by Karen Grose
On warm nights, Greta would venture outside to the back patio to feel her mother’s spirit, the pale sliver of the moon the only light for miles. The eerie sounds emanating from the deep brush that had frightened her as a child washed away some of her loneliness. The symphony of crickets, the occasional coyote howl, the distant whistle of a train; it all eased a pain deep inside her. On clear nights, the stars twinkled down on the pine and the spruce in the moonlight, and she imagined all the planets out in the universe, wondering which one she could call home. Some nights she gave into the pain and held her mother’s photo to her chest. On other nights, when she felt stronger, she rummaged through her dime box: hair clips; an old elastic, stretched and worn down to a thread; the tarnished gold chain with the little pink bead; an unfinished painting they’d started together; the smallest stone from her mother’s collection at the end of the patio; and Bunny’s tattered ear. She’d pick it up and turn it over in her hands, lacing it between her fingers. She’d hold it to her face. Though the smell of her mother always brought her comfort, she never managed to feel whole. And so, other times, with her mother’s photo beside her, she’d counted the coins in her dime box, hoping there’d be enough money to buy a ticket somewhere—anywhere—far, far away. But she remembered that, in the two years she had it, she’d only saved $56.00—and knew it was enough to go nowhere.
Detective Perez strolled back into the room. “Sorry about that.”
“What’d he say?”
“It wasn’t Officer Pappas. It was his partner. He confirmed they were the attending officers the day your mother died.”
“Of course he was. I already told you.”
“He said they were at the funeral and talked to you at the wake.”
“He did?” Greta hadn’t seen Officer Pappas there.
“They were standing beside you when your father came over to see how you were doing and you stormed out.”
“This guy came, too?” She had no recollection.
“Yes. He asked me how you were. Remember him? He was the one who found you when you took off.”
“No, I didn’t. I sat outside.” That she was certain of. She’d been talking to her mother.
“Not at the funeral. In the woods. You were about six? Your mom was away for the weekend, and he told me you got mad at your father, so Sunday afternoon you ran into the woods.”
“That’s when it happened?”
“You got lost for a few hours.”
“Impossible. My dad would never let my mom do that and it wasn’t the afternoon. I was alone in the woods in the night.”
“That’s not what he said, Greta. He remembers it all pretty clearly. Your mom called the detachment late Sunday afternoon.”
Greta stared at Detective Perez. She felt sick. How long had she actually been out there that weekend? What had her father done to her? To her mother?
“Anyway, nice man. Retired shortly after the funeral and now volunteers a few hours on the phones. Officer Pappas works evenings so I’ll talk to him later.”
Greta glanced at the clock and slumped in her chair. “Never getting out of here.”
Detective Perez glared at her. “Where were we?”
***
While most of the year was a disaster, track went well. It was the only thing she loved—the feeling she felt when she ran. It soothed her pain and it helped her feel whole, and the new shoes Coach Ennis had bought her earlier in the year allowed her feet to breathe. Like the year before, she swept the regionals and was expected to take the big race. On the day of the championships, the sky started spitting, and the runners huddled together under the trees. She’d sat stretching, her chin on her knee, when someone called out her name. When she glanced up, a girl from a rival school stood in front of her, feet planted wide. Greta rose to hers.
“I’m going to kick your ass today,” the girl said.
She looked her up and down. Although she was small and in good shape, she wasn’t a threat. She didn’t have the stride. “I don’t think so, sweetheart.”
The girl nodded, smiling, egging her on. “Get ready to go down, loser.”
She paused. “Who are you?”
“Emily,” she said. “Don’t forget it.”
Her heart twisted at the mention of her mother’s name. Her teammates called her from the starting line, quietly at first, then more desperate. With her blood cold, her stomach churned, and she ran a finger across her cheek, wondering if the wet she felt was sweat or tears. She turned sideways and puked.
Coach Ennis jogged over. “What gives, Giffen? You’re going to miss your race.”
Her feet wouldn’t move. She wiped the sourness from her mouth. Cheers drowned out her words as the starting horn sounded in the distance.
TWENTY-ONE
“M ust have been a rough year,” Detective Perez said.
Greta’s stomach tingled, and she nodded. “The scariest was first thing in the morning. Not night; just before dawn. You know, waking up... There was nowhere to hide.”
“From your grief?”
She stopped fidgeting. “From myself. Everything was still so fresh. So real. It was raw.”
“I guess a mother’s love can swallow you up.”
She swiped a hand at her cheek. “I wanted things to be normal. But they weren’t. I couldn’t move on. I couldn’t move past it—or even move at all. She took my courage with her.”
One Thursday morning, Mr. K. stared at Greta from across the table. “There’s someone here at school that’s worried about you,” he told her.
No desire to be part of the conversation, she sighed heavily. Deep navy-blue bags circled the underside of her eyes. No friends. Marks in the tank. Fingernails filthy. Her grey sweatpants were torn and stained at the knees, and her faded red Badgers T-shirt had fallen apart. She knew what her mother would’ve said, but she didn’t care; they were comfy. So what if she hadn’t washed her hair in a week? Who cared if her black, shiny army boots were second-hand from BFT? Of all the things she’d stolen from that place, they were her best five-finger discount.
“Tell whoever it is to stop.” She knew it was him.
“They won’t believe me. You look tired. Drawn out. Frankly, I’m concerned, too.”
Maybe it wasn’t? “I’m fine, Mr. K.”
“How can you be? Your complexion’s sallow.”
“Whatever that means.”
“Yellowish. Jaundiced. Pasty.”
“We can’t all be part of the cast of Glee.”
The look on his face indicated he didn’t understand what she’d said. It took every ounce of her energy not to leap across the table and smack him.
“What’s going on, Greta? Are you in trouble?”
She made a noise. “Here? Living out in the boonies?”
Suddenly his eyes widened and he exhaled, fluttering the piece of paper in front of him. “Are you smoking pot?”
The question hung in the air like stink. She stopped picking her nails. “Come again?” Why would she want to wreck her brain? Her body, her temple, was the one and only thing she controlled in her messed-up life. Besides, she was an athlete. They’d discussed running as an ‘emotional outlet.’ After all the time they’d been forced to spend together, he clearly knew nothing about her.
Mr. Katz blinked. He waited, pointedly, for her confession.
“Hello?” she snapped. “I’m on the track team. And because I don’t wear brand names or you don’t like my face or I can’t seem to ‘find myself again’,”—she used air quotes for effect—“doesn’t mean I’m doing drugs. That’s a pretty big leap for you to make.”
He looked at her dubiously.
“What’s with you people? Always judging.”
Mr. K. lifted his palms in the air. “I’m not.”
“You are.” Her eyes flared as she stood and scanned him up and down. “Look at you. Zero style… It’s pathetic.” She didn’t mention his dandruff. “Are you smoking crack, Mr. K?”
“What?”
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Her only answer was to slam the door behind her.
Back at home that evening, Greta realized Mr. K. would never have made the comment he had if he’d known what was going on in her life. She hadn’t told him her father was never home or that, when he was, he was passed out on the couch or drinking in his room. It wasn’t a secret. The only one using was him. She hadn’t explained why she was exhausted. Hadn’t mentioned money was tight or how humiliated she felt to dig for clothes through the Lost and Found. If she got caught, would he think she liked to steal? Would he offer her help? Or would he believe her when she said her father killed her mother? How could she ask for help? It would be like accusing Ian of neglect. And if Mr. K. confronted him, then what? What would she do? Run away so he didn’t kill her too? She was sick of hiding the truth. She’d lied because the truth was another trap.
During the winter, Greta worked hard to dial her boil down to a simmer. It took time to find calm in the chaos, and although there were days Mr. K. sounded like the teacher from a Charlie Brown episode, she pulled herself slowly back from the brink. She pressed on, sometimes struggling, but found that, over time, things were getting easier. That spring, for the first time since her mother’s death, the thick fog that had been squeezing her head in a vice-like grip for so long, started to burn off. Something stirred inside her. She felt herself breathe.
The first day of the new track season, Greta stepped out onto the pavement. She scuffed at the ground with her feet. “Okay. I’m ready to go this year,” she said to the team.
The girls stared, guarded, keeping their distance.
“Last year I was off, maybe a bit—”
“Mean?” one of them suggested, whistling through her teeth.
Her throat tightened. If they were anxious, she didn’t blame them.
She stumbled on blindly. “Fair enough. An ass.” Did they have to make this so hard? It wasn’t like any of their mothers had died. To make matters worse, from the corner of her eye, Mr. Ennis had approached from across the field and was within earshot of the conversation. She exhaled, slow and steady. “I’m sorry. I want to move on. With you. With the team. I want us to win the championships.”
Her teammates exchanged glances. Unsure what to do, she stood, arms at her side, waiting for their next move. One girl reached out and squeezed her hands, which felt good and stopped them from trembling. When another stepped forward and picked her up in a bear hug, spinning her in circles, the rest of the team broke free and rushed in. No words were spoken; none were needed. She was grateful for the second chance they offered her—and she was ready to prove she deserved it.
“Ladies,” Mr. Ennis boomed across the track. “We aren’t going to win the championships standing around hugging each other.”
The team surged forward and as they circled the backfield together, Greta’s heart soared, her mind cleared, and she started to relax.
By the end of the practice, her muscles were screaming. She bent over, hands on her knees. “I don’t remember being this winded,” she panted, sucking in air. “I’m a slug.”
Mr. Ennis laughed. “We’ve got ninety days. If you want to win it, you’d better up your game.”
She knew the mantra. “Show up. Do the work. Repeat tomorrow.”
For the next twelve weeks, she increased her training, doubling the length of her runs in the morning and in the evening before she went to bed. Though Ian remained oblivious, Coach Ennis noticed she was dropping weight. He fueled her renewed commitment with snacks he brought for breakfast and after school. She ate everything.
When the season started, the girls won their first meet without much struggle. The second was tough, and when it came to the third, with two girls injured and the long-distance race lengthening to seven kilometers, it posed a challenge for the entire team. By the end, they’d only squeaked into the championships. When the bus pulled up at the park, people crisscrossed the open lot and girls stood warming up in small groups. No one looked at them, and the officials at the marshaling table barely raised their eyes when they registered. After their warm-up, Mr. Ennis gathered the team together to pass out their bibs.
“I’m going to lay this out simple,” he said. “Our season was rough, and everyone here knows we’re the underdogs.”
Greta looked at him. Was that what he truly believed? From her teammates’ faces, they weren’t feeling it either. The team wasn’t a threat. Their confidence had been shaken to the core.
“We’ve got nothing to lose,” he continued, “so go out there, be scrappy, don’t give up—and push through the race.”
The warning signal ended his pre-race pep talk, and the team ran over to take their places across the starting line. Greta shut her eyes and sucked in a slow, deep breath. She wanted the win, and she wanted it badly. She wanted it for the team who’d stood by her after she abused them—just like Ian had abused her mother.
The horn blasted and a cheer went up. Greta positioned herself at the front with the fastest runners. Her teammates filed in behind her, running in the middle of the pack. For the first two kilometers, her breathing was painful. She couldn’t find her zone and was struggling with a nagging cramp in her leg. By the middle of the race, she hit her stride. Her gait was smooth, her arms flailed out less and she inhaled the smell of the spring earth. She looked ahead at the two runners, their breathing ragged, and watched as they lost steam. She checked over her shoulder at the girl closing in and a group of five or six others trailing three or four steps behind her. This was her chance.
With two kilometers left to go, she shot forward and passed the leading girls. The cramp in her leg flared up, but she ignored it and kept up the pace. She focused her thoughts inward, tuning out the sounds from the sidelines. Near the end of the route, one of the girls behind her sped up and started to close the gap. Breathing steady, mind relaxed, she tapped into something deep down inside, and poured on a little more speed. When she tore through the finish line, the screaming exploded around her. She left her challenger in the dust.
Mr. Ennis jumped up and down and reached in to muss up her hair. While the shimmer of cameras should’ve blinded her, she didn’t notice. Folded in half, gasping for air, she kept a look out for her teammates as they crested the hill and tore down the side. She stood and yelled over the heads of the other runners, giving them encouragement to cross the line and finish the race.
Detective Perez crossed her office and opened a small black fridge by the window. She pulled out a couple of bottles and put them on the desk between them. Drink in hand, she sat down. “Sounds like things were finally starting to look up,” she said.
“Yep. School, too.” Greta reached out to take one.
“And your relationship with your father?”
“About that…” She sipped her soda to buy herself some time. That summer, Ian had been invited to join his friend at his cabin by the lake. Excited to go somewhere, anywhere beyond Ravensworth, she couldn’t accept he’d called the trip a ‘family vacation’ when she’d overheard him on the phone. It didn’t feel right. They’d stopped being a family two years ago when he murdered her mother. It hadn’t mattered anyway because, after he’d hung up, he told her she hadn’t been invited.
Detective Perez put down her drink. “You were twelve?”
“Thirteen that summer.”
“He left you by yourself for a week?”
She looked at the detective. “I’ve told you a thousand times: he wanted nothing to do with me. He only cared about himself.”
“And nobody noticed?”
Greta shook her head. The week he was away, she’d woken to the sounds of birds chirping. The air smelled piney and fresh, and she ran every morning to focus her mind on the track season ahead. In the afternoon, she watched TV, a bowl of whatever she could find to eat beside her. Evenings, fireflies glowed brightly as they darted in droves over top of her on the back patio. Their lights, twinkling and bright, held memories of her mother.
With so much her
mom never had the chance to tell her—things she was still desperate to know—one night she gave into her fear and stood outside her parents’ bedroom door. She pushed it gently, letting it creak open in front of her. Inside, she slipped to the edge of her mother’s side of the bed and, with fingers looped through the cold metal hoop of the drawer of the bedside table, pulled it open. There were stacks of folded papers, a receipt for furniture, faded recipes, cuttings from old magazines, a slip with a single phone number—no name; nothing on the back. And at the bottom of the drawer was a novel, earmarked at the corner three-quarters of the way though, as if waiting for her mother’s return. Greta knelt down and pressed her fingers in further, fumbling around the rough edges, and found what she’d spent years asking for.
She held the birth certificate up to the light; not a photocopy, it was the size of her palm. It had to be the original. Hopeful her adoption papers were in there too, she tucked the birth certificate into the front pocket of her jeans before digging her fingers back into the drawer. All that remained were the knots in the sides of the wood. She slammed it shut. Where were they? That night, she’d turned the cabin inside and out, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t find them.
“I’ll assume you didn’t ask your father about them after his trip?” Detective Perez said.
Greta took another mouthful of soda. “No point. He got lit as soon as he walked back into the cabin.”