The Dime Box

by Karen Grose

  “He’s in a single down the hall,” said the nurse, hair salted with silver, wearing scrubs, a badge pinned to his chest.

  “Room?”

  “Seven fifty-six,” he said.

  She cocked her head. Had she heard that right? Was he kidding? She glanced at his nametag. “Larry, did you say a single?”

  He nodded, confirming yes.

  After the life they’d had? Always hungry? The hand-me-downs? Their cracked, mismatched plates from BFT? She wanted to laugh out loud right there on the spot. But as it was neither the time nor the place to draw attention to herself, she held in her disgust.

  She made her way down the hallway. Like a runway at night time, the eerie white and green glow cascading from the beeping machines around her provided enough light to find the way.

  The door to her father’s room lay wide open. She peeked inside. It was as sparse as most hospital rooms were—comfortable but sterile; too much white; no curtains; no carpet; no hanging TV. A cracked fake leather chair covered with dark stains stuck down one side, remnants of whoever had been sitting there last, took one full corner. A box of latex gloves sat on the table. She slipped in and shut the door.

  The detective stopped writing and held up a hand. “Stop there. Why close it?”

  Greta winced. The rollercoaster feeling in her stomach returned, and she worked hard to organize her thoughts. Once she did, she looked up, smooth and unruffled. “To talk to my father, privately. One last time,” she said.

  The detective’s shoulders tensed. “That’s all you’ve got? Privacy?”

  Greta nodded.

  Detective Perez’s upper lip curled. She threw her hands up in the air. “Come on, Greta. You’ve already told me you hated your father and wanted him dead. You’ve provided motive ten times over, and now you tell me, when given the opportunity to get your revenge, you close the door for privacy? How about you closed the door so there wouldn’t be any witnesses?”

  Greta shrugged. The only account remaining was her own, and she didn’t trust herself to answer. She bit her tongue and pushed her thoughts aside. She wasn’t going to be baited.

  FORTY

  G reta stared at the man tucked into the bed. The shadows of glory days washed over his pale face. His jet-black beard, in desperate need of a trim, lay in strict contrast to the crisp white sheet tucked tightly around him. His eyes were half-closed. His breathing was ragged, and he suddenly started to cough; a wet, phlegmy cough. It was like nothing like she’d ever heard before. He was drowning somewhere deep down in his own lungs.

  If Greta didn’t believe her father was dying when she’d seen him last fall, she certainly did now. His semi-conscious state allowed no window into his thoughts. Greta wondered what those memories could be. Were they reels of happier times in his life? Stories wrapped in creative half-truths? No truths at all? ’Cause it was time to be frank; time to lay it all down. There was no longer any point in pretending.

  Greta stepped closer to the monster in the bed. Like the crisscrossing cracks in the walls of her childhood bedroom, a patchwork of scattered blood vessels spread across his cheeks. She dragged the stained fake leather chair from out of the corner across the room and placed it next to the bed. She then tugged off her gloves, tossed them on the seat, and sat down, inches away from him.

  “Dad?” she whispered. The only sounds filling the room were the whooshing of the machines that were keeping him alive. She leaned in a little closer. “Dad. Can you hear me?”

  No acknowledgement. He was lost in his thoughts. Greta closed her eyes. Well, she thought, he can keep them. Words can’t heal; there never was truth and there never will be truth. After all, the man in the bed was a master in manipulation.

  He stirred, sensing her presence. Ever so gently, he lifted his willowy hand up and pointed to the machine behind him. He mumbled something, yet his voice was reed-thin. It was too coarse to carry. Greta had to lean in just to hear him. “Pain,” he rasped. “Too much pain.”

  Greta’s eyes followed her father’s knotty fingers to the machine above his shoulder. Thin lines and fat green numbers surrounded a screen lit up with child-like scribbles. She had no idea what they meant, but the numbers rose and fell as she watched. An unruly jungle of tubes tumbled out from somewhere behind, and her eyes widened as she followed each one. The smallest was stuck flat to the backside of her father’s hand, while another snaked through his right nostril. The third, attached to a pump at the side of the bed, curled close to his neck and disappeared into a hole in his windpipe.

  Greta watched the pump and his chest move up and down in unison, unable to stop from leaning forward. She slid her fingers along the tube that fed into her father’s throat, and closed her palm around the cold plastic.

  “Please,” he murmured again, almost begging, “turn it off.”

  “What?” she said, taken aback. What was he asking?

  A small green button glowed in the dim room. She could see it was turned on.

  Greta froze. Memories flooded her mind with an intensity that scared her, embodying an ugly power that truly delighted her. She used to pray every day that her father would die. Now she had the opportunity to make those prayers a reality.

  For her mother, who was taken away from her too soon.

  For her grandparents, who had lost a daughter.

  For everything he’d done to her; said to her.

  For all the pain he had caused.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, willing it to go away, yet reliving it all; vividly and in slow motion.

  “Push the damn button,” he croaked.

  Greta stood, her heart beating double-time. She prayed for control. One, two, three. But she couldn’t stop her feral side from rearing up in her mind. Four. Five. Six. Her rage was winning the battle—and she felt it. She wanted to take the pillow and place it over the old man’s face. She wanted to push it down hard. Then harder, and harder, with all her strength. And then, as the old man’s body creaked and groaned, she wanted to hold that pillow fast in place and crush the life out of him.

  She tried to convince herself this wasn’t what she wanted; after all, she’d come this far. She’d worked hard to move on and was desperate to have it look like she had it all together. But she didn’t. There was no denying it. And she understood why. Life had no clean edges. It was her own father, the man lying in the bed, who had taught her that. He had proved it time and time again.

  Although her rage frightened her, it was comfortingly familiar too. And finally she allowed herself to think the thought, as she watched him writhe in the bed: she wanted him dead.

  Every ounce of control vanished. Greta drew a deep breath. She reached out for the button and touched it; lightly, at first, just to see what she might feel. It was smooth and cold underneath her finger. She smiled, and as she did, she leaned down and looked her father in the eye one last time. But his peaceful, half-smile stopped her cold.

  It was more a smirk. It demeaned her.

  Her face flushed with heat. She was not his daughter; she never had been his. And she wouldn’t be his daughter now, either. Not even at the end. He’d face his own judgment day. She wasn’t sorry about that. Her survival was all that mattered. Not his needs. Hers. Her needs.

  Greta heard his breath wheeze and rattle, but she wouldn’t cross that line. She sat back down on the chair, leaned back, her face emotionless, and watched the fight drain out of him.

  She watched him die.

  Then she ran. Out of the room. Down the hall. Out of the hospital. Out into the cool, dark night.

  At last, she was free. With the kiss of rain in the wind on her face, she stepped up into the streetcar, heading east.

  Detective Perez’s pencil bounced off the floor. Greta gripped the arms of the chair and leaned forward. Could Detective Perez now see this whole sordid situation was on her father, and she was telling the truth? She examined her face. Cold. Still. Emotionless. How could she not give her something, after everything she’d just
said? After everything she’d told her?

  The detective ran her fingers gently through her hair and tucked a piece behind an ear. “So you talked to your father before he died.”

  “Yes.”

  “In my office yesterday, you said you didn’t.”

  “Sometimes I just block stuff out when I’m stressed. Especially when it comes to Ian.”

  “Dissociation, Astra,” Phil explained, “in the face of a threat.”

  Detective Perez exchanged a weary look with Phil. “I’m aware of what it is. The mind’s way of saving itself from a reality it can’t handle.” She cleared her throat, picked up the scattered files, and placed them in a pile on the table. “I’m going to need time to a circle back on a couple of things and collect my thoughts.”

  “Of course,” he replied. “Whatever you need. If anything comes up, we’ll be right here to answer your questions.”

  Greta glared at him. More questions? As his advice from earlier reverberated through her head, she sat back in her chair and lowered her eyes to the floor. After the door slammed, a hush fell over the room. Phil shuffled through his papers.

  “Now what?” Greta could see his hand shaking.

  “We wait.”

  “For how long?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  “And then?”

  “You’re either going to be charged with murder or you’re going home.”

  Home?

  Where was that? It had never been the curtainless cabin in the woods and it was no longer her memory of safety in her mother’s arms.

  The minutes crawled by. Greta’s stomach rolled and her mouth went dry, the questions in her head louder than the answers. She reached for the pitcher at the end of the table. It was empty.

  FORTY-ONE

  F orty minutes later, the investigation room door swung open. Detective Perez strode in, put her notebook and files on the table, sat down and faced them. “Thank you for your patience. I’ll get straight to the point. As there are inconsistencies in what you told me yesterday, Greta, I’ve gone—.”

  “But I told you the relevant stuff.”

  “I reviewed what we discussed. The evidence. What Phil’s brought forward. The notes from my conversation with Officer Pappas last night. I also made calls to Mr. Parthi from your elementary school and to Mrs. Xiangzi.”

  “They believe me?”

  “Yes. Not only that…” A lump rose in Greta’s throat, and she held her breath. Detective Perez paused. “So do I.”

  Greta exhaled. Relief washed over her.

  “But—”

  She stiffened. Why was there always a but?

  “While the evidence isn’t compelling enough to bring a charge forward, we’re still left with the incident that occurred yesterday in my office.”

  She sagged in her chair. Officer Hatten. She’d forgotten about that.

  “A short fuse is no excuse,” Detective Perez said.

  She buried her face in Phil’s shoulder. The detective was right. How could she sand away those rough edges? “I’m sorry.”

  “We all are. Considering the situation, he’s willing to drop the charges; however, going forward, Greta, it’s something you’re going to have to deal with.”

  “Thank you, Astra,” Phil said. “Pass along our gratitude to him, too.”

  Detective Perez gave a short nod, and then lifted a hand to her ear and fiddled with her earring. “Now, Greta, there are two other things that have come to light during this investigation that we need to address.” Greta glanced up at Phil and sat up. “First, your mother’s death,” she said in a soft voice. “Officer Pappas did his best—a thorough job, we feel—but, without solid evidence or a confession, it’s highly unlikely they’ll reopen the investigation.”

  Greta nodded. The truth wasn’t enough, but she’d learned that lesson a long time ago.

  “And then there’s Colleen.” Her voice grew softer still. “My officers squeezed her this afternoon and she broke. She came clean and told them everything.”

  “Was my mom there when she took me?”

  “No,” Detective Perez said, opening her notebook, “but she was involved.”

  Greta gripped the edge of the table. “How?”

  “Your father—”

  She groaned. “Back to him again?” She should’ve known.

  “When he hunted your mother down at the Bracebridge Shelter, he did everything to convince her to come back to him. At first, your mom wouldn’t budge, but Colleen said that, when he got a job in town and a post at the church, she gave up.”

  “Why? He was only trying to hide who he really was.”

  Detective Perez nodded. “He was sick and manipulative. When rumours swirled about his past, things crumbled, and he was desperate to prove them all wrong.”

  Greta smirked. “Right. To show my parents had a stable life?”

  “That he was a family man.”

  Her chest tightened. “By having a baby?”

  “He told her he’d kill her unless she got pregnant, but she miscarried twice.”

  “Because of his abuse?” An image flashed in her head. Was that why her mother took such good care of the circle of smooth, white pebbles and flowers at the end of the back patio each year? What was under there?

  Detective Perez nodded. “Your mom and Colleen had become close. She told Colleen what was going on. She begged her to find her a baby or she’d die. She begged for one from anywhere, apparently, however she could. Colleen was frightened. Panicked. She didn’t think it through. She abducted you from that parking lot—”

  “For my mother. To keep her alive.”

  Greta thought back to the fight she’d heard her parents have after they’d all seen Colleen in the old-fashioned candy store. Her father’s words echoed through her mind. If you ever tell anyone, I’ll fucking slit your throat. All three of you. She’d heard him right—and now she knew why. Hers, too. Don’t think I won’t. She’d never doubted it meant her. She leaned forward and shuddered. “They all knew.” They’d all kept the secret.

  Detective Perez took a moment to respond. “I’m sorry, Greta.”

  “I want to see Colleen.”

  “You can’t. She’s still in with my officers.”

  “What’s going to happen to her?”

  “At the moment, I don’t know.” Detective Perez tapped the file in front of her. “Based on everything I’ve heard the last two days, I’ll use my discretion and experience to determine that. I don’t think Colleen is a bad person. And I agree with you: I think she did what she did to keep your mother alive. But that doesn’t take away what she’s done; to you; to the family she took you from. She’s likely to face criminal charges. She’s breached her professional responsibilities so she’ll lose her job. It’s complicated, and it’s going to take time to sort it out.” The detective looked up at her kindly. “In the meantime, we’re done here. You’re done. You can go home.”

  Greta exhaled the breath she’d been holding since the day her mother died.

  She pushed her chair back, stood, and slung the strap of her purse over her head and shoulder. She crossed the room, leaving Phil behind. As she opened the door, she turned around. Detective Perez looked up and smiled at her and closed her notebook.

  Back at the apartment, Greta swiped the keypad, stepped inside, and slunk down the back of the door. Hands pressed to her chest, she crouched on her heels, taking in the light, the sound, and the smell.

  Home.

  It was there, where she was. It was where she belonged. In her kitchen. On her couch. Her dime box square on the living room table. After everything that had happened the past forty-eight hours, she felt it, etched deep in her bones.

  She pulled herself up, dropped her purse on the table, kicked her shoes off in the hallway, branching off the living room, and dumped her clothes in a pile on the floor in the bathroom. She sniffed; they reeked of the cells, of the plastic chairs, the wiry blanket. She twisted the silver knobs, aim
ed the nozzle to the center of the tub, and stepped into the shower. Warm water pounded her head, the water mixing in with tears of her own. She stood, motionless, heart beating, barely breathing, unable to stop her mind from replaying every memory over and over in a loop. Fear. Confusion. Love. Anger. The nightmares. The lies she’d been repeatedly told. From all she knew now, her whole life could’ve been different from the one she’d actually known.

  On the way back to the living room, she towel-dried her hair and tightened her robe. She sat, leaving her damp towel on the floor, and sunk into the couch, clutter everywhere, the only light coming from her phone.

  There was a soft knock at the door.

  “I came as fast as I could.” Latoya wiped the sweat from her face and drew Greta into an embrace. “What the hell happened?”

  “I’m okay,” she said, red-eyed.

  She took two sodas from the fridge and, out on the balcony, they sat for a minute in silence and watched the bustle on the dark street below. Cars. Bicycles. Couples arm in arm. A dog loped along the sidewalk alone.

  With the wind blowing softly in her hair, Greta reached out and grabbed Latoya’s hand and told her everything.

  Latoya’s eyebrows shot up after she’d brought her up to date. The barrage of questions came thick and fast. “Are you sure that’s what the police report said?”

  She nodded.

  “You read every word?”

  “Beginning to end,” she smiled, not quite whole. It was the exact moment everything she’d worked so hard to understand turned to liquid.

  “Do you think your real parents—”

  “Blood parents?”

  Latoya looked at her strangely. “Okay, those. Do you think they’re out there?”