You'll Never Know

by Katie Cross

  “July is only four or five weeks away.”

  “But it’s possible.”

  She waved a spatula at me. “For someone with a grade 3 sprain?”

  I frowned. “Well, I’m not sure what these other runners had, but…”

  “Stop.” She sliced the spatula through the air. “You’re getting ahead of yourself. What if you don’t heal that quickly?”

  “I will.”

  She raised her eyebrows, one hand propped on her hips. “You might not. You don’t control this process.”

  “I will! It’s all about the swelling and getting the right brace afterward. Trust me. I’ve been pouring over Runner’s Universe forums for hours. By the way, could you get me another ice pack?”

  Bitsy headed for the freezer and tugged it open. “I’m not deterred, Rachelle. You still have to answer my question. What happens if you don’t heal in time to train properly?”

  I gritted my teeth. “I will. All I need is to take advantage of this time to work a different part of my body. I can see now that I’ve been irresponsible. I’ve been really lax on working my core and upper body. Megan would never have approved of my schedule.”

  “For many reasons,” she muttered. I ignored it.

  “Based on what I’ve been reading, core work can be just as important for a runner as—”

  “What about your job?”

  “I’ll have to quit.”

  “Can’t you just take a leave of absence?”

  “I’ll need all that time after I recover to make up for lost runs. Look, it’ll work until September. I have a little bit in savings, and Mom’s never charged me rent.”

  “No, but she has you do all the errands and shopping. How are you going to go grocery shopping for her now? Thought of that?”

  Her question stopped me in my tracks. Mom and I lived with an unspoken truce. She didn’t charge me rent, and I did all the cleaning and shopping with her credit card. It had always been that way.

  “Delivery?”

  Bitsy opened the cupboard on the far right—my cupboard. A crusty loaf of bread, a few Thai food sauce packets, packages of precooked brown rice, and cans of plain tuna filled the interior. She pulled all of it out, tossed the bread into the garbage, wiped the cupboard down with a wet cloth, and started organizing the new contents by color and size.

  “Delivery costs extra,” she said.

  “Can’t be that much.”

  “And your school loans?”

  I suppressed a wince. Five years in college and no degree to show for it. I finally dropped out last year, unable to reconcile myself to a particular major. The gym classes and the money I’d made being a caretaker last summer to a rich old man had been slowly dwindling. Less than $300 remained. Surely enough to cover what was needed until I could get a job after the marathon.

  Bitsy set the bananas, a fresh loaf of 10-grain wheat bread, and some golden raisins on the bottom shelf and closed it. She eyed the dishes that surrounded the sink in piles. Mom couldn’t clean fast enough to keep up with her appetite, nor stand long enough to support washing all the dishes. Bitsy opened the fridge. She tilted her head to the side, then shut it with a shake of her head.

  “You need to move out.”

  I sighed. “I know. I will. After the marathon.”

  Bitsy cranked the hot water on, plugged the sink, and squirted soap inside. “Mira may have a job opportunity for you. She said a friend is in a bind. I’ll put a bug in her ear for you. Maybe it could be temporary?”

  Why wasn’t Bitsy happy for me? I had new direction. This marathon could still happen in spite of a big upset. She, of all the members of the Health and Happiness Society, should be the most excited.

  I leaned forward. “I can do this, Bitsy. I’ll throw myself into healing, do everything Dr. Martinez tells me to do, and in two weeks this boot will be off. I’ll start physical therapy and get back to exercising. That marathon will not happen without me.”

  She met my gaze, her eyes filled with concern.

  “What are you running from?”

  “What?”

  “Why are you doing this? Why are you putting everything into this marathon?”

  “I-I’m not.”

  The words almost strangled me.

  “You’re pivoting your entire life to accommodate an event that you can’t control. Do you realize how dangerous that is?”

  “I’ve worked for this for almost two years. I can’t just give it up because of a sprained ankle. Bitsy, I am going to do this. Losing all that weight, all those nights in the gym? Those weren’t for nothing.”

  Bitsy glanced past me to the couch where Mom usually sat. Then she gazed back at me.

  “You are running from something, but you don’t see it yet. That’s what scares me the most.”

  “Bitsy, I…” I trailed off, uncertain what to say.

  She pointed to the plate as she flung dirty dishes into the sudsy water.

  “Keep eating. I’ll do dishes. Your pain pills will be kicking in soon.”

  The next two days rolled by with frightening stillness.

  The sound of sitcoms ran eternally in the background, a horrendous soundtrack that I couldn’t block out. My ankle throbbed on and off. My back hurt from lying down so much. The pain pills dulled the edge of the ache but curled my thoughts. Vague dreams whirled through my mind. I woke up twice to Dad’s face—a face I hadn’t seen in almost two decades—at the front of my mind.

  “How’s the knee?” Mom asked as I hobbled past her on Sunday morning. She pushed a piece of graying chocolate hair out of her face.

  “My ankle, you mean?”

  “Oh. Yeah. Your ankle.”

  “Better.”

  Sunlight streamed into the kitchen over the sink. She had a few blinds twisted half open, casting blunted light onto the old carpet. A bowl of Apple Jacks sat in her hands. The cereal box waited on the couch next to her, accompanied by a half gallon of milk on the floor. She’d been known to fly through an entire box of cereal in one sitting—mostly when she was stressed over a deadline. A soap opera scrolled across the television, the muted colors and dramatic voices instantly annoying me. Until I’d had to be home constantly, which hadn’t happened much in the last year and a half, I hadn’t realized just how annoying the TV was.

  The usual silence—aside from the television—descended on the house as I struggled around the kitchen, coordinating a piece of whole wheat toast and an egg scrambled in olive oil. The dishes Bitsy had washed had long since disappeared into a new pile of dirty plates. Standing at the sink for more than ten minutes made Mom’s hips ache, which led to a lot of paper plates and sticky pots and pans that I usually cleaned. I turned on the hot water and dropped some soap inside to let the dishes soak, then I threw all the cups littering the counter in the dishwasher.

  By the time my egg finished and my toast popped, I’d cleared half the counter, tossed the empty fruit snack wrappers, and shoved apple juice cartons in the can for recycling. Despite the pulsing in my ankle, it felt good to do something except sit in bed. I frowned at the overflowing garbage.

  “Hey, Mom?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I can’t take the garbage out. Can you do that?”

  A pause. I leaned against the counter and scraped the eggs off the pan and onto a plate. My toast, lightly smeared with almond butter, crunched when I bit into it.

  “You can’t?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Oh. How long until you can?”

  “A few weeks, maybe?”

  “Um…”

  My foot throbbed when I tore through another bite of toast, forked some egg in my mouth, and chewed as fast as I could. By the time I finished, my stomach still growled. The grating sound of a laugh track tore through the room. Mom had switched the channel to another sitcom.

  I ground my teeth. The entire day stretching before me looked suddenly bleak. “Crap,” I muttered.

  No Lexie. Megan was still working at a hosp
ital in the mountains of Wyoming. No immediate Health and Happiness Society meeting. No boyfriend to let me crash at his house—of course. Lexie’s mom would take me in, but how awkward would that be?

  A knock on the front door grabbed my attention. Mom’s head popped up, her eyes wide.

  “Hello?” she called.

  The front door creaked open, revealing one familiar eye in the slight crack.

  “Rachelle?”

  My heart swelled. “Hey Mira!” I called. “Come on in.”

  I swallowed the last of my food and swung my crutches toward the door. Mira shuffled inside the trailer, sporting a familiar grin and a shock of electric-pink eyeshadow under a halo of graying, mousy blonde hair.

  Mom reached for the remote and muted the television, straining to see over her shoulder. Mira closed the door behind her with a beaming smile. She had just given up Pepsi for the thirtieth time and had maintained for the last two months, which beat any previous record. She’d lost several pounds. Instead of her usual large dresses, she wore black jeans and a short-sleeve shirt with a potted flower on the front.

  “Hello!” she called, waving. “I came to visit the sick and afflicted.”

  I grinned. “How very Christian of you.”

  “It is Sunday, isn’t it? Besides, I just got out of church. Nothing better than visiting a friend after a good sermon about Jesus. Earns points. Plus, I’ve missed you and was worried about you.”

  My lips twitched at her deep Southern accent. She glanced at Mom, then away again. The piles of soda boxes and mega packs of ramen noodles on the table seemed wildly out of place now. Mom frantically worked her body off the couch as Mira pulled me into a warm hug.

  “How are you?” Mira asked, holding my shoulders. “I imagine you’re going stir-crazy here, not being able to run.”

  “You have no idea. I’m so happy to see you, Mira.”

  She smiled, then wrapped me in another hug. I sank into it, eyes closed, enjoying the comfort and the heady scent of potpourri. When she pulled away, Mom was trundling toward her room as fast as she could, using the wall to stabilize herself. Her bedroom door closed with a thud, followed by the muffled sound of the television starting up.

  “She still scared of us?” Mira whispered, staring over her shoulder.

  “Not scared,” I said. “At least, not of you. Just … nervous, I guess.”

  “Does she know that she and I are the same age?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe? I told her once, but…”

  “She wasn’t listening?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I understand. It’s Bitsy who scares the bejesus out of her, isn’t it?”

  “Definitely.”

  Mira nodded. “Don’t blame her. That woman terrifies me sometimes. It’s like she has ESP or something.”

  “It’s really not you, Mira. Mom has been like this for … forever. The only person she doesn’t run from anymore is Lexie.”

  In fact, I couldn’t remember a time when Mom didn’t shy away from anyone except Lexie. At least since I got my driver’s license at sixteen. Mira waved me into a chair, clucking like a mother hen. “Well, bless her heart. I’ll pray for her too. I’ve got my entire prayer circle working on your ankle.”

  “Aw, thank you.”

  “It’ll help. Those women could channel the angel Gabriel if they wanted. Sit down, sit down! Prop that leg up. My goodness, it looks sore!”

  “It’s a boot, Mira.”

  “A big one! Are you in pain? Do you need some meds?”

  Just then, I noticed that two brown grocery bags hung from her arms. She set them aside and grabbed a pillow from the couch when I lifted my ankle onto another chair.

  “Here.” She patted the pillow into place. “Use that. Keep that swelling down so you can get to that race. I brought us some brunch. Have you already eaten?”

  “Only a little.”

  “Good. Nothing exciting. Just some warm scones I made this morning before the service—reduced fat. I used applesauce instead of butter! They’re soft as velvet. You’re just going to die. It’s hard to make a moist scone.”

  I smiled. It wouldn’t have mattered what she brought. Just having her here brightened the house considerably—and it wasn’t just her electric makeup or the sunshine that spilled into the trailer as she yanked open drapes and zipped the blinds all the way to the top.

  “Thanks, Mira.”

  “My pleasure, honey.”

  After laying out napkins—ignoring the stacks of regular soda and fruit snacks—and setting out a plate of fresh scones, she settled down across from me. Her kind, wrinkled eyes met mine. She leaned forward and grabbed my hand, peering intently into my eyes.

  “Now,” she said. “How are you, really? No lies. No bluffs. Don’t act brave. Tell me just like it is. I won’t nag you like Bitsy.”

  My body relaxed into a sigh. Mira really wouldn’t. She wouldn’t even report to Bitsy.

  “Stir-crazy. Sad. Determined. I’m going to go insane here.”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  I sat back. “I guess I never realized how busy I was until I couldn’t leave the house. I never really was home much.”

  Mira patted my hand and reached for her scone. “I love being at home, but even I need to get out sometimes. That’s when I go haunt Bitsy’s place and play with those adorable girls.”

  I’d missed the last Health and Happiness Society meeting because I was filling in for a last-minute Zumba class, but longed for the next one, which wouldn’t be for another week or two. A veritable eternity, at this rate. Mira reached into her sprawling, floral purse that was almost as loud as her eyeshadow. She pushed a stack of Redbox movies at me.

  “I brought these. Thought it might help.” An assortment of action, romance, and new Disney movies sat in the mix. “Wasn’t sure what you’d want to see, so I grabbed a bunch.”

  “I haven’t seen any of these, thanks. This will definitely help.”

  She patted my hand again and took a bite of scone. Her eyes darted to the couch, the television still droning in the background.

  “Your mom okay?” she asked quietly. “I worry about her.”

  Hesitation stopped me short. Was Mom okay? I couldn’t remember the last time I’d asked her. In a world that never changed, how could she be anything but okay?

  “Fine.”

  Mira’s brow furrowed, but she didn’t pursue the topic. What did fine mean, anyway? Instead, she leaned forward, eyes bright. “I can see you’re just about to go insane, so I came with a proposal. How about a temporary job?”

  My back straightened. “Really?”

  “Mmm-hmm. Good pay, too. Great boss.”

  “How temporary?”

  “Ten days at most. Two or three of training, then you work for a week. My friend needs some help with her business. It’s busy season, and she just needs someone to help her with a few … errant things. Doesn’t even require you to stand.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “My brother is having open heart surgery in Chicago, so I promised I’d be there for the first week after discharge to help take care of him at home. My brother doesn’t know his head from a hole in the ground sometimes and his wife has severe anxiety.”

  “What’s the job?”

  “She’s paying fifteen dollars an hour.”

  “Doing what?”

  “And it’s up to eight hours a day. More if you want it.”

  “Right, but what will I be doing?”

  “Fantastic location, too. Air conditioned.”

  “Mira, what is it?”

  Mira hesitated, mouth half open, then shrugged. “Oh … you know.”

  I blinked, waiting. “Uh, no. I don’t.”

  “Little things, I guess?” She shifted in her chair. “Paperwork, maybe. Sorting. Organization. A bit of … creative design? That … that kind of thing.”

  I frowned. “I’m not good at office work.”

  “Oh, none of that.” Mira fidgeted
with her napkin. “It’s kind of hard to describe. But anyway, I’m heading there tomorrow afternoon for four hours and could start training you then. You interested in freedom?”

  She picked at her scone and didn’t quite meet my eyes. What could she possibly be hiding? My mouth opened, then closed. What did it really matter? Money was money. Escape was … escape. At this rate, I’d pay someone to let me work for them. Mira could throw me into the burning depths of hell to mop up errant ash and I’d throw myself into the work with gratitude.

  “Okay.”

  She perked up. “Really?”

  “Sure. Can’t be worse than sitting here for another day.”

  “I agree! I’ll pick you up at 8:30. I told her I’d be there around 9:00. We’ll probably end up staying until early afternoon. You can sit the whole time, and we’ll bring pillows to prop your leg up. Do you need any help in the morning?”

  “No. I think I’ve figured it out so far. I just take a long time to do everything. Took me almost an hour to bathe the other day.”

  “Keeps you busy.”

  “Good point.”

  Mira broke off another piece of scone with a grin. “Thanks, Rachelle. I’ll owe you one. I can’t wait for you to meet Sophia. You’re going to love her. Now, tell me more about this upper body workout plan. I have some serious old-lady arms I want to get rid of.”

  The quaint shops that characterized the historic downtown space barely stirred this early, though a couple people were walking down the sidewalk, when Mira pulled to a stop in lower downtown the next morning. Wrought iron trellises, empty bike racks, and flower boxes filled the street. Two- and three-story brick buildings lined the road. No doubt the new studio apartments above the shops cost more than our food budget every month.

  Which was prodigious.

  Sticky heat swept over me when I opened the car door. Tar squished beneath my flip flop when I slid my good leg out and drew in a deep breath. I climbed out of the car on one foot and reached back for the crutches. The sun hit my face with a delicious tang.