Identical (18 page)

Still, I might have bought into

the essence of Christ, except,

according to the scriptures, he

also asked for understanding

and forgiveness, even of our

enemies. And if he really expected

that, I could not pass muster.

Some people I’ll never forgive.

Who first turned me on to the Bible.

Whenever my life takes a wrong

turn, I look there for direction.

I went there often,
she said,
when

I was no more than your age and

the Nazis overran my country.

The Bible, she said, offered comfort.

But it couldn’t save the Jews who

were marked for execution. It took

people to do that, and my people,

Lutherans, were not afraid to

interfere. Every life is precious.

The Bible, she said, gave no solutions.

But it did let us know God

helps those who help themselves.

In our Danish eyes, Lutherans,

Jews, and all in between were no

more nor less than Danes.

Comforted, validated, they went to work.

Once we got word the Germans

were definitely coming for our

Jewish brothers and sisters,

we smuggled them to safe houses

along the eastern coastline.

And, to make the original “fisher of people” proud,

Mostly at night, but sometimes

day, we put them on fishing boats

and took them safely to Sweden.

We lost four hundred, but saved

thousands from the camps.

They lost more than their Jewish friends.

At first the Nazis took little

except food, but with the Resistance,

they confiscated property, possessions.

The freedom fighters they caught

went to the camps. Or disappeared.

Some were even martyred on the spot.

Many of us were just children.

I saw a friend gunned down in

the street. But we were doing

the Lord’s work, and we reaped

his mercy from that time forward.

I’ll have to make do with

a sugar OD, leave the five

food groups for next time.

Look at me, already plotting

a next time. What’s up?

Stupid question, Kaeleigh.

What isn’t up? You can’t

maintain a relationship

with the only guy in

the world worth loving.

Your father’s a freak,

your mother is invisible,

your friends don’t get

you at all, and you for

real like it that way.

School used to be an escape.

Now it’s just another place

with too much pressure,

too much confrontation,

and so not enough joy.

Your entire life is joyless.

Go ahead. Eat. Pig out, in fact.

Food is real, too much

of it the only thing you feel.

(Except the razor.) So feel.

As I pedal my bike up the hill

toward the Lutheran home.

Several days until the time

change, it shouldn’t be too dark

when I leave. But I’m going to

have to figure out a better way

to and from this place once night

falls when it’s still afternoon.

I despise the short days of winter.

Don’t even like the holidays,

and why would I? The only good

thing about them is the omnipresent

food. But all that phony good cheer?

Spare me. Or jump me straight

from Halloween to Easter.

I definitely do candy, so I’m great

with those noncelebrations.

Halloween is actually stupid,

unless you’re under twelve.

I know some adults like to dress

up (or down) in costumes,

drink too much, and ogle

one another. I remember Mom

and Daddy doing that when

Raeanne and I were little.

But I totally think everyone

past middle school really ought

to give it a break. Except maybe

witches and vampires. I don’t

believe in werewolves. But moon

worship, bonfires, and—oh yeah,

especially—a little bloodletting

seem like reasonable things to me.

I doubt anyone here at the old

folks’ home would want to play

those games. But they are having

a Halloween party. William, dressed

up like a pirate? Greta, maybe

a French maid? Ha! Too funny.

I was invited, and, thinking about

it, I might just have to go.

Sounds like more fun than spending

the evening answering the doorbell

and topping off greedy kids’ pillowcases.

When a car beeps and slows

to a stop nearby. It’s a truly

forgettable vehicle—a well-

used Toyota something, silver.

The surprise is who’s driving.

Brittany. She and I have known

each other for years. But not

well enough to swap secrets.

Hey, girl! Bet you can’t guess

what I did this afternoon.

She pauses, and must decide

I’m really dense.
Like my ride?

“Hmm. Let me see. Did you

get a haircut? No. Manicure?

Nah. Your nails look awful.

Oh. What did you say?

Something about…your ride?”

I smile. “Got your license, huh?

Oh hey, did you leave school early?

You missed all the excitement.”

I heard about it on the news.

Top of the hour on the radio.

Not the best radio, but at

least I’ve got tunes.

My smile grows. “Yeah, except

for top of the hour. Congrats

on the license. I probably

won’t get mine until I’m old

enough to drink legally. Anyway,

I gotta run. Drive carefully. We

don’t need another statistic,

as my dear old dad would say.”

No worries. I don’t plan

on being a statistic, unless

it’s a good one. Hey, want

a ride to school tomorrow?

I hardly ever take rides from

friends, and I start to say no,

but she looks so hopeful,

I just can’t. “Why not?”

We agree on a time and away

she goes, and as I pedal up

the driveway, it occurs to me

that Brittany (plus Toyota)

just might come in handy,

especially when winter

hits for real. Long as her car

has a heater, of course.

At the old folks’ home,

just more of the same ol’,

except for one major thing.

Greta has a visitor. Someone

very special, from the past. I can

tell he’s special by the sparkle

behind her spectacles. I can

tell he’s from her past because

they’re speaking in Danish,

something I’ve never heard

her do before. I’m fascinated,

and even though I can’t

understand more than a word

or two, I keep finding excuses

to exit the dining room (where

I’m supposed to be getting

everything set up for dinner)

in favor of the sitting room.

Greta and her visitor have

parked themselves in front

of the fireplace, and their

conversation seems every bit

as cheerful as the song of wood,

crackling behind them.

As dinnertime nears, more and

more people stir around them,

but they are so caught up in

each other, they barely notice.

If I didn’t know better, I’d

definitely guess this was love.

Scarlet hot through my veins.

I mean, the woman is like

eighty-two years old or some