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"Come on, guys. Let her through. If she wanted to talk to you, she'd say something." Scott shouted at the desperate crowd of reporters.
Brenda wanted to be angry that he was coming to her rescue, but she couldn't muster up the energy. She gave him a weak smile, let him take hold of her arm, and pulled her through the muscling reporters to the car. Brenda got into the back seat. Her emotions tore through her chest like a bird in a cage too small for its wings. She wanted to say something to Scott but couldn't decide what. He'd always been the person she always confided in. But that was then. She sat staring blankly out the window.
Scott greeted her parents and then slammed the door shut. As the car drove off, he waved and turned around to address the throng of reporters. But to his dismay, they had already dispersed to their vans.
"Hey, where you guys going? I'll talk to you! Don't you want to know about me?"
"No!" one of the reporters yelled back, and Scott laughed.
"Why not? Come on. I'll answer your really tough questions. My biggest threat is the cheeseburger. I can't say no to them. They taunt me." He followed a few steps behind the reporters as if trying to give them a taste of their medicine. Then, finally, he turned, headed into the skating rink, and went looking for Pamela.
Scott Porter had been at the same skating rink as Brenda for almost ten years. But, to him, a different kind of passion kept him coming back. When he walked onto the ice nearly every afternoon, he was greeted with the same sound.
"Mr. Scott is here! Mr. Scott is here!"
Half a dozen six-year-olds on Tuesdays, about ten eight-year-olds on Wednesdays, and two hockey teams of fourteen-year-olds on Friday nights and Saturday mornings called him that. It was due to his big sister's influence that he started up these small classes.
Joyce was older than Scott by six years and his only sibling.
"You are such a pest!" he'd hear at least a hundred times a day when they were growing up. She couldn't help it. Scott was a small shadow that followed her everywhere she went. He would be there even if she was learning to ride a bike or skateboard. If she was taking her first adventure walking alone to the ice cream shop, the shadow shuffled along behind her. And when boys became a subject of interest and visited the house, he would often peek around corners to watch them sitting on the porch swing. Sometimes he would observe the living room from the stairs just to see them on the couch watching a movie.
It wasn't until Joyce was eighteen years old that she realized Scott was anything but a pest. As a little brother, he never gave her anything to worry about. Scott wasn't reckless, running with scissors or eating dirt like she'd hear her girlfriends talk about at school. He didn't go through her things or mess up her room. In fact, he never even thought to barge in without knocking and waiting for a reply. It could be seen in the earliest baby pictures—after Scott Walter Porter was brought home from the hospital, weighing in at seven pounds eleven ounces, Joyce Anne Porter took to him like a duck to water.
She was at her mother's side at nightly feedings, talking to the crying infant while Mrs. Porter got his formula ready. Her words were soft and kind as she tried to explain in her sleepy, little-girl voice what their mama was doing and that it would only take a few more seconds, and he could have his snack.
His was the first face she'd run to see when she woke up. It was he who she wanted to see after the school bus dropped her off. His giggles were a never-ending reward for making funny faces or silly sounds. It never crossed her mind that she wasn't just Scott's sister but his very first and best friend.
So when boys, clothes, makeup, and those teenage things became more attractive to Joyce than reading comic books together or traipsing through the small patch of trees at the edge of their property to look for caterpillars or gardener snakes, Scott did the next best thing. He followed Joyce around. He didn't interrupt. He didn't try to pull her back home or fake an illness to get her to stay and play cards or pick up sticks. Whatever Joyce was up to was okay with him, as long as she was within view.
In her heart, Joyce liked that her little brother adored her so much. Sometimes she'd put on a show in front of her friends, rolling her eyes and planting her hand on her hip. "He follows me everywhere. I can barely go to the bathroom alone. When I come out, he asks what took me so long." To which her friends would nod their heads, and those who had younger siblings would totally sympathize. But then she'd smile and give Scott a wink, her secret signal that she didn't mind.
It might have been this easy and strong bond with her brother that made Joyce go into social work at the Poudre Valley Hospital. She had a knack for bringing children out of their shells. It was common for many children to retreat internally. For some of them, Joyce was their last hope. But, with faith and grit, she'd become a small beacon of light in what sometimes seemed like a completely black sea of sadness.
She'd been a child advocate for over fifteen years. The job was sometimes challenging, and she often felt teetering on the edge of a very dark place. But when that happened, she'd step back and regain her balance.
Like many girls who had younger brothers and sisters, Joyce started babysitting for extra money when she was about twelve. To her, it was getting paid to play games, draw pictures, tell stories, read books, and eat. What could be better? When their youth group at church was looking for volunteers to help with the children's Bible study class, she signed up immediately, often bringing Scott with her, insisting it wouldn't hurt him to learn a little more about the Good Book. Her volunteer efforts didn't stop there. She led a prayer group every Thursday evening at Christian Senior Living Home. She helped at the park district, teaching children how to swim. She led story time at the library once a week. If there was a kid over three or under sixteen within a four-town radius, they knew who Joyce Porter was, and they all loved her. She wasn't only an inspiration to Scott but to dozens of kids all around town.
However, Trisha Peebles impacted their lives more than they thought possible.
Trisha was a smiley little girl of six with olive-colored skin, dark brown eyes, and the most beautiful black hair that fell into natural, silky ringlets. She showed up at the library every day when Joyce was reading and would plop her little round body right in front, fold her hands, and listen intently to every word. She didn't speak much, but Joyce could tell her mind was transported to whatever mysterious, wonderful world the story described. As with many children who attended storytime, her grandmother often accompanied Trisha. But, of course, many parents had to work, and who wouldn't opt for a family member to watch their child as opposed to a stranger at a preschool, right?
That's how it's supposed to be. Children are supposed to feel safest at home. That's their refuge, their safe place to fall. That was probably why it was such a shock when Trisha stopped coming to the library. It wasn't like Joyce had been looking for her or had taken any particular interest in her. It was almost an afterthought when she asked Miss Windell, the librarian, if she'd seen the little girl.
"Trisha Peebles? Honey, she died. I thought you knew. It was in the newspapers."
"Died? What did she die of?" Joyce had asked, her thirteen-year-old mind unable to thoroughly comprehend how another child could be on the planet one day and then gone the next.
"She was beaten. Her grandmother took her to the hospital, and they said she'd been hit on the head." Miss Windell was patient, but Joyce remembered the woman fidgeting and looking at a stack of cards in her hands.
"Did they catch the person who did it to her?" Joyce pressed. Her mind wouldn't let her stop asking questions. She had to know if justice was going to be served. Wasn't it that simple? Just catch the guy who did it and throw him in jail.
"It was her grandmother who did it. And yes, the police have her now."
It was a couple of minutes before Joyce could move from that spot. When it was time for her to start her reading hour with the kids, Scott had to come and get her. She told him what she'd learned, and he also said he felt funny hearing the news. This was grown-up business—things adults talked about at the kitchen table over coffee while the kids were still in bed, sleeping late on Saturday mornings.
Joyce had picked out a story with a happy ending and read it with the same animation and enthusiasm she always did. The little kids hugged her when it was over like they usually did, and the older ones waved bye-bye, promising to be back next week.
But Scott saw the difference in his sister, even if no one else had. She had a serious demeanor as if something was on her mind. Then, when they had finally walked a distance from the library, Joyce began to cry.
It was time for Scott to be her protector. So, as best he could at seven years old, he took his sister's hand and held it as they walked, a little slower than usual, so Joyce could get it all out and not have to explain to her parents what had happened.
Several weeks later, Scott asked his parents about the little girl that died. And when he could face the situation himself without feeling funny or scared, he told his mother what they'd found out.
"I heard about it, Scotty, on the news. I didn't know you guys knew her," his mother said, gently slipping her arm around his waist and pulling him closer.
"Why does God let things like that happen?" he asked.
"Sometimes bad things have to happen so people can dig deep inside themselves and make good come from it. Somewhere, that little girl touched someone who might go on to do great things because of her. Had this bad thing not happened, that person might never realize their calling."
Scott sort of understood. It wouldn't be until much later that he'd see how right his mother was. When his sister decided on a life dedicated to social work for abused and neglected children, he saw the memory of Trisha Peebles reflected in her eyes.
"It just feels right," Joyce said to Scott. "I won't make a million dollars, but maybe I can help."
It was a contagious kind of helping, too. Scott couldn't sit behind a desk, keep detailed records, research cases, and maneuver through the bureaucracy that loved to wrap itself in miles and miles of red tape. His sister had that kind of patience. He didn't. Instead, he taught children how to ice skate. For that, he had all the patience in the world.
When Scott walked into the skating rink after his invitation to the reporters was turned down, he thought about his class with the kids. Even after ten years and dozens of students, the looks on their little faces were the same. He knew almost all their families and made a point to do so. He knew whether they had siblings and what they liked or didn't like at school. He knew who had that special something to keep skating for years, and he could also spot which ones were just out to have fun until something else stole their attention. Like his sister, he'd never make a million dollars at this job, but he hoped he was doing some good.
"Mr. Scott! Mr. Scott!" yelled Zack. Zack was six-and-a-half and had a vocabulary to rival most college professors.
"Hi. Zack. Are you ready to do some skating today?"
"Yup. I think I might have influenza."
"Influenza? Well, what makes you think you have influenza?"
The little boy's bright eyes searched the lights overhead, and Scott imagined he could hear the boy's mind buzzing and whirring inside his skull.
"Well, my grandma had it when she was my age."
"Oh, yeah? Well, that makes sense."
Zack's cheeks rounded like apples as he smiled. Then, just as Scott was about to pursue this conversation with his student, he felt the familiar vibration of his phone. Pulling it from his pocket, he looked at the number.
Unknown caller.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Scotty," came the familiar voice of Scott's father, Walter, on the other end of the line.
With lightning quickness, Scott was transported back in time to when he was thirteen years old and saw his father being led out of their family home in the middle of the night by a couple of men in suits with badges and guns underneath their jackets. His mother cried as she kissed him goodbye, twisting her wedding ring nervously as she watched him hug their kids.
"It's the only way, Mrs. Porter," one of the men said. He was tall, rail-thin, and looked like a scarecrow in his brown jacket and pants. He tugged his tie around his neck, obviously not used to it. Or maybe it was the intensity of the situation that was making him hot under the collar. "You both are giving each other a chance. Your children are going to have a chance. You can sleep well at night knowing that."
Scott remembered his mother nodding her head and weeping, standing there in her flannel nightgown, her hair messed and no makeup on. It wasn't just their father that was leaving. The whole family got a makeover. Scott, his mother, and his sister were plucked from Chicago and dropped into Colorado with new last names and histories.
As Scott got older, he began understanding the idea of a father in the witness protection program. But it didn't matter since everyone around him thought his father was dead. Extended family, neighbors, and friends who'd grown up with Walter all thought he'd died. So they went to the cemetery where the fake funeral was held. They placed flowers on the empty grave. Or maybe it wasn't empty. Perhaps some other person in another witness protection program was actually buried there. Either way, it wasn't Scott's dad beneath the headstone that read. "Walter Joseph Porter, beloved husband and father."
"Dad, hi!" Scott said in a low voice. He instinctively looked around the rink and saw no one out of the ordinary. Just the moms of the little ones who were busy getting their skates adjusted, fingers covered in mittens and hair tucked into caps. "How are you feeling?"
"I'm good," Walter replied. "It's so great to hear your voice, Scotty. So great. How's your sister doing?"
Scott gave a brief outline of his sister's life. Work. Kids. Home. Everything was going along like clockwork. And although Walter was happy to hear there was no report of strangers skulking around their homes or odd, inquiring phone calls at all hours of the night, he couldn't help feeling nervous.
"I better wrap it up, Scotty. I just wanted to check-in. Please tell your sister I love her and the girls and Ryan."
"Dad, why don't you just give her a call sometime? She'd be so happy to hear it from you."
It wasn't that Walter didn't want to talk to his daughter. On the contrary, he desperately wanted to hear her voice, speak to his granddaughters, and even hear what his son-in-law, Ryan, was doing. But they were a family. On the other hand, Scott was a young, healthy man. He could take care of himself. Joyce had more responsibilities, and there was no way Walter would take a chance with his only daughter's life or family. As far as anyone in Walter's new life knew, Walter was a widower, which was true, and he had a son with whom he couldn't communicate. It was a play on words, of course, but it caused everyone to leave all their questions at the door.
"I just can't take that chance, Scotty. You know that."
Scott nodded. He understood. His eyes filled with tears as he said goodbye to his father, not knowing if or when he'd hear from him again.
"Look, Scotty, there's one last thing before I go. You can't ever rely on any information you get from the government, but the guys have told me there might be some people out there trying to do some digging. I don't know how or why they'd think there were still stones to be overturned, but just keep your eyes open, okay, son? Don't say anything to your sister."
"Why would anyone be looking, Dad?" Scott said, not realizing his voice was even lower, and he was using his right hand to muffle his voice as he spoke.
"I don't know. Maybe because the economy is bad." Walter laughed at his own joke. "I'm just letting you know. I have to go, Scotty. I love you."
The phone went dead. That was usually how the conversations went, minus the bad news about mobsters possibly catching a whiff of his father's trail after all this time. Walter would just touch base once every nine or twelve months. Besides that, Scott assumed the government, the Bureau, or someone would let him know if anything happened to his old man.
He turned and walked back toward the rink where the kids were getting antsy.
"Hey, how come you guys aren't skating?" he yelled, getting all their smiling faces to look attentively at him.
"You're not teaching us, Mr. Scott!" one little girl yelled, and they all chimed in.
"I'm supposed to teach you?"
"Yeah!" they shouted, sounding like wild birds calling simultaneously.
"Oh, well, let's get started!" He took off his coat, quickly got into his skates, and herded the children onto the ice. He laughed and joked with them as he showed them how to maneuver backward, but his heart was heavy. He missed his father. He couldn't help it.
After an hour, Scott was getting ready to wrap up his class when he noticed a man he'd never seen before sitting in the stands. It rattled him slightly since he'd just heard those menacing words from his dad. This couldn't be part of that. This guy was just a dude; maybe someone's grandpa, a city inspector, or something totally innocent. Still, Scott couldn't help making a mental note of the guy's features and filing them away. He had dark hair that was combed back from his forehead. His face was weathered with deep lines, and he appeared to be from out of town. Tanning weather in Colorado wasn't for a few more months, and even then, no one ever got as bronze as this fellow. His eyes were serious, but he didn't seem threatening.
After a few minutes, the stranger got up and left. He moved rather slowly, shuffling out of the stands, taking his time, and carefully watching his own steps. Hardly what Scott would associate with any mafia—meathead types looking to collect on an old debt. But still, the timing made it seem just a little too coincidental.
Once home, Brenda tried to relax. She didn't speak about skating for the next week, and her parents never brought up the subject. But it had grown into a supersized elephant in the room.
Mrs. Wagner had shut the door to her sewing room, which was plastered with costume ideas, scraps of fabric, and all the costumes arranged by size hanging on a long curtain rod suspended over two bookcases. They went from itsy-bitsy, little-girl costumes to elegant designs for Brenda's last few competitions.
The small act of keeping the door closed made Brenda feel all the more alone. Had everyone made this decision for her and not told her? Had they decided what she would do now that they figured skating was no longer an option?
Brenda realized her parents had no idea what Pamela had told her. She assumed they thought she was afraid of trying to skate again. Now that her therapy was concluded, nothing seemed to stop her except that the idea of skating was scary. Maybe too frightening to face right away. So they were waiting for her to say something. Their conversations with her revolved around the weather, how the holiday would pan out, and other meaningless filler—anything but what she assumed was on their minds. But until she opened up, she knew they'd allow her all the time she needed to sort things out on her own.
Brenda was trying to do that as she sat in her room. "Maybe she's right," Brenda said to herself as she looked at her reflection in the mirror over her dresser. Almost every inch of her room was covered with ice-skating images. Her trophies and medals hung from every shelf on her bookcase. There were newspaper clippings of her receiving awards that her mother had put into frames. Every figurine wore ice skates, and just about every poster and picture had something to do with ice, skates, or the Olympics, except for one black-and-white photo of a guy screaming in horror, which Peter had given her as a joke. It was a funny picture from some old movie from the sixties that no one had ever heard of. But it made both of them laugh, so she kept it.
Peter didn't live at home anymore. He'd moved out while Brenda was in rehab, and she missed him. But the truth was, she wasn't really in the mood to talk to anyone. There was so much on her mind that she drew a blank every time she opened her mouth.
She flopped down on her bed and picked up a little white snowman stuffed animal that wore a green hat and scarf, which she'd had since she was six months old. Of course, the little guy wasn't white anymore but a dingy gray from years of hugs and being dropped in the yard. Brenda even used it to wipe runny noses and dirty fingers. But, overall, she loved the toy the only way a child knew how.
The little cutie looked at Brenda with his black-dot eyes and red yarn smile. Still, after all these years, he was adorable to Brenda. She smiled back and then looked at the cross hanging next to her door. That was another thing that had been in her room since she was a baby. And, like the little snowman's smile, the cross brought Brenda a special kind of comfort. But, as she gazed at it, tears filled her eyes.
"Maybe Pamela is right, and I don't belong on the ice anymore." The words hurt like jagged and rusty metal in her mouth. But she said them. Night after night, Brenda would lie down to sleep, but her mind refused to relax as it searched for a possible alternative. But no avenue she pursued was able to skirt around Pamela's decision.
The only option that would do it was getting another coach. But even that produced a unique set of problems. First, what would her mother and father say? They wouldn't go for it if Pamela convinced them that skating was too dangerous. Second, if her parents saw this as a viable option, there was the issue of building a relationship with a new coach. It took years to find a groove with a coach, and Pamela had been with Brenda almost as long as the little snowman she was holding. Then there was her injury. What coach would want to accept a new student who had her laundry list of possible ailments?
"This is depressing," she said aloud and looked at her cross again. After she said it, the words made her feel a little silly. What was she griping about? At least she was given an option that really wasn't so bad. Other people suffered through worse circumstances.
What's wrong with me? she thought, suddenly feeling lightness in her heart. I could help people out. I could do what Pamela said. Sure, it isn't the spotlight, but I'm there. I'm at the rink. I can skate on my own. I just ... can't ever ... be in the Olympics. Her lip trembled as tears fell down her cheeks. The snowman was warm against her chest as she squeezed him, just as she'd done when she was a little girl. She used his soft body to wipe away her tears and looked at her cross.
Okay, I think I see God's plan. I don't like it, but I understand it now. Brenda stood up and ensured her eyes weren't puffy so as not to give her mother any reason for alarm. Then she went into the kitchen and asked her mom to take her to the skating rink.
