by Karen Grose
She couldn’t answer and he didn’t ask again.
Officer Pappas put a hand on her forearm and gave it a squeeze. “Greta,” he said, “we need evidence.”
She pulled her arm free and nodded, but she wasn’t sure what that meant. Why wasn’t he listening? She’d given him some. What type of evidence could he need?
“Did you talk to someone at her work?” she asked.
Officer Pappas’ face dropped. “No one told me she worked.”
Greta crossed her arms. “I just did. When she first came to Bracebridge.”
“How long ago was that?”
“I dunno.” She raised her palms in the air. “At the Bracebridge Women’s Shelter. Before I was even born.”
Officer Pappas and the child advocate looked at her in unison.
“You’re sure about this?” he said.
She nodded.
Officer Pappas leaned in to the woman beside him. Their eyes locked, hers thin yet kind, framed with black-rimmed glasses. “Is that enough?” he asked her.
Greta’s heart pounded in her chest.
“Investigate,” she told him.
“Finally,” Detective Perez sighed. “I knew there had to have been more of an investigation than you first alluded to.”
She scowled. “Well, I’m sorry to burst your bubble, but…”
“You said the child advocate approved it.”
“But it didn’t go anywhere.”
The detective lifted her fingers to her temples. “That’s impossible.”
“You don’t know Ian,” Greta grumbled.
The summer heat came and three weeks passed since Mr. K. had taken Greta to see Officer Pappas. There was no food in the fridge, but still she ran every day to keep in shape and spent evenings in the main room watching TV or alone out on the patio.
Late one night, Ian burst through the front door. “Where the hell are you?” he shouted.
Greta muted the TV. When she looked up, she froze. He towered over her, his eyes bulging.
“What the hell did you say?” His hair was plastered to his head with sweat. His hand shot out, and he wrenched her arm behind her. “And don’t play games with me.”
Something popped. Pain flooded her shoulder. She couldn’t move. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re lying.” Spit flew from the sides of his mouth. It landed on her cheek. “You must have said something.”
“I didn’t. Not to anyone.”
Ian let her arm go and stepped backwards. He ran his hands across his cheeks and started to pace. Back and forth, fuming, walking the length of the room over and over again. Then he stopped in his tracks and turned his black eyes on her—eyes all at once full of terror.
“Fucking neighbours got me fired,” he screamed.
Her eyes widened. She shifted her butt on the couch.
“And Minister Marcello booted me out of the church. I have nothing now. Nothing. I’m going to kill them...”
Greta sat still, bile in the back of her throat. Nothing? That was rich.
“Get packing,” he ordered. “We’re outta here.” She gazed off into the distance; vacant. He snapped his fingers in the air in front of her. “Earth to Greta. We’re moving to Bracebridge.”
She shrunk, unable to process the new information.
“8.00 AM Tuesday. If you’re not ready, you can walk. All eighty klicks.”
The week before they moved, Greta had walked through the cabin to sharpen her memories. The only home she’d ever known—the pitted kitchen cupboards, the rickety staircase where she’d fallen and cracked her head, the large windows in the back room overlooking the back patio, the dresser mirror. Her mother’s smell was gone, but her presence lingered everywhere, and she wanted to bring as much of her with her as she could. Mom, barefoot, baking cookies in the kitchen. Sloped to one side, the upstairs hallway, a perfect space to play jacks. The back patio where they’d sat, heads bent over the table, feet touching, reading books. She didn’t care they were moving to the city: the thought of leaving her mother behind made her sick.
The next Tuesday, outside the cabin, Ian laid on the horn. It was just past seven and pouring rain. He rolled down the window and yelled. “Get out here, Greta, or I’ll drag you out myself.”
The air inside the cab was stuffy, and she felt light-headed. Huge raindrops pelted against the truck windows, drowning out her sobs from the back seat. Out the back of the truck, mist rose from the pavement like a ghost, and her desire to get out at the side of the highway was overwhelming. When the truck turned into a crumbling Bracebridge parking lot next to a shabby two-storey building, her need to escape grew. From the back seat, huddled between the boxes, she stared outside. Not a tree on the boulevard… The street was empty. The large black and white sign hung across the front of the first floor read Honey Bee Restaurant. Beneath it, in red scrawled handwriting, Best Chinese Food Around. She got out of the truck, and an uneven line of cement patio stones scattered along the left side of the building teetered underfoot. There were four small windows by the back entrance; three boarded up and one splintered like a spider. Between them, the only entry a screened door.
Bang. Bang.
She climbed the stairs. The air was stale and smelled like grease. It looked lived in; it felt dirty. Paint peeled from the woodwork of the doorframes and the floors were blotchy and pocked with stains. A narrow hallway separated the two apartments sitting on top of the restaurant. Ian unlocked the door and pushed it open. She stepped inside. A crocheted afghan perched high across the back of the couch and a ratty blue rug crumpled at the edge of the kitchen were the only spots of colour. The soles of her running shoes stuck to invisible patches of grit. In two short steps, out of the living room and at the door of her bedroom, she stared at the faded brown paneling spreading halfway up the walls; the rest painted winter white. Only the bathroom kept her from screaming and running back out. It was indoors. It had a door with a lock, and not a rusty hook but a strong metal one. Back in the living room, a Welcome to Bracebridge brochure had been placed on one end of a small wooden table. Ian sat down at the other.
“Home, sweet home,” he smiled.
“Home?” she repeated, hardly able to believe her ears.
“Got something better?”
Tears welled in her eyes, and the threads holding her together unraveled. She picked up the green garbage bag containing everything she owned, turned her back to him, and slammed the door of her bedroom.
***
The Detective’s pencil flew across the page. “You lived there for…?”
“Almost two years.” Greta waited for her to stop writing. “And it wasn’t.”
“What?” she said, her face pinched in concentration.
“Living. In the beginning, I only existed.”
The first night in the apartment, on top of her bed, she listened to the sounds on the street. Dogs barking. People talking. Tires screeching on wet pavement. Each time a car passed by, the room lit up, and they passed by all night long. In the morning as she dozed, a man’s voice barked out orders on the phone through the paper-thin walls. In bed all day, by evening, the pillow wrapped around the sides of her head, overcome by the sweet and sour smells wafting up from the restaurant below, she finally fell asleep.
Within a few days, what was new became more familiar. She tuned out the sound of the bell downstairs announcing new customers. It was considered a local landmark for its savory homemade egg rolls, but from the crushed cardboard boxes tucked into the trash bin at the back of the restaurant, she’d realized that was another lie, too.
“I have no idea what my mother would’ve said about us living over a grease bowl. For years my father demanded these perfect cooked meals. Beef kabobs. Shepherd’s pie. Soups. All from scratch. Mom would’ve either been pissed or would have laughed hysterically.”
“You missed her.”
The thought made a hard lump in her throat. “Still do. Every day.”
/> TWENTY-FOUR
“J erk.”
The words came from outside Greta’s bedroom. She got up from the floor and cracked open her bedroom door. Ian was lying on the couch. His cheeks were ruddy, his face bloated, his body swollen. He was getting fat. He slammed down the phone.
“What are you staring at?” he said.
Greta didn’t say a word. Another rejection didn’t surprise her. He was basically unemployable.
He wagged his finger at her. “Where’s the goddamn bread?”
She closed the door behind her, shut her eyes, and pressed her back against the wood. What bread? She was hungry. If there had been any, she’d have eaten the whole loaf days ago. “I dunno,” she said.
“Stupid bitch. Don’t lie to me.”
Her stomach felt sick. She’d heard that tone before. Ian got off the sofa and stepped between her and the apartment door.
“I bought it last night,” he said. “Brought it home. Stuck it right here.” He pointed to the counter.
There was nothing on it.
“Did you take it?” He swiped at his nose, marbled with purple veins spread up to his cheeks.
She held her tongue. From past experience, she knew he wouldn’t take no for an answer and that it was unsafe to argue.
“Answer me.” He got up in her face. “Are you deaf or stupid?”
“I didn’t take it.”
He lunged at her.
“Don’t touch me,” she yelled, scrambling away.
There was a knock on the apartment door that startled them both. A voice drifted through. “Open up. Mr. Giffen? Greta? Everything okay in there?”
For the first time in a week, she didn’t regret their move. She raised her eyebrows at her father. He had two choices; what was he going to do? He opened the door.
A woman, her square face lined with worry, stood there. “Oh good. You’re alright,” she said, her eyes travelling between the two of them.
“We’re fine,” Ian said, arms folded across his potbelly.
She looked him up and down. “Didn’t sound like it.” Then she smiled at Greta. “Hi. I’m Mrs. Xiangzi.”
Greta mumbled a hello.
“My husband and I own the building.”
Greta raised her eyes to meet hers.
“School soon?”
She nodded. “Starts in less than two weeks.”
“Which one are you going to?” Mrs. Xiangzi asked.
Her shoulders slumped. All her old friends were going to Almaguin, but she had no idea where she was supposed to go. Her father hadn’t told her.
Mrs. Xiangzi glared at Ian. “Don’t close that door.” She disappeared down the hallway and, when she returned, she passed Greta a beat-up laptop. “You need to look it up.”
Greta held the laptop to her chest.
“Go ahead. Open it. I’ll show you.”
Greta put the laptop on the table and Mrs. Xiangzi sat down beside her.
“There.” Mrs. Xiangzi pointed to the screen after she googled Bracebridge high schools. “Type in the address of our building in the line. Good. Now click that link. Now download the file and save it to the desktop. Excellent.” She stood up. “Now fill out the form. If you want help,” she hooked a thumb behind her, “I’m just across the hall. And we’ve got a printer downstairs you can use.”
Greta looked up and smiled at her. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Xiangzi turned back around and brushed by her father. “You,” she warned him, shaking an index finger in the air, “no more noise.”
His face reddened. He slammed the door behind her and slunk to the kitchen.
An hour later, Greta tucked the laptop under her arm and knocked on the door across the hall. Mrs. Xiangzi opened it.
“Greta.” She reached out and shook her hand. “Good to see you. All done?”
“Like you showed me.”
Mrs. Xiangzi checked the desktop and then led her downstairs, stopping in front of a small table outside the kitchen. “I’ve heard it’s a great school.” She picked up the forms from the printer and looked over her shoulder. “And I hope you’ll be happy here.”
“Thanks,” she said sullenly, trying her best.
“Oh-oh. You don’t look so good.”
Great. A rocket scientist. “I’m not,” she said. She kept her tone low key.
Mrs. Xiangzi jutted her finger to her right. “Sit down and talk to me.”
Greta followed Mrs. Xiangzi into the kitchen. Navy and white painted cement tiles were set out in a checkerboard pattern. Three industrial sized fridges sat side by side. There were sets of stainless steel bowls on the countertops, and shelves ran floor to ceiling for the dry goods. She sauntered across the room, past three sinks filled to the brim with pots and pans, and a long counter cluttered with chopped vegetables, before perching up high on a stool. Mrs. Xiangzi was mixing some sort of concoction over a low flame on the stove. Steam billowed everywhere. The smell wafting through the space between them made her mouth water.
“Why so glum?” Mrs. Xiangzi lifted a spoonful of the mixture to her lips.
Greta paused, trying to figure out a way to explain the situation. She didn’t want Mrs. Xiangzi to think she was rude; they’d just met. She couldn’t think of a way to do it, and so she let herself go.
“There’s nothing to do here. I don’t know anyone. I miss my house. My friends. My old room.”
Mrs. Xiangzi didn’t look up. “Adjustments are always painful.”
“I hate it.”
Mrs. Xiangzi added more spice to the sauce. “I felt the same way when we moved. Everything was so different.”
“Different? It sucks. It’s like being on a totally foreign planet.”
“It’ll get better with time.” She smiled, her voice softening. “I promise.”
Greta sighed. “Not for me. I’ll be trapped here till I get married or die.”
Mrs. Xiangzi cackled out loud. “You have more choices than that.”
She didn’t laugh. She wanted her preference known. “I’m hoping for death, and I hope it comes fast.”
Mrs. Xiangzi moved the sauce from the stove and picked up a knife to chop vegetables. “Greta, Greta… You ought to be thinking bigger than that. It’s not a great goal for someone your age. Think further ahead. Long-term. First, a job. Then a career. A career is important for a woman.”
She picked her nails. She was fourteen—she hadn’t even started high school yet. She wanted a job, but a career? “Aren’t they the same thing?”
“Pick something you like to bring in money. You’ll need to be independent and take care of yourself one day.”
She scoffed. “What type of career would be good for someone like me?”
Mrs. Xiangzi put down the carrot in her hand and stared at her in disbelief. “Anything you want. Anything you set your mind to. Construction? A CEO? A nurse to help people? An astronaut? Own your own business? Maybe have a restaurant? Maybe this one? Not now, but when my husband and I retire.”
Greta looked at her shocked.
Mrs. Xiangzi laughed. “You don’t have to decide today. Keep your options open and dream big. No more of this death stuff, though. It’s bad luck. Now go. Take those forms to the school and register.”
With her backpack in one hand and a carton of chocolate milk in the other, Greta climbed the ten steps into the building. Ahead of her was an office. A far door opened and a woman stepped out from behind the counter. Stocky, with red hair scraped back tight behind her ears and dressed all in white, she looked like a martial arts instructor.
“Grade?” the woman said.
“Nine.” Greta handed her the papers. “Can I ask—"
But the lady raised her hand. She turned and passed through the door of the inner office, which closed behind her. Greta waited. And waited. And waited. The lady finally returned with a stack of paper.
“Greta Giffen?”
The red-haired martial arts instructor handed Greta her class schedule.
“Seven of eight courses are mandatory,” she explained, “but because you’re late, Introductory Business is all that’s left.”
It wasn’t the worst alternative. Greta thought back to the conversation she’d had with Mrs. Xiangzi about owning her own. She’d thanked her, and on her way out of the office, noticed a letter-sized envelope stapled to the top of the documents. On a bench outside in the hallway, she held it out in front of her. The top-left insignia was the school’s, but underneath it was missing the Latin motto. It was replaced with one word. Blues. She sliced open the envelope and pulled out a typed note.
Dear Greta,
Welcome.
I watched you run last year at the cross-country championships.
A shiver ran up her spine. Someone out there was watching her?
Congratulations on winning the race. We have a track team here at the school—The Blues. We could use you on it.
She stopped reading. Was this an invitation to try out?
Practices are Tuesday and Thursday mornings, and Fridays after school. We’ll be starting the second week of September.
Greta mentally checked her calendar for availability. Yep, free as a bird.
To be clear, I’m not asking you to try out: I’m offering a full spot on the Junior Varsity team. Consider it.
I hope you can join us.
Sincerely, Coach Dewson.
Greta read the note a second time, then a third. Her feet tingled. Forty-five minutes after walking into the building, she strolled back out with a reputation that preceded her and a track team of potential new friends. She blew a kiss skyward.
***
“So this woman—Mrs. Xiangzi, you say—can verify what you’ve told me about your father?”
Greta nodded. “Greta nodded. She helped me register for high school in Bracebridge.”
As Detective Perez jotted it down, Greta remembered feeling at the time that her mother had sent her a little nudge of luck. “It was fifteen minutes from the apartment. No way he planned that.”