by Karen Grose
On her bed, with the sheet wrapped around her, Greta held her breath, biting back the urge to scream. His footsteps receded and his bedroom door closed.
“When I woke up in the morning the cabin was empty,” Greta said.
“After you accused him of murder, he ignored you?”
“He never said anything. Didn’t acknowledge it.”
Detective Perez grazed her teeth over her lower lip. “I find that odd.”
“Why? It was the same thing he did to my mom. I heard them fight the night before he killed her. It was ugly. But he acted like none of it ever happened.”
The detective glanced up but she didn’t respond. She made a note and waited for Greta to continue.
***
Spring turned to summer. Strange women came to the cabin at night as her father strutted like a bull out in pasture, milking his newly single status for all it was worth. Nobody noticed her or even cared. An invisible guest in her own house, occasionally the women waved a perfunctory hello as they stood outside on the front porch, drinking liquor from plastic cups, smoking menthol cigarettes burned down to the filter. One summer night, through a symphony of crickets, she caught part of a conversation.
“How old is she, honey?” a sultry voice purred.
“Just turned eleven,” her father said.
She perked up. So, he did know it was her birthday last month? Why hadn’t he said anything? Why would she expect he would? He didn’t so much as acknowledge her existence.
“What are you going to do?” the voice asked.
What? Do about what?
“How does she spend her time?”
He sighed. “Runs up and down the laneway in her flips flops.”
Through the wall, from the tone of his voice, Greta knew her father’s look. He was smirking, making fun of her. If he cared about anyone but himself, he might have put two and two together. She’d grown out of her running shoes months ago.
“Doesn’t it hurt her feet? It’s so dangerous; full of ruts and gullies. It nearly took the bottom of my car out.”
She read right through that, too. He won’t clean it up, sweetheart. He won’t do a damn thing for you.
“Yeah, I’m worried about her. I don’t know what to do. She’s obviously in pain, you know, after her mother’s death. It’s so hard.”
She clenched her fists. Hard? Hard for who?
“She’s all I have left now. I’ll do anything for her. I love her so much.”
Her eyes widened, repulsed.
“Oh, honey, I’m sure she loves you, too,” the smoky voice soothed.
“All I can do is stay close. Let her talk when she needs to.” Her father’s voice cracked. Then silence. Then crying? Pathetic. “It’s what any good father would do.”
It was as if the wind had been knocked out of her. The sounds of rustling and tussling made her recoil. Her father’s voice, lower, muttering, the box spring across the hallway squeaked. Then moaning and grunting.
The next day, his room would smell of damp, like the earth. She bit her fist and wrapped the corners of the pillow around her head.
Greta twisted in her seat. “I’m telling you: Ian was evil. Cold. Hard. Like stone. Every day that summer I thought he’d bash my skull in.”
The pencil stopped writing. “That seems a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
“That’s how he killed my mother. Why wouldn’t he do the same thing to me?”
“The horrors a child can conjure up in their mind are always way worse than what actually is.”
Her heart quickened. “He was dangerous, not stupid. Because of my mom, he got sympathy. Free food. Sex. If he killed me, too, he’d get nothing—nothing except questions, anyway. Officer Pappas would’ve come back.”
“How did he seem to you that summer?”
“Except for the one big fight we had, he controlled himself. He didn’t have any more outbursts—none that I can remember, anyway. But he hadn’t changed. He was busy. I mean, all those women…”
Detective Perez dismissed the suggestion bluntly. “Perhaps you were worried he was developing a relationship too soon after your mother died?”
She bristled and made a face. “Couldn’t have cared less.”
“It doesn’t sound like it. I think it was a concern.”
“No one could replace my mom. I knew he’d do the same thing to me as he did to her. He just needed time to figure out how he could get away with it. Why don’t you write that down in your fucking notebook?”
Near the end of the summer, Greta had asked Ian to take her to visit her mother. They hadn’t been back to her gravesite—not once after Sunday service—and she wanted to see how she was. She wanted to talk to her, to let her know she still missed her, to tell her how much she loved her. She wanted to remind her she’d had a birthday and was eleven now. More than ever, she wanted to know more about where she came from; who she was.
When she explained why she wanted to go, Ian put his bottle on the floor, lifted his head off the couch and he laughed.
“Are you nuts?”
She stood her ground and waited to see what he would do.
“If you want to go visit, put your shoes on and start walking.” The sharp sting of his comment shocked her. He picked up his bottle, polished it off, and threw it onto the ground with a thud. Then he turned to face her. “She’s done to me. Pick your mouth up off the floor and get over it.”
In the silence that followed, Greta raged. Of all the moments since her mother’s death, this was the worst. Her mother would never be done to her. But she was done with him. She stormed upstairs and slammed her bedroom door. Crouched at the side of the bed, she felt her way between the mattress and box spring, wrapping her fingers around the handle of the knife she’d hidden earlier that summer. Smooth in her palm, the blade hovering an inch above the underside of her arm, she slid it directly across her wrist. She drew in a sharp breath. Her fingers worked nervously around the blade as she examined her art, she dug in again deeper, carving an angry red line. Raw, sick and afraid, tears splashed down her cheeks and dripped onto the floorboards. She dropped her head back onto the side of her bed and exhaled.
***
“Do you still have these scars?” Detective Perez asked.
“What?”
“The scars. Are they there?”
“I don’t know.” She yanked up the sleeve of her sweatshirt and inspected the underside of her wrist. When she found what she was looking for, she thrust her arm in front of her. She pointed. “There.”
Detective Perez put on her glasses and leaned forward. She reached out her hand, a finger grazing the skin. Then she sat back, eyebrows furrowed, pencil to her notebook. “Alright,” she said, after writing something down. She opened the drawer of her desk and pulled out a leather wallet embossed with her initials. A.P. “Let’s take a break. Go get something to eat while I track down this Officer Pappas.”
TWENTY
T hirty minutes later, Greta sat on the ledge staring out the fifteen-foot tall windows at the buildings around her, with only the buzz of the afternoon rush-hour traffic building up from College Street below. Cars were honking; breaks squealing. The trees shimmering with green. A low pressure throbbed on the sides of her head until she lifted her hands to her temples, rubbed them gently, and turned from the window.
Framed certificates lined a far wall. Decorated Investigator. Leader of the year. Detective Perez’s job was to gather facts and pass judgement, yet the time they’d spent together, stilted and stiff, felt like she’d only been half-listening. Yes, she’d scribbled some notes, but she’d also nibbled a muffin and only occasionally asked a question. Greta was tired of talking about the whole thing. But the questions still gnawed at her. Did Perez believe what she’d said? Could she see the chink in her armour? Anything was possible. She worried about what Detective Perez was thinking, despite all the ways she’d dissected their conversation so far.
When the bells from The Old City Courth
ouse rang out three times, Detective Perez walked into the room. Her eyes narrowed. “I’d like to fill in a few holes from this morning, but before we do, tell me, yes or no, did you go back to school?”
The creeping sense of uneasiness rising in her stomach stopped. The detective may not have understood much about her life, but it was clear she was trying hard to understand her account of what happened so many years before. From all the plaques and awards covering the walls, she assumed this wasn’t her first rodeo. Her office must have held a thousand sad stories.
“Life moves on,” she said as she slipped off the window ledge and took a seat across from the detective.
Detective Perez’s smile was more of a grimace. “I hoped we would’ve, too, by now. I need to close this case. However, if you’re not going to come clean about your father’s death, go ahead, say what you need to.”
The first thing Greta noticed when she was called down to the office on the second day of Grade Six was Principal Parthi’s new glasses: they were the same colour as his bulbous nose. What they didn’t match were the thick, brown hairs that stuck straight down out of it. They weren’t there last year. If they had been, she would’ve noticed.
“Welcome back, Greta.” He led her inside. “It’s good to see you.”
Her stomach felt queasy. “Sure,” she mumbled, not wanting to say more. The last time she’d been in the school office, it was to learn her mother was dead.
“I called you down to let you know I’ve added your name to the list of students Mr. Katz sees on Thursdays. You remember him, right?”
She hadn’t seen that coming. “Really? That’s what you’re leading with?”
He stared at her, mildly confused. “The guidance counselor.”
“Guidance for what?” She’d been alone by herself every day the last five months and she’d done pretty well thank you very much.
“It’s not guidance per se.” He paused. “Think of it more like an opportunity to talk. To share what you’re feeling. To get stuff off your chest. You know?”
No. She had no idea what he meant. She didn’t have a chest yet and she wasn’t feeling anything. She was numb.
“You’ve been through a lot the last few months. It’s a lot to process. A lot to work through. Mr. Katz can help you.”
“Thanks for your concern, Mr. Parthi. I appreciate it. But I’m not interested.” She paused and half-smiled. “If I feel like I need someone, though, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
Principal Parthi looked disappointed. She could tell it wasn’t how he’d envisioned the conversation unfolding. She felt the need to clarify. “I don’t feel comfortable around Mr. Katz.”
Mr. Parthi looked puzzled. “Why’s that?”
She leaned forward and whispered, “He’s kind of weird.”
Mr. Parthi shifted awkwardly in his seat. “How so?” A look of concern spread across his face. He was, after all, the official Guardian of School Safety.
She stopped. She’d learned from her previous trips to the office that Mr. Parthi believed in three distinct stages of law enforcement: the warning; the consequence; the execution. As her mother always told her she had an overactive imagination, she chose her next words carefully.
“Don’t take this the wrong way.” She lifted her eyes to meet his. “Mr. Katz reminds me of a card-carrying member of the Mile High Club.” When Mr. Parthi stared back at her in disbelief, she interpreted the look on his face as an invitation to go on. “Except I think he got his membership using his hands. Not pocket pool or the five-knuckle shuffle.” She paused for effect, giving him a faint hint of a smile. “You know what I mean? Full. Out. Manual. Override.”
Mr. Parthi’s jaw tensed. His cheeks turned fire-engine red and the colour spread, past his glasses, up over his ears, and disappeared into his hairline. He looked like he wanted to say something but couldn’t form the words. He rose from his desk and stormed out of his office. She sat, watching the walls, and waited for him to return. After what seemed like a lifetime, she stood and left.
“Oh, Greta,” the school secretary called, “your appointment with Mr. Katz is set for tomorrow morning.” The secretary let out a deep smoker’s laugh. “See you at 9:30 AM sharp, dear.”
Detective Perez interrupted. “That’s reassuring.”
She frowned. “It is?”
“Your principal.” She glanced at her notebook. “How he got to you in there straight away. Did you benefit from your appointment?”
“Appointments,” she said firmly. “Plural.” She paused. “And no, not at first.”
“That’s a shame. The important thing is you went.”
“Every week. On time. Every Thursday.”
The next morning, Greta sat on a slatted wooden bench, head in her hands, and waited to be called into the office. The school secretary smiled and waved. Mr. Parthi offered a cheery hello. When Mr. Katz arrived dressed casually in a golf shirt and jeans, he shook her hand, led her into a small room with no windows, and welcomed her.
“So, how are we doing?” he asked.
She snorted. We. Like they’d bonded or something. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“Nope,” he said.
“Living the dream, Mr. K., living the dream,” she replied sourly. “How do you think?”
“I don’t know. I’m not you,’ he pointed out. “That’s why I asked.”
She looked at him, confused. Wasn’t he the one who was supposed to be giving her guidance? Telling her how she should be feeling? She blew a huge pink bubble, snapped it loudly, and sucked the whole glob of gum back into her mouth.
“You’ve been through a heck of a lot,” Mr. Katz said.
“That’s an understatement,” she shot back. If looks could’ve killed, Mr. K. would’ve been dead right there on the spot.
“I get it,” he said. “I’m here if you want to talk.”
She crossed her arms in front of her. “No thanks.”
Mr. K. sighed. “Then how can I help you?”
She gritted her teeth. Adults asked the most stupid questions. “You can’t. No one can.”
“That’s okay. It’s a lot to deal with. It’s going to take time.”
“Whatever.”
“The only thing I can tell you is you need to give yourself permission to feel whatever you’re feeling. That might be hurt. Disappointment. Anger. Fear.”
She glared at him. Anger? She wasn’t angry. She was pissed. She started counting in her head. One, two, three. She jumped up and threw her arms in the air. The chair crashed against the back wall. “The whole world can fuck off right now.”
At her next appointment, when Mr. K. prodded, ever so gently, she broke down. “I hurt all over, Mr. K, and I hurt every day.” The weight she was carrying was excruciating, and she didn’t want to feel quite so broken inside all the time.
“Tell me about the pain, Greta. There are all different types. It would be good to know what it is you’re feeling so we can make sense of it.”
“It’s heavy and it’s dark, and it sucks. And it’s not just in my head, you know? It’s actual physical pain. Like when I wake up in the morning, I feel fine for the first few seconds, and then I remember what happened, and…” She broke off, unable to continue.
“That’s normal, Greta.”
“I don’t care if it’s normal. It hurts. I can’t make it go away.”
“Grief’s not easy,” he sighed. “And I don’t know much about yours. All I can tell you is the only way out of pain is through it.”
She looked at him. What the fuck? Words strung together to make him feel smart and her feel stupid weren’t going to help. Did he think saying anything was better than watching her cry? Or was he framing her, ready to launch into a history lesson like her mother used to? She felt both comforted and annoyed by the thought of it.
“What I mean is, if you ignore your pain and push it deep inside you, you’re robbing yourself of healing. You’ve got to acknowledge it. Let it out. Work it through.
”
Her voice trembled. “How am I supposed to do that?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Everyone’s different. Write in a journal? Take up kickboxing?”
Her face flushed. “Aren’t you supposed to have some sort of expertise in guidance?”
“I do, but I’m not you. How do you want to deal with it?”
“I don’t know,” she shot back. “My dad drinks Jack Daniels. Should I give that a try?”
His eyes met hers. “Maybe not.”
“You’re the one with the fancy degrees. The one with the answers. So tell me. Tell me how to do this.”
Mr. K. smiled like he’d thought he’d made a breakthrough or something. “Talk to me. Talk to your teacher. Talk to Mr. Ennis. Think. Write. Draw. Exercise. Do yoga. Whatever works for you.”
“I run.”
“Excellent. Then that’s it. Pour all your pain into running.”
She looked at him. Wow. What a brainiac. That was his big solution? What a fucking tool. She was done with adults. They were useless, the lot of them. She gave him the middle finger and slammed his door behind her.
The phone rang.
Detective Perez held up a finger, picked it up, listened, and looked at her from across the desk. “Give me a sec. It’s the OPP detachment, up in Huntsville.”
After she tucked her notebook under her arm and disappeared into the hall to take the call, Greta cringed. She’d only been able to recall bits and pieces of everything that had happened after that. She’d floated through the fall, frightened and confused, lashing out. She swore at her classmates, yelled at her teachers, got into fistfights in the back hall. When Mr. Ennis bought her new shoes, she told him she wasn’t running unless he increased their deal from a dime to a dollar. At home she scrounged through the food in the cupboards Ian never thought to fill and avoided him.