Leaving Tracks

Leaving Tracks

Victoria Escobar

Copyright © 2014 by Victoria Escobar

Edited by AGC Editing and Services

Cover by Donna Dull with Sharp Cover Designs

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

Pr
ologue

O
ne

Two

Th
ree

Fo
ur

Fi
ve

S
ix

Se
ven

E
ight

Ni
ne

Te
n

El
even

Tw
elve

T
hirteen

Fou
rteen

Fi
fteen

Sixt
een

Seve
nteen

Eigh
teen

Nine
teen

Twe
nty

Twenty
One

Twenty
Two

Twenty
Three

Twenty
Four

Twenty
Five

Twent
y Six

Twent
y Seven

Twenty Eight

Twen
ty Nine

Thir
ty

Thirty
One

Thirty T
wo

Thirty
Three

Thirty F
our

Thirt
y Five

Thirty
Six

Thi
rty Seven

Thi
rty Eight

Ep
ilogue

Acknowl
edgments

Abou
t the Author

When I was younger, I always dreamed of being a legend, to be remembered in figure skating.

Michelle Kwan

I
was only
thirteen for a few hours when I killed my mother. It was entirely an accident but I had been the one with her. I was the only one that could have saved her, and I didn’t. I wasn’t strong enough.

Every year, for as long as
I could remember on my birthday, Mom and I would go out to the lake that bordered our land to ice skate. Mom had been teaching me to skate since I could walk, and by the time I was thirteen, it was just assumed we’d go out. I was the only one of her four children with any interest in the sport and I treasured the moments when I got my mother all to myself. And the best part was that I loved to skate.

I knew
Mom loved us all, but at times, it felt like one of my other brothers was loved more. It was irrational; even though we all shared traits with shade for shade blond hair and nearly the same shade bistre eyes; we each had our own special quirks that made us unique. My other brothers weren’t loved more, I knew that, they just had more in common with Mom. I could never be what they were, and it hurt, but there were some things that couldn’t be changed.

The lake
was actually on Knifeblade land or, since Penny Knifeblade had married twice already, it would be more accurate to say Knifeblade-Little-Becke land. It wasn’t a big lake by the standards of the word. It was only two football fields wide and possibly three football fields long at its longest point. It froze solid from mid-October to early March most years.

Since
my birthday was in early February, no one really considered it a risk to go out to the lake. No one had considered the unusually warm mid-thirty temperatures that had occurred a few days earlier and what that could have done to the thickness of the ice. It was winter in Minnesota–ice would remain ice until the spring or so everyone thought. So I believed too, and was wrong.

I
would never forget what the ice sounded like cracking under my feet. Both Mom and I had been too far from the shore to make a dash for it. But we had tried anyway. She would have made it if I hadn’t tripped. For as long as I’ve been skating, it was the only time in my life I remember tripping on the ice.

The water had been bone chilling cold
. It instantly sapped the strength and warmth from my body and prevented me from even attempting to swim back to the surface. I knew I should, I knew to kick my feet; I did know how to swim, but it was so cold. I’d never forget the weight of the skates dragging me further and further away from the light above my head.

Mom
had saved my life. She never left the house without her Swiss army knife. She had been able to cut the laces loose on my skates and push me to the surface. It took several attempts with both of us shaking from cold and wet to reach ice strong enough that I could pull myself up with a generous boost from Mom. 

She had gone under and frantic
, I had jumped back in to drag her up again. I couldn’t reach her skates to untie them or even attempt to as the water probably had them locked in place anyway. I had held onto her as tightly as I could and struggled back onto the solid ice dragging her up with me.

Then, soaking wet
and without bother for the shoes that sat on a fallen log next to the lake, I pulled her up in a piggyback and began the half-mile walk home. That was nearly as bad as the few minutes I had been in the freezing water. The air cut through my body like I was made of butter. Every step was agony, but I kept on. I focused only on putting one foot in front of the other and getting us home. At home was help. At home was the blessed warmth. At home my brothers and my father would be able to help Mom.

Thierry
, the oldest of my brothers, had been in the yard when I reached its perimeter. When I locked eyes with my brother, I stumbled; a relief so painful filled me I went blind. We were home; we would be okay. I fell and blacked out. When I woke next, Mom was already gone.

No one blamed
me for the accident–at least not to my face. I heard the whispers at her wake–had heard them still, long after our big house was empty. Every echo on the floorboards, every creak of wood was an accusation, a painful reminder that she was gone because of me.

Daddy
took to drinking. Something he’d never done in the thirteen years of my life. That too was on me. My father had turned into a fall down drunk because of me.

It only took three months in that state before
Daddy had wrecked his truck, and by doing so had robbed his four sons of our father as well. In the span of time less than a single season, my brothers and I went from a happy family to a broken one, and then to orphans.

I
never forgot and I was never forgiven.

“L
ook, look.” Glory
bounced in her seat as she pointed to the highway sign. “Wheaton in thirty-eight miles. We’re almost there!”

I
only smiled tiredly at my younger sister. I knew the smile didn’t quite reach the corners of my upturned hazel brown eyes but I tried. Glory needed my smile.

Yes,
we were almost there. Almost home.

It had taken a lot of patience, a lot of cunning and a lot of planning to make it even this far.
Our father hadn’t approved. Not that he had ever really voiced approval for anything his girls did. We always seemed to fall short of that very high compliment.

Glory
leaned over and ran her hand over my dark ginger braid. The braid just barely swished over my shoulders. I had meant to cut it before leaving Georgia, back to its original chin length sass, but I hadn’t the energy, or any real motivation to do so other than my father’s nagging.

“You look tired.”
Glory went from excited to concerned in seconds; a trait I found admirable yet annoying at the same time, “We can switch you know. I do have my provisional license.”

“I’m fine, besides you don’t know this leg of the trip anyway.”
I retorted a bit more sharply than I had intended. Yes, I was tired, but we were almost home. I just wanted to get there.

Glory
chewed her lip worriedly but refrained from another comment. She knew it would just irritate me further and that would make for an unpleasant rest of the drive. After twenty hours in the truck–and we hadn’t killed each other yet–she wasn’t about to break the peace.

“You said Avala sounded excited?”
Glory thrust the comment into the silence before it could get awkward in the cab of the moving truck. “Her and Morgaine are okay with this?” She had asked this before too, but I never failed to answer it.

“I didn’t get a chance to talk to Morgaine but I imagine she is,”
I glanced a moment at Glory. “There’s nothing to worry about. We’ll be welcome. We’ll always be welcome.”

Glory
nodded slowly but didn’t sound sure. “Okay. If you say so.”

I
smiled again with a bit more energy than the last time. I loved my sisters. All of my sisters, even though I hadn’t been able to see them often. Every time I came home, it was like I’d never left.

Avala and Morgaine were the children of
Mama’s first husband. Not from Mama directly, but Mama had taken on the single man with two children without reservation. And when he died, she fought tooth and nail to keep them.

For as long as
I could remember, Avala and Morgaine had been a part of my childhood. Avala had been eight years old when I had been born and Morgaine four, almost five. My sisters had been a constant until I had been around nine.

It would be different for
Glory, I knew that. She never really got the chance to know her other sisters before our father had whisked us away to Atlanta. She’d get the chance now, I thought, she’d have plenty of time to get to know her other sisters.

When
I turned off the highway onto the county route, I saw Glory straighten in her seat. “Don’t ask,” I said when Glory opened her mouth to do just that. “Yes, we are almost there. No we are not there yet.”

“I was going to say,”
Glory began testily, “that I don’t remember this.”

I
silently studied the brown landscape for a moment. “It
is
October. Up here, winter’s already got her teeth into the land. There are tree stands in various places; usually around the houses and main land; sometimes around the ponds or lakes. Most of the work yards are gravel or if affordable the more expensive cobblestone or asphalt.”

“I didn’t mean like that. I meant I don’t have any memories of this.”

I thought about it for a moment. “We didn’t usually drive from the south either,” I decided, “Usually we drive down from Wheaton, which takes us across a different road than this one.”

“How do you even know it then?”
Glory looked at me suspiciously as if I was about to get us lost any second.

I
shrugged. “Because no matter how long I’ve been gone, I’ve never forgotten the way home.”

Glory
didn’t respond to that nor had I really expected her to. I had been gone a long time–it felt like forever, but at the same time it felt like just yesterday I was here and had hugged my sisters goodbye to go to the Boston Nationals. And then, time had stopped while I was in and out of surgeries, in and out of therapies.

I
was done with all that, I reminded myself when I felt the bitterness rise in my chest. I was going home. No one would ever make me do anything I didn’t want to again.

Glory
practically bounced in her seat when I made the turn off the county route and onto another. Our ancestral land had started at the corner to our left. About half a mile up, I made the left into Knifeblade Acres.

“Put your jacket on.”
I ordered as Glory all but burst at the seams with excitement. Then I added, so she knew I was serious, “It may have been seventy degrees in Georgia, but I guarantee you it’s probably below freezing here. You’ll get sick, real quick without the jacket.”

“Right, right.”
Glory turned around in her seat to reach behind it for the items we had stuffed there at the beginning of this journey.

She pulled a knee length, vivid purple
pea coat from behind the seat, and also pulled out my deep maroon, knee length coat. Morgaine had sent them when we had made the arrangements to move home. They were both made of heavy wool and had a warm and very thick sheepskin lining.

The few people in the work yard were curious to
me–as far back as I could remember only Knifeblades worked Knifeblade land. I filed it away to ask later, and parked the moving truck in the work yard in front of the house rather than park in the jeep that sat in the driveway.

Glory
was out with a quick door slam almost before I had set the brake. The very brief exposure to the outside air let me know I had been right. It was freezing outside. I shrugged on the jacket Glory left on the seat and slowly climbed out of the truck.

Glory
was hopping around from foot to foot, making a spectacle of herself. “Hurry up. It’s cold. It’s cold. It’s cold.”

I
closed my eyes and breathed in the crisp air. It reminded me of skating. And it was comforting while stabbing me through the heart at the same time. I would deal; I would learn to deal, and this too would be okay one day.

“Hadley Canna Becke.”

I hunched my shoulders in automatic response before I even turned to face Morgaine who was striding across the yard. Before I could reply a greeting, Morgaine reached out and whacked the back of my head.

“Ouch. What was that for? I just got here
, haven’t done anything wrong yet.”

“You’re supposed to be here tomorrow. You were supposed to stop in Missouri and sleep and rest.”
Morgaine tossed the long ebony braid that fell over her shoulder back in a quick irritated motion. The colors of the feather and beads tied into the braid with leather string caught my focus instead of Morgaine’s eyes. Despite the lack of eye contact I knew she stared down at me with eyes nearly as dark as her hair.

I
grimaced without looking her in the face as I rubbed the back of my head. “Surprise?” I ventured cautiously knowing full well if she wanted to, she’d whack me again.

“Wait til
l Avala gets a hold of you.” Morgaine smiled wickedly and looped an arm around my shoulders. “Come on. I’ll walk you in.” Morgaine aimed her smile at Glory and studied my bouncing sister for a moment, “Hey, mouse. You’re awfully quiet today.”

Glory
turned from staring at the people in the yard and smiled at her. It was an old nickname and probably one she’d never outgrow or forget. “I don’t remember all these people before.”

“We’re
moving some stuff around and I’ve got the greenhouse stuff blooming. They’ll be ready to harvest around Christmas. It’ll quiet down after today. I won’t need any real help until it’s time to plant again. They’re from a Native American community nearby, which is handy as I don’t always need them.”

“Not Knifeblades,”
I commented as Morgaine led the way onto the porch and stomped her boots off. I followed her example, remembering how Avala preferred a clean floor, and motioned for Glory to the same.

“No, but same tribe. We’re all family.” Morgaine gave
me a quick squeeze before gesturing me to enter the house ahead of her.

“If you’re dragging dirt into the house again, I swear…” Avala stepped through the
dining room arch then simply stopped and stared.

“I found them in the yard. Can I keep them?” Morgaine asked grinning at her sister.

Avala sighed and wiped her hands on her apron before running a hand over her bob of hair to smooth it down. It was a nervous gesture, one that said she wasn’t expecting company today. The beads and feathers tied into her hair behind her left ear clicked and swung with the nervous motion. “You’re supposed to be here tomorrow.”

I
hunched again. I couldn’t help it. “We switched off, in six hour increments. I slept Glory drove. I drove Glory slept. It worked. We were anxious to get here.”

“They drove a truck,” Morgaine
informed stepping up to her sister and kissed her cheek before passing her into the dining room.

“A truck? But everything was supposed to be shipped. Hadley…” Avala’s eyes
, shades and shades darker than Morgaine’s, pinned me where I stood as I began unbuttoning my jacket.

“It’s not a big deal. I was careful.”
I shrugged and made a point to sniff the air. “Something smells good.”

Avala sighed again.
For now, I knew she’d let it go but I wouldn’t try my luck again any time in the near future. “Come on into the kitchen. We’ll get you fed, and then you can explain why you drove a truck instead of your car.”

An archway on the adjacent wall of the dining’s foyer entrance led into the kitchen. Morgaine was already
out of her coat and spooning out cups of soup then setting them on the round end of the spoon shaped bar. I carefully levered up into a bar seat draping my coat across the back of the chair and Glory sat next to me mimicking my actions.

The kitchen still looked like I remembered. The clean, clear
-coated wood was polished to a shine and the granite counter tops held no traces of whatever was simmering in the pot on the stove. Herbs hung on a drying rack over the sink and grew in various vases around the space. It felt like home.

I
noted that even as winter was rolling in, my sisters still retained the copper brown of summer. They wouldn’t lose that coloring even in the sunless winter. It was slightly depressing that my tan would fade as winter progressed, the curse of my diluted father’s blood. I’d only pass as Native American during the summer.

“Oh, man. I haven’t had real beef and barley soup since the last time
Mom sent us home with frozen containers of it.” Glory spooned her soup and then sighed in pleasure after the first taste. “Best soup ever!”

“Everything we eat is grown here now. Minus the meats.” Morgaine sat with her own cup of soup. “We still get those fresh from the Graton
’s though. Everything’s local.”

Avala set large chunks of bread on the counter with a bowl of butter. “There are things, milk, butter, eggs that the Graton
’s also supply.” She told us as she sat down as well. “Thierry’s pretty good about keeping us stocked. They’ve expanded the dairy over there and can do a lot more than they used to.”

“The boys
started making their own cheeses and such a few years back. It’s not big yet, but it’s enough we don’t have to go looking for a supplier.” Morgaine added.

“You don’t have to worry about anything you eat here,” Avala smiled, “it could make you sick for a few days, or rather the chemicals from processed food will as you detox
, but I’ve got some tea I can give you to assist the process if you’d like. You won’t be sick as long.”