “You think you know everything but you only saw one side.”

  “I saw enough,” she said flatly. “I’m not stupid.”

  “Right. You saw your mother throw things?”

  “No.”

  “Punch me?” He paused. “Kick?”

  Her whole head flickered. She felt her skin crack from the inside.

  “Didn’t think so.”

  He stood from the table and slammed his plate in the sink. She flinched, drew in a quick breath, and shrunk down in her seat. In the archway, he stopped and glared over his shoulder. “That woman gave as good as she got.” He turned and walked out of the kitchen.

  The day of Emily’s funeral, the weather was dull and threatened rain. The mile-high apex and brick exterior of the church, usually glowing bright in the sunlight, was dark and grey. The usually bustling library and senior’s centre on either side were Tuesday-morning-in-March quiet. Greta walked through the solid wood entry doors, following the worn red carpet into the nave. It was a trip she’d taken a million times before, but this time everything felt strikingly unfamiliar. On a bench near the front by the altar, she sat and took a deep breath. Her nostrils filled with the smell of furniture polish, old paper, and the dusty brown fabric on the knee stools. When she was younger, she didn’t know why she and her mother prayed for peace. When her mother clasped her hands and kneeled, she did too. When she whispered, she did the same. Greta shivered when she remembered her words.