Letters to Nowhere #1 (Completed!)

Letters to Nowhere: Part 82

I heard Stevie, Ellen, and Blair gasp nearby, and when I scrambled to my feet, a little girl with brown pigtails, maybe three or four years old, stood a few feet away clutching a basketball, her chubby arms barely able to wrap all the way around it. My heart was flying and I could hardly breathe. The shock of going from nearly asleep to scared as hell was too much for my body to handle.

The girl's lip started trembling, and then a full-out wail erupted from that tiny mouth, filling the silence that had suddenly fallen on the gym. I clutched my chest as a woman rushed over from the lobby, snatching up the little girl in her arms and throwing a glare in my direction. I looked over at my teammates, who sat with their eyes wide, mouths hanging open.

            Gymnasts don't scream like that. Ever.

            From the corner of my eye, I could see Bentley near the front desk, watching me carefully. I drew in a deep breath and then headed for the locker room, avoiding the stares from all the preschool parents.

            I was yanking my stuff from my locker as fast as possible when Blair appeared behind me.

            "Karen, what's going on?"

            New beads of sweat had begun to form on my forehead and my chest felt so tight. "If I tell you, can I leave without talking about it? I really need some air."

            She nodded.

            I squeezed my eyes shut, spewing out the words as fast as possible. "I have nightmares. Lots of them. My parents are broken into pieces, body parts everywhere, and I keep seeing my decapitated dad's head rolling toward me and just a minute ago I thought..." Breathe in, breathe out. "God, this sounds so stupid when I say it out loud, but in my head it's so real."

            She put her hands on my arms, holding me in place. "Look at me, Karen."

            I opened my eyes and tried to breathe.

            Her fingers tightened around my arms. "You can get through this. I know you can. It's like a mental block. Break it down and figure it out, okay?"

            I was hit with about twenty percent relief hearing her speak my language. "Thanks, Blair."

            She released me and I snuck out of the locker room and through the front doors of the gym before anyone else could stop and chat. I began to feel more and more resolve as I drove home, already forming a plan for the afternoon. I needed something. I needed information.

            Some of their accident story had been public, but I couldn't find the details on the Internet, and at the time it had happened, I hadn't let myself hear or see any of it. I hadn't thought it'd help at first. But Grandma had put the obituaries in my old room, which meant they might be in those boxes Jordan had put away in the garage.

            I practically ran through the front door, tossed my stuff onto the couch, and made myself a turkey pita sandwich before heading to the garage. There were boxes everywhere, and since Grandma had hired movers to move my room here, I couldn't tell my boxes from what was already here.

            I spent a couple hours digging through my old items—pictures and trophies and birthday cards and ribbons and scrapbooks—all while taking trips to the kitchen to grab a banana or another bottle of water. Eventually, I opened a giant box that had three thick photo albums, all the same shade of gray-blue. Curiosity took over; this was either something of Bentley's or something of my parents'. Both options intrigued me.