Letters to Nowhere

by Julie Cross

  Stevie reached across Blair and gave her a high five, grinning at both of us. “Thanks, babe. I needed to hear that.”

  “Your honesty is appreciated,” Coach Bentley said to Blair. “But you’re wrong. What we showed Nina and the committee is that I’ve been lucky enough to train four girls who not only support each other without losing the opportunity to compete against one another, you also have respect for your bodies. You aren’t desperate enough to lie about pain and injuries. As a group we out–performed the other kids on the physical abilities testing and all of you showed a twenty–percent improvement from the last camp.”

  It was true that Bentley paid much more attention to strength and flexibility than Coach Cordes had. Over the past six months, we had all made tons of progress in those areas. Bentley had also hired a real dance teacher to specifically do ballet training with us twice a week. I’d be the first to admit that I had whined about it in the beginning, but of course Stacey was all for it, going on and on about how the Russians and Chinese have always trained ballet with their gymnasts from a very early age.

  Bentley turned his eyes to me again. “And Karen? You were asked to change something, to try something new, and you did as you were told without question. I overheard Nina Jones telling another coach how compliant and willing to take direction you girls are. Apparently, some of the others need to work on this.”

  Blair mumbled the name of a girl on the senior National Team whom we all referred to as the “Gym Diva.” Ellen and I both laughed under our breaths.

  “I have some good news for you. The real purpose for this meeting,” Bentley said, standing again. “Nina suggested—since none of you got to show everything you could do this weekend—that I take the four of you to the big invitational in Chicago in April. It’s a little earlier than we had planned on competing, but because of the American Cup in Chicago the following weekend, the entire National Team Committee will be there, and hopefully we can show them four healthy elite gymnasts ready to perform near–perfect routines.”

  Not a bad way to end our meeting, that was for sure. But I still left feeling a bit hollow about my problems over the weekend. Like Coach Bentley had intentionally danced around them without really hammering into me that I needed to figure my shit out before things got out of control.

  Coach Bentley,

  Do you really believe in me, or do you just feel sorry for me because my parents are dead?

  —Karen

  ***

  After physical therapy, Blair and I were in the locker room gathering our stuff when she begged me to come over and hang out. “Please, Karen. I’m going nuts, totally nuts! My mom is practically sobbing, saying I’m going to get so behind and I’ll never be ready in time for Nationals and she should have taken me for x–rays last week. I can’t deal with her right now.”

  I kept my eyes on my locker and continued stuffing items into my gym bag. “I’m totally behind in calculus. I got a B minus on the last quiz. And now I’ve got three assignments to make up…” This was a complete lie. I’d never received a B on anything and I was way ahead in all my classes. I didn’t even have any work to do this week.

  Blair folded her arms across her chest and stared me down. “I’m not taking no for an answer, Karen. Are you trying to isolate yourself or something? Because that’s not healthy.”

  I fumbled with the zipper on my jacket, feeling flustered by her direct approach to a subject she had not been direct about before. “It’s not that, I promise. I’m not trying to be alone.”

  “You heard what Bentley said,” she demanded, stepping closer and invading my personal space. “We need to support each other. Even if it means telling your teammate that she’s too injured to participate in camp, or that she really needs to spend the day locked up in her best friend’s bedroom, listening to music and possibly eating large amounts of candy.”

  Intense anger bubbled up inside me, something so fierce I hardly recognized myself or my voice when I stood up and faced Blair. “If you were my best friend you’d figure out that maybe walking into your house is going to make me think of nothing but those two policemen showing up to tell me my parents are dead!”

  Blair’s eyes grew like saucers. She lifted her hands and stepped back. “I’m sorry…God, I’m sorry, Karen.”

  It felt so good to yell that at her. Relief washed over me and my legs suddenly turned to Jell–O. I sank back onto the bench behind me. “It’s okay. I’m sorry for yelling.”

  Both of us were silent for several long seconds and I finally looked up at her. “Can we just go to the mall?”

  She let out a laugh filled with both kindness and relief. “That sounds great.”

  ***

  Instead of having Mrs. Martin drive us, we took the bus to the mall and headed straight for our favorite Italian restaurant. It was barely lunchtime, but we got a table anyway because there was a lot to talk about before we could even think about eating.

  “Oh my God!” Blair squealed when I filled her in on my boy drama. “Jordan Bentley kissed you? I can’t believe it! Is he a good kisser? In my imagination, he’s really good.”

  I rolled my eyes. “It was like three seconds long. And it was a mistake…or at least we decided it not to do it again.”

  “Like grief sex,” Blair said, as though she had so much knowledge on this subject. “Sometimes people hook up when they go through emotional stuff together.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe it was like that. It doesn’t matter. He’s never going to really see me as a romantic interest. Not for a while, anyway. And considering I’m just now hitting puberty, I don’t even know if I’d want him to think about me that way.”

  The waiter tried to set down a basket of breadsticks and both Blair and I shook our heads, instructing him to take them back. We each ordered a salad with grilled chicken on top and a small side of pasta to share.

  “We should get extra spinach in our salad,” Blair said to me before the waiter left. “Extra vitamins to keep us from getting sick, like Ellen.”

  “She’ll get better soon. Now that they’ve got her on antibiotics. Poor girl.”

  Blair folded her hands on top of the table, her jet–black hair shiny and falling in her eyes. “You’re right, she’ll get better. My leg will heal. Stevie will continue to add her old skills back until she’s at ass–kicking level, but you? What are we going to do to keep you from freaking out?”

  I glanced down at my hands, twisting them nervously. Blair and I hadn’t spoken about my parents hardly at all, but she seemed to have this extra bold streak today, or maybe her injury provided her own version of a get–out–of–jail–free–card.

  “They’re gone, Blair.” I finally looked up at her. “They’re gone and Nina Jones was telling everyone how great I was and I realized that I couldn’t tell them. Not ever.”

  Blair nodded, fighting her own emotions. “I figured it was something like that.”

  I let out a breath, determination rising in me. “I need to do that new skill in Chicago. The back full on beam. And I need to not freak out during that meet. You’re the best person to help me with this because you know how important it is. And that shrink, Jackie—”

  “You have a shrink?” Blair said.

  “Yeah, but we don’t really talk about this stuff and I doubt she would get it.”

  Blair sat still, thinking hard. “You have to block it out. The same way you block out fears in gymnastics. Like that time in level nine when you crashed on a Yurchenko vault and you kept seeing yourself falling on your neck over and over.”

  “Yeah, I remember that.”

  “You got over it,” Blair said.

  My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I glanced at it, seeing a text from Jordan.

  JORDAN: So what’s the verdict? Did my dad chew you guys out and send you all back to level 10 or what?

  I smiled at the phone and Blair raised her eyebrows. “Are you texting a boy?”

  “No,” I said, “a boy is texting me.”


  “Oh my God. This is so crazy.”

  ME: Haha…actually, now that I’ve experienced the joy of sledding, I’m quitting gymnastics to pursue other missed childhood experiences before moving on to teenage rebellion.

  JORDAN: You do realize he would actually kill me? And really? From elite gymnast to heroin addict…you’d have your own E True Hollywood Story.

  ME: Another plus.

  I put the phone away and I turned back to Blair.

  “How did you deal with the Yurchenko vault issue?” Blair asked.

  “The same way I handle any fear issues, technical analyses and drills.”

  “Find a way to use that to help you get through this.”

  Questions I’m too afraid to ask Jackie

  At what point in dying does the brain actually stop working? We can measure a person’s last breath, but not their last thought?

  When the reality of what’s happened hits me, after I’m done denying, how much will it hurt? What can I do to alleviate this type of pain? I can work through physical pain, should I apply the same techniques?

  Why do I have to be reminded of what happened to my parents everywhere I go and with everything I do? When I fill out forms that need a parent’s signature, when I go to college, when I get married…it’s never going to end, is it?

  I don’t feel like a whole person anymore. Something is missing and I’m afraid I can’t ever get it back.

  What if it’s my fault? What if I did something wrong? And what if it’s someone else’s fault, like a semitruck driver or the construction people that made that strip of highway? Is anyone even looking into this? I HAVE to know.

  ***

  The backseat of my parents’ car felt cold and distant. I tugged on the seat belt several times, eyeing the bleach–blond hair hanging over the driver’s seat.

  “Got your seat belt on, sweetheart?” Mom said, glancing over her shoulder, smiling at me.

  Dad’s auburn hair showed above the passenger seat. “Jodi, she’s not four years old anymore…you don’t need to remind her to put her seat belt on.”

  Mom shrugged as if this didn’t matter at all and pulled the car out onto the road. Seconds later we were speeding along the interstate, dodging cars left and right as Mom used both lanes to pass up everyone. My heart thudded faster and I gripped the door handle.

  “Slow down!”

  Dad turned around and lifted his eyebrow at me. “We can’t, pumpkin…this is the speed we have to maintain to cause the greatest amount of impact.”

  My mouth went completely dry, sickness settling in my stomach. “Wait…what? What’s happening?”

  Neither of them spoke and I nearly screamed as we zipped down the interstate at a reckless speed. “Mom! Stop! Please . . .”

  I felt the blood drain from my face, nausea taking control of my body. “Oh God…this is it, isn’t it? I’m not supposed to be here. Let me out!”

  My hands gripped the door handle, shaking it violently.

  Mom’s head snapped around and she glared at me. “Karen, don’t you want to come with us? We’re a family. We should do this together.”

  Trembling, I tugged harder at the lock. “I don’t want to…I don’t want to be here…”

  The door flew open and I jumped off right before the twenty–foot metal pole appeared out of nowhere. Pain shot through every nerve in my body as I tumbled onto hard, frozen grass.

  Right in front of my eyes, Mom and Dad’s car wrapped itself around that pole, their bodies flung toward me, screaming my name. I threw my arm over my head as they landed with a thud beside me, pieces of limbs strewn in the grass.

  And blood. Everywhere. Oozing from Dad’s face as he reached a hand toward me. I backed away from his bloody fingers screaming louder than I’ve ever screamed in my entire life.

  ***

  “Karen? Wake up, Karen…”

  I shot up in bed, aches hitting every inch of body all at once. Sweat trickled from my hair and down my neck and back. Air refused to move through my lungs. “I jumped out…I wasn’t supposed to be there…I had to jump out…”

  “Karen,” Coach Bentley’s strong hands curled around my arms. “It’s okay…you’re okay.”

  My eyes flew open, taking in the dark, bare bedroom and the bald–headed man standing in front of me, his face full of concern. I clutched my stomach and pulled myself from his grip, darting around him. “I’m gonna be sick.”

  Some part of my subconscious must have hung on to previous concerns because I managed to slam the bathroom door shut, giving myself privacy before puking in the sink. I leaned over it, heaving until I started breathing again, and then I ran the water, waiting for all the chunks of vomit to vanish down the drain.

  My head pounded, and despite the sweat, I could feel myself shivering uncontrollably as I fumbled for my toothbrush and quickly ran it through my mouth, getting rid of the vomit taste. There wasn’t enough energy left in me to make it out of the bathroom, so I decided, after my legs practically collapsed underneath me, that it would be a good idea to sleep on the bathroom floor.

  “Karen, open the door,” Bentley said, the knob rattling.

  I tried to raise my head and tell him I was fine, but that required energy that I didn’t have. Sometime later, after I dozed off, I peeled my eyes open to see the doorknob falling off and hitting the tile floor with a loud clank. Somehow Coach Bentley managed to push the door open with me lying in front of it.

  He scooped me up off of the floor, like I weighed nothing, and carried me down the stairs. “My head hurts,” I mumbled. “It really hurts.”

  “You’ve got a fever,” he said with a grunt as he set me down on the couch.

  My eyelids felt too heavy to keep open all the way. “It wasn’t real, was it? It’s just the fever, right?”

  Coach Bentley knelt down in front of me, pushing the hair off my face. “You were having a nightmare. I tried to wake you, but it took a while.”

  Tears slipped from eyes and even with the pounding headache, I felt weak and humiliated, crying in front of my coach. Had I been crying in my sleep? Screaming? “It was just a dream. I’m okay. I’m okay.”

  Something pressed into my ear, pressure that made my head pound even more. “Jesus, Dad,” I heard Jordan say. “A hundred and five. What are we supposed to do? Call nine–one–one?”

  “Calm down,” Bentley said to Jordan.

  “What if she has meningitis? She needs a doctor!”

  “Get me a bottle of Advil and a glass of water, okay?”

  I could only see their feet and the bottom of Jordan’s flannel pants, but the wood floor kept creaking with every movement they made, making my head pound even more.

  “She said she has a headache, what if her brain is swollen? Seriously Dad, you are totally screwing this up, I know you are!”

  I covered my face with my arm and started crying harder. I was too sick to even care what was wrong with me. I just wanted my headache to go away.

  It didn’t help that Coach Bentley stormed off with loud pounding footsteps. My teeth began to chatter again. I felt a thick blanket land on me and then someone tugged it off.

  “Don’t cover her,” Bentley said. His voice moved closer to me. “Karen, I need you take some medicine, okay?”

  Being the obedient gymnast that I am, I lifted my head just enough to toss the four Advil in my mouth, sending them into my bloodstream with a single swallow of water.

  “Come on, Dad,” Jordan said. “I’ll warm up the car. We can toss her in the back with a blanket.”

  I felt my lower lip trembling, more tears tumbling out between the shivering. I covered my face again with my arm. The last thing I wanted to do was go outside in the middle of winter and ride in the back of a car.

  “If her fever isn’t down in an hour, we’ll take her to the hospital, I promise,” Bentley said. I felt him sit down beside my head, the couch cushion sinking in. He slipped a pillow under me. The material felt cool against my cheek. “Go to b
ed, Jordan. You have school in the morning.”

  “Whatever,” he snapped. Then he stomped up the steps.

  “Is my brain really swollen?” I asked. It felt swollen, like ready–to–explode swollen.

  “No,” he said. “My son apparently spends too much time reading about communal diseases spread most commonly through college dorms.”

  The TV turned on, volume low enough that it made a relaxing hum rather than noise that would aggravate my headache.

  “Coach Bentley?” I said after several minutes of dozing in and out of consciousness.

  “Yes?”

  “Did I blow it in Houston? It’s over for me, isn’t it?” I knew he wouldn’t tell me either, but in my distress, with that nightmare fresh in my mind, I wanted to tell him what really happened.

  “Everyone knows what you’ve been through. They know you need time.”

  “It was so great,” I muttered into the pillow. “Having them all watch me like maybe I could actually stand out for once…and then for a second all I could think about was finishing my routine so I could text my mom and tell her all about it. Then I remembered…”

  Coach Bentley didn’t say anything, he just patted my head gently, causing the lump in my throat to double in size. That was something my dad would have done. Though he’d have had no idea what to do about a hundred and five degree fever and would likely have panicked like Jordan and called 9–1–1. Mom would have been moving around the kitchen, getting me 7 Up while on hold with the pediatrician’s office, demanding to speak to the doctor and not a nurse. She’d have everything written down on a piece of pink scratch paper—my fever and at what time she’d last checked it, exactly when my symptoms began, any medications she’d given me. Then Mom would recite it all to the doctor without even glancing once at the piece of paper.

  And Dad would have sat beside me, stroking my hair and telling me Mom would figure everything out. He called her superwoman.