by Hope Franke
“She had an air about her, like she knew she was special. She didn’t like to do things the way everyone else did. She wasn’t the nicest person, really, but then again, neither was I.” He cringed. “We were perfect for each other that way. Though,” he added after a moment. “I think she was growing bored of me. I couldn’t blame her for that.”
He lay back and pinched his eyes shut. He looked broken and vulnerable. Katja felt her heart reaching for him, wanting to comfort him, wanting him, and she knew it was a dangerous place for her.
Even if he returned the feelings Katja was developing for him, how could she know she wouldn’t just be a facsimile for Greta? A stand in?
She looked away and fought the heaviness building in her chest. She didn’t know what else to say to him. She didn’t have any more questions.
“I know it’s time to let go,” Micah finally said. “And I want to. I just don’t know how.”
Katja considered him. “Maybe you need to perform some kind of ceremony.”
“Like a funeral?”
“Do you think she’s dead?”
“For the longest time, I didn’t. Greta was just too strong-willed to let someone else take her life. I know it sounds stupid.” He sighed. “But now, after all this time, I don’t know. If she were alive, she would’ve let someone know by now. She was selfish, but not that selfish.”
“How about a memorial? Then you don’t have to decide on her fate. She’s just gone. Maybe saying goodbye in an official manner will help you to gain closure.”
Micah flopped back and stared up at the clouds rolling across the sky. Katja watched the emotions race across his face: fear, sadness, regret.
“I don’t know if I can do that,” he said. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a pair of sunglasses, and put them on.
He didn’t want her to see his struggle. He was shutting her out.
That was fine with Katja. She had no right to Micah or to know what was going on in his head. He said he was ready to let go, but obviously he wasn’t.
Maybe she should leave? For real, this time. This thing with Micah was getting so complicated.
But then again, where would she go? She’d have to figure that out first. And she’d need more money than she had right now. She’d go talk to Maurice later today, see if she could book another gig. And there were other places in town. With her job at the café, she should be able to get her own place, or at least find a new roommate.
How many times had she had this exact thought? What was it about Micah that she just couldn’t seem to leave him? But she would this time. Once she had enough money she’d head to Munich. She’d heard it was a good place for artists.
Micah removed his glasses and squinted at her. “What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing,” Katja lied.
“Please don’t leave.”
Katja stared at him. Could he read her mind now? “Why not?”
“I’ll do it. I’ll do the ceremony. Just don’t leave me.”
After all he’d done for her, the least she could do was support him through this, right? Just a little more time. Then she’d go. For sure.
Katja stood in front of the locked door and waved Micah over. “We need to start here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your shrine. It has to go.”
Micah looked stricken, frozen to the spot. Katja sighed. If he couldn’t even tear down the cork board, how would he ever get through a ceremony? Her heart sank. He was in so deep, she doubted he’d ever get out.
Her shoulders collapsed as she let out a defeated breath.
Then Micah said, “I’ll get the key.”
She stepped aside as he opened the door.
Shivers ran up her spine as she stared at the board on the back wall. At Greta’s pictures. Some of them were of her smiling and laughing, others showed her in serious thought. A search through the drawers found more photos of Greta and Micah together when they were happy.
Or seemingly happy.
Micah moved stiffly, like a robot, pulling out tacks, returning them to the box they’d come from. He piled the photos onto the desk, gently, pausing to stroke the odd one before reluctantly releasing it. All the newspaper clippings reporting on Greta’s disappearance were stacked beside the photos in two neat piles. He rolled the red strands of wool into a clump.
He turned to Katja. “What should I do with this?”
“Burn it,” she said without hesitation.
“Burn it?”
“If you really want to let go, you have to let go.”
She picked up the photos and the papers, grabbing the yarn at the last minute, and headed to the kitchen. She dropped the items into the stainless steel sink, fished through a drawer and produced a lighter. She handed it to Micah. “You do it.” She knew it was merely a symbolic gesture, that Micah had digital copies of all these photos somewhere, but it was an important step.
Micah slowly reached for it. His gaze moved from the lighter to the items in the sink. His hand shook when he lit the corner of the photo on top. He clamped his jaw tight, his expression pushing against a swirl of emotion.
Katja stood beside him as they watched Greta’s face on the top photo gradually disappear behind a retreating black edge. Slowly the heat enveloped the pile until flames jumped out of the sink, and then the flames receded until the fire died, leaving the basin full of ashes.
Katja studied Micah, seeing his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. “You can cry if you want to,” she said.
He shook his head. “I’m done crying for her.”
Katja fished through the cupboards until she found an empty jar under the sink, and handed it to him. “Put the ashes in here.”
He hesitated, then wiped the inside of the sink with his palms, scooping up the ashes and letting them go into the jar Katja held for him. It took five swipes of the sink to fill it, and when the ashes reached the rim, Katja put the jar down on the table. She returned to turn on the tap, then reached for Micah’s ash covered hands and held them under the stream of warm water. She washed them gently with soap, running her fingers between each of his, taking her time, caressing the tops of his hand and stroking his palms until every sign of ash was gone. It was strangely intimate and Katja felt a blush rush up her neck.
Micah’s eyes washed over her as she took a towel and dried their hands. “Now what?” he said with a husky voice. The way he looked at her, with such affection and… adoration, yes, adoration, made her tremble.
She struggled with her own voice. “Let’s go to the bridge.”
Katja grabbed their jackets off the hooks and handed Micah’s to him. She threaded her arms into hers and wondered as she watched him stand there unmoving, if she was going to have to dress him. Something clicked for him as she buttoned up her coat, and he finally shrugged his on.
She twisted the cap of the jar tightly, then handed it to Micah. This was his goodbye affair. He needed to carry it.
The sky was overcast and grey with a cool wind blowing from the north. Katja stuffed her hands in her pockets and kept stride with Micah. He held the jar with both hands close to his chest. The expression on his face was somber, and Katja hoped they were doing the right thing, that this exercise wasn’t about to push him over some sharp, psychological edge.
They continued walking side by side without talking. The light at the highway was green when they got to the crossing so they didn’t have to break stride. The stone bridge had just a few pedestrians crossing, and they soon came to an empty cut out, the same one Katja often busked in. They leaned over the thick, flat stone edge and spent a few moments looking down at the meandering water that flowed below. A boat lightly occupied with spring tourists motored underneath. Ducks and geese swam near the shoreline, their bottoms bouncing up into the air as they captured their meals. The river’s song was soothing and melodic, perfect for what they were about to do.
Micah set the jar on the ledge and twisted off the cap.
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br /> “I’m sorry I lost you,” he whispered. He gently turned the jar upside down and watched the ash disappear into the wind. “I’ll see you in Heaven some day, Greta, but until then, goodbye.”
Katja studied his face as he registered his loss. The ashes were gone. Greta was gone. He blinked a few times and exhaled. Then she saw something she rarely saw on Micah’s face. Relief.
They stood there in silence for a few moments longer. Katja wondered if Micah had truly turned a corner. If they had turned a corner. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself in response to the spring chill, but the sun felt good. She lifted her sunglasses onto the top of her head and let the rays massage her face. She heard Micah take a long breath and slowly release it.
“Are you ready to go home?” she asked, swiping at strands of wind-blown hair and tucking them behind her ear.
He nodded lightly. “Yeah. And Katja?” He reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers. She glanced at their joined palms feeling surprised, but pleased.
“Yes?”
His eyes grew warm as he took her in. “Thank you.”
When the first of June rolled around, Katja insisted she start paying her half of the rent. Again, Micah refused it. She compromised by using only her own money to buy the groceries, which worked out better for her, since the rent on a flat this nice would be out of her budget anyway, even if she paid only half.
Micah’s mood had improved dramatically since “the ceremony,” and Katja hoped that maybe he could actually get over Greta after all.
They continued to spend evenings together, walking around Neustadt taking in live music, or staying home watching TV. One evening Pretty Woman, the 1990s movie starring Julia Roberts and Richard Gere, came on. Katja opened a bag of chips and poured them each a glass of Coke for the occasion.
“This is such a great movie,” she said.
Micah wrinkled his brow. “Isn’t it about a prostitute who falls in love with a rich guy?”
Katja nearly choked on a chip. She washed it down with the cola, and the bubbles burned up her nose. She coughed.
“Are you okay?” Micah asked.
“The rich guy fell in love with the prostitute.” She collapsed on the opposite end of the sofa, her face burning. Was that how Micah saw her? Did he still see her as a prostitute? Even though she never even did anything?
She felt his eyes sear her. She covered her face. She wanted to run and hide.
“Would you have?” Micah asked. Again, it was like he could read her mind. “If I’d paid you?”
He’d forgotten that he had paid her. He just didn’t get anything for his money.
“What does it matter now?” she snapped.
He persisted. “But would you have?”
“Yes!” She glared at him. “Are you happy? You have no idea what it’s like to be starving and cold and alone.” She fought back tears. “It’s just sex.”
She felt the sofa shimmy as Micah moved closer. He traced her chin with his finger, forcing her to look at him. She shivered at his touch. “It’s never just sex, Katja,” he said. “Not with me.”
Katja pinched her eyes shut and turned away. She wished she hadn’t gone out that night. If it hadn’t been for Irma…. but no, she couldn’t blame her. She could only blame her own weakness. She was no better than any of those girls on the street.
She sighed. “What do you want from me?”
He inched closer. “I want you to know how valuable you are.” He slid to the floor in front of her, forcing her to look at him. “Your body, your mind, your spirit. You are important, all of you, and… priceless. Don’t sell yourself short, Katja. There’s not enough money in the world that could buy you. Only love.”
Her throat grew so dry, she could barely swallow. Where was this coming from? Why did he even care about her at all?
Micah sat back on the sofa beside her, so close they were touching. His legs pressed against hers. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and kissed her gently on the forehead.
It was the first time he’d shown her any kind of physical affection. The first time his lips touched her skin. She relished the pleasure it brought her.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s watch this movie.”
Katja bit her lip, fighting against the electricity his closeness had triggered. “I don’t think we should.” It came out in a husky moan. She winced.
Micah’s eyebrows jumped. “We don’t want to watch these two beautiful people fall in love?”
“No,” Katja said adamantly. If she watched Edward and Vivian go at it on screen there’d be no stopping her from attacking Micah right there on the sofa. He’d warmed up to her, but he wasn’t ready for that.
“There’s another one on, where people shoot aliens and drive space ships,” she said, reaching for the remote.
“Ah, I agree. Probably a better choice.” Micah grinned. “For tonight, anyway.”
When Katja started working at the café, Renata had requested she wear black dress pants and a white shirt under the coffee shop-issued apron, and she’d found just what she needed at the second hand shop. She discovered, of course, that she needed more than one set, so had been back since to buy more. She selected a clean set, got dressed and ready and now found that she still had an hour to burn before her shift began.
Katja collected her guitar, warmed up her fingers on a blues scale, then opened up her notebook. An idea had been percolating, and she scribbled out some lyrics.
It’s all in how you look at it,
she said
As if there were a hundred ways to walk a high wire
Go on and try to let it go
Close your eyes and
Let your heart rule your head sometimes
How deep can you feel?
Yes, this was about Micah. All her lyric ideas were about Micah these days. And her mass of mixed-up emotions concerning him. Why did she steer him away last night? He wanted to watch a sappy romance with her, and she pushed for the dry, science-fiction flick. Did she want to be more than friends with Micah or not? She accused him of holding back, but she was equally to blame.
Deep down she knew the truth. She wasn’t worthy of him. He might not know it yet, but he’d figure it out one day, and then he’d send her packing. For sure. A flare of anguish shot through her being at that thought. How would she cope with the real thing, when the imagined scenario caused so much pain?
She jotted down a few more lines and worked on some new melodies. Time passed quickly, and before she knew it, an hour was up already. She tossed her notepad aside, grabbed what she needed for work and rushed to get out the door.
Living around the corner from her workplace, Katja thought, should make it easier to get there on time, but she found it almost made it worse. The problem was the false sense that she could get there in thirty seconds, when you really need five full minutes.
She dashed down the stairs, pushed through the door to the outside and raced to the corner. She panicked a little when the little man light flashed red indicating she had to wait at the intersection, but fortunately he turned green shortly after. Katja didn’t think Renata would be mad if she were a few seconds late, but she had been kind enough to give Katja a chance at this job, and she didn’t want to appear ungrateful or like she took it for granted.
“Hello, Katja!” Renata said, greeting her when she blew in.
“Hi, Renata. I hope I’m not late.”
Renata glanced up at the big clock on the wall. The minute hand was one minute past the hour. She grinned. “I bet you were lost in a new song.”
Katja put her apron on. “I was. How did you know?”
Renata waved a hand. “My son’s an artist. I’m aware of how the creative mind works. Or doesn’t work.”
Katja cleaned the coffee machine, wiped down tables after patrons left and tidied up the displays. When the mid-afternoon rush began she helped Renata take orders, making gourmet drinks and providing sweet treats before exchanging cash. O
ccasionally, customers came in just wanting a selection of buns or a loaf of bread. Katja would put on her plastic gloves to remove them from the display and place them into paper takeaway bags.
A guy with a boyish face and neatly parted hair arrived during a lull. “Hello,” he said. “You must be Katja. My mother speaks very highly of you.”
His mother? “Oh, you must be Renata’s son,” she said, smiling.
He smiled back and held out a hand. “I’m Jonas.” Katja shook his hand, noticing the splattering of paint speckles on his arm. This was the artist.
Renata called his name when she spotted him, and he made his way around the counter to the back of the store. Katja watched as mother and son gave each other an affectionate embrace.
Jonas told Renata about an art fair he was invited to show at. Renata beamed and gave him another hug. Something twisted in Katja’s heart as she watched. Renata was a good mother. How different Katja’s life would be if her own mother had been as aware of her as Renata was of her children. If only her own mother had offered her support as she followed her dreams.
“Katja.”
Katja snapped out of her reverie when Renata called her. “Yes?”
“Jonas is exhibiting his art at a festival here in Neustadt next month,” she boasted.
“That’s great,” Katja offered sincerely. She understood how hard it was to make it as an artist, no matter the art form.
“Katja’s an artist, too,” Renata said to her son. “She’s very good.” Katja felt herself blush. So that was what it would feel like to have a parent who was proud of you.
“And she’s a great singer-songwriter, too,” Renata went on.
“Renata, please.”
“No, it’s true.”
“Actually,” Jonas started, “the organizer is looking for someone to play acoustic music in the background. You play guitar, right?”
Katja nodded.
“I could give you his contact info if you like.”
