The Tracks Read online

  The Tracks - Text copyright © Sally Royer-Derr 2020

  Cover Art by Emmy Ellis @ studioenp.com © 2021

  All Rights Reserved

  The Tracks is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events are from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  The author respectfully recognizes the use of any and all trademarks.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the author’s written permission.

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Dedication

  To all the friends who touched my heart throughout the years.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to all who support me in my writing journey. My husband, Mike, always by my side every step of the way, our wonderful son, Bradley, my insightful beta readers, Grace Shurr, Toni Tokarz, Susan McNally, and all of you who buy my books and share kind words of encouragement with me, I am blessed to have all of you in my life!

  Thank you, Emmy Ellis, amazing editor and cover artist! I am forever grateful for your guidance.

  The Tracks

  Sally Royer-Derr

  Chapter One

  I never told anyone my thoughts that day. No one would listen anyway. Not really. The musings that afternoon were ones that often ran through my mind walking along the train tracks behind our house. It rained earlier in the day, the late spring ground soft and muddy. Not a bother to me, though. I had my elder brother’s work boots on. If they tracked clumped-up mud into the house it would be his fault. Not mine.

  I liked to walk on the lonely tracks. Scraggly woods blocked out the run-down houses and trailers that made up my neighborhood. On the other side was an open field just starting to break out in early spring wildflowers. In the distance stood the Millers’ old white farmhouse and their peeling, red-painted barn in desperate need of repair.

  The train usually went through once a day. When we first moved here I’d sit for hours waiting for it. Why? Who knows? Once it went past, nothing happened. Last summer I remember writing the time of day each train came through. Again, no idea why, but I did. Probably because there wasn’t anything else to do. We arrived in this town in August, and I didn’t know anyone. After living here almost a year, I still hung out alone.

  This day wasn’t unusual. I’d gone to school, came home on the bus, and looked for something to eat when I got home. I spied a box of granola bars, pushed back deep in the kitchen cabinet, my brother hadn’t discovered. If he had, they would be gone. I grabbed two and munched on them, oatmeal-raisin, as I walked through the trash-filled woods. Most people would imagine woods as a dense forest of green. Lush, tall trees and soft moss covering the ground. Wildlife, like graceful deer and squirrels with bushy tails, scurrying around inside the canopy of leaves. Not me. I saw my woods. There were trees, no lushness. Some scabby. Some rotten and deformed. I’d never seen any moss on the ground. Just empty beer bottles and condom wrappers from the teenagers who had sex here at night. As of last week, I was now a teenager, too. However, I’d never had sex in the woods. Nor would I want to do so.

  The days were getting longer now. I could stay out later. I never went to the tracks at night. Or even stayed here until dark. Mainly because I hated to go out at night by myself. Anywhere. I loathed to admit this, but the dark scared me, for reasons that may surprise you. So, because of this fact, I only came to the tracks in the daylight. Always by myself. I liked it that way.

  I walked along the cold steel of the track, as always, and let my mind wander. Not to things most thirteen-year-old girls might think about. Not clothes, nail polish, or boys. I did think about those things from time to time. But mostly I thought about death.

  I’d never admit this to anyone, but I’d thought about standing on those tracks until the train started to rumble through. My body, stiff and unmoving, until the train would overcome me. Gone. Then, I wondered who would miss me. Could my absence cause a sharp ache in their heart? Where would I go? To Heaven? Would I see my father again?

  I wasn’t suicidal. I just liked to imagine things. My imagination often took over my logical thoughts. I liked to think about possibilities. Like what would happen if I followed these tracks as far as I could? Where would I end up? Maybe it would be a better place than here. Maybe I wouldn’t feel so lonely there.

  I didn’t share my thoughts with others because I didn’t have anyone to tell. I was on my own here. We couldn’t afford the house we used to live in. The house my brother, Sam, and I grew up in. The house we celebrated Thanksgiving and Christmas. The house I had sleepover parties with friends. The house I loved so much. We lost it because of something about no life insurance and Mom couldn’t pay the mortgage.

  Mom was never home. Another weird change for me. In the past, she’d worked part time. She was always around when we got home from school. Now she worked all day as a secretary in an insurance office. Then, as a waitress some nights and most weekends. I missed her. Sometimes I thought I missed her as much as Dad, even though she was still here.

  Our old place was a lot nicer than the dump we lived in now. We didn’t even live in a house. It was a trailer, or a mobile home some called it, on a semi-grassy patch of land with a leaky roof and a hole in the brown linoleum floor in the kitchen. It had three bedrooms. So, Mom, Sam, and I each had our own rooms. My room was the smallest. About half the size of my previous bedroom. It wasn’t that bad, I guessed. Except when it was windy. I hated the rattling against the metal walls of the trailer. If the wind was too strong, the place even shook. I felt like I was in a soda can ready to burst open.

  Who was I kidding? The place was a dump. We were trailer trash now, and every one of us knew it. Sam and I knew it by our clothes from the thrift store and the end of going to the movies every Saturday. Mom knew by repairing her pantyhose with clear nail polish to get more wear out of them. And we all knew when Mom made a pot of spaghetti on Sunday what we’d be eating every night for dinner that week.

  Not that we were ever rich. But Dad worked and Mom worked, so we had some extra money. When Dad got sick the money dwindled. He couldn’t work. Mom always seemed to be on the phone arguing about hospital bills that should have been paid by insurance. Then he’d died. On a hot July day, July 12th to be exact, at 7:37 in the morning. He had been in his hospital bed, set up in our living room, where he’d taken up residence the last two months. He lay quietly on the adjustable bed when I walked downstairs. Usually, the TV was on by this time, but the screen was dark.

  Mom stood beside him, tears running down her solemn face. She turned to me and said, “He’s gone,
Emily.”

  Anger consumed me because I hadn’t said goodbye at the end. I wasn’t there in the final moments, but instead I’d peacefully slept upstairs under my pink Hello Kitty comforter. I had said goodbye weeks earlier. I could still hear his voice telling me he loved me and how he didn’t want to leave us. I snuggled next to him on his hospital bed, inhaling his scent of Old Spice and peppermint shampoo. The hospice nurse had come that morning to help him wash and shave. He’d held my hand, much weaker each day, and somehow I’d known this would be the last time I spoke to my father. The real him. I was right. The strong medications he was on altered his mind those final few weeks. Sometimes he didn’t even know us.

  The sweet smell of spring broke into my thoughts as I continued to travel on the track. I sniffed, recognizing the scent. Honeysuckle. I looked ahead, scanning each side for the plant. I was surprised to see where I was standing. I didn’t realize I’d walked that far, much farther than I’ve ever gone on the tracks. I spun around, the row of scraggly woods behind our trailer now a substantial distance away. And when I turned back, I saw him.

  That was the day I met Tommy.

  Chapter Two

  He was perched on the left-side track, his long legs sprawled out in front of him. He had dirty-blond hair, which hung shaggily to the nape of his neck. His dark-blue eyes directed at me.

  A feeling of uneasiness shot through me. It seemed as if he’d appeared out of nowhere. I met his gaze. “Where did you come from?”

  He laughed. A nice-sounding, easy laugh which put me at ease. Somewhat.

  “There are many answers to that question,” he said. “I could even ask you the same thing.”

  “I mean,” I said with a hint of attitude, “where did you come from right now? I turned my back and you suddenly appeared.”

  “Oh.” He nodded. “I’ve been watching you walk along the tracks for the last half an hour. Just thought I should introduce myself.”

  “Instead of being a creepy stalker?” I grimaced. “That’s admirable of you.”

  “Not a stalker. Just curious.” He stood and walked toward me.

  “About me?”

  “About anyone who’s interested in the tracks as much as I am.”

  “You’ve watched me before?” That uneasy feeling resurfaced.

  “Relax. I’m not dangerous,” he said. “My name is Tommy.”

  “Uh…I’m Emily.” I was still undecided about this tall boy, who I estimated to be around my brother’s age and admitted to watching me on numerous occasions. If he was a pervert, I wasn’t going down without a fight.

  “Emily. That’s a nice name,” Tommy said. “So, why do you hang out here so much, Emily?”

  “Why do you?”

  Tommy sighed. “It’s peaceful here. A good thinking place.”

  “Yeah, it is. You live around here?”

  “Not too far.”

  “I’ve never seen you in school. How old are you?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Oh.” I looked at him. “Can’t believe I’ve never seen you before. I come down here a lot.”

  “I’m usually around at night,” Tommy said. “Days are pretty busy for me.”

  “School and stuff?”

  “Stuff, and I like to get out of the house at night. I’ve never seen you here after dark.”

  I shook my head. “You won’t. I don’t like to go out at night.”

  “Scared of the dark?”

  “Something like that,” I said, glancing at my watch. “I should head back. It’s getting late.”

  “Okay, see you around.”

  I hurried down the track toward home. The sky transitioned into the early signs of dusk. A pink-hued display gradually getting darker. My heart beat quickly as I stole a glance behind me to see if Tommy was watching me. He was and waved to me. I waved back and walked faster. I was off the track now, and my feet pounded the muddy earth. The only thing I wanted was the warm safety of my bedroom.

  A few minutes later, minus my brother’s muddy boots, which sat on the kitchen floor, I curled up on my faded pink Hello Kitty comforter. I knew I was too old for such a babyish character, but I liked it. Plus, no extra money for things we didn’t need.

  My brief encounter with Tommy rattled me for some reason. He was just a kid, like me. I felt strange knowing he watched me when I thought I was alone. But I had done that with people before. People-watching had always been a favorite activity of mine. I loved when we were driving past houses at nighttime and curtains hung open. To spy on them sitting at the dinner table or watching TV was somewhat creepy and fascinating at the same time. Sometimes watching others gave you a clue as to who they were as an individual. Did they pay attention to detail or were they sloppy? Did they pet the dog or kick it when nobody was looking? All clues to the inner workings of an individual’s mind.

  So what if Tommy watched me? I was so boring I doubted he saw much that interested him. But two could play that game. Tomorrow I’d stay in the woods and spy on him a little bit. Just to see what he was like from a voyeuristic view.

  Satisfied with my decision, I sprang from my bed and headed out to the kitchen. Sam wouldn’t be home for another couple of hours. He worked at a grocery store about a mile from our house. He had dreams of buying a car next year when he turned sixteen. Mom wouldn’t be home until after ten once her shift at the restaurant was over. I opened the almond-colored refrigerator, an obvious remnant from the early nineties, and surveyed its contents. Leftover pot roast and carrots I’d had two nights in a row didn’t appeal to me. I considered making an omelet but didn’t feel like cooking anything. I opened the lunchmeat drawer. Some cheese and that disgusting mince bologna my brother loved. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich would have to do.

  I opened the wood veneer cabinet and took out the peanut butter. The cabinet contents were sparse. A half-empty jar of peanut butter, a box of saltine crackers, and two cans of chicken noodle soup. Mom would have to go food shopping soon. I grabbed the peanut butter and put it on the worn Formica counter. The tight quarters of the galley-style kitchen always made me feel claustrophobic. I hurriedly spread the bread, applied grape jelly, and poured a glass of milk.

  Placing my dinner on the coffee table, a pretty honey oak we’d brought from our old house, I seized the remote and scanned the channels. I considered doing my homework. I had a persuasive paragraph to write for English and a page of algebra. The paragraph would be a breeze. I loved to write. The math would suck, which was probably why I knew I’d put it off until the last minute.

  I eased back into our comfortable cranberry-colored sectional couch. It barely fit in this cramped living room, but we made it work. I skipped over news channels and talk shows. Boring. I settled on one of those reality shows that featured a bunch of twentysomethings all living together in New York City. They had an awesome loft in Tribeca and they all worked in a trendy nightclub. I could see myself doing something like that when I was older, especially in NYC. I loved to watch the personalities clash on the show. Everyone fought a lot, especially the girls. Usually over some guy they both liked. I would never be so into a guy that I’d actually fight over him. I thought that just screamed desperate. And loser. Two things I didn’t want to become.

  A sharp knock on the door interrupted my reality show thoughts. I stood and walked over to the beige-colored door with a frilly white lace curtain. Mom loved frilly white lace curtains. I pulled it back. Aunt Holly smiled at me.

  My mother’s elder sister. Ten years older to be exact. She worked as an accountant and had never married. Although, as she was quick to point out, not that she didn’t have marriage opportunities. She lived about ten minutes away and often dropped in.

  “Aunt Holly.” I opened the door, eying the large box of pizza she held between French manicured nails. I sniffed the appealing aroma. “Come in.”

  “I hope you haven’t eaten yet,” Aunt Holly said. She spied the half-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “Well, at least you ha
ven’t eaten much.”

  We sat at our tiny round dining table in the space between the sofa and the kitchen. Mom bought it at the thrift store when we moved here. The six-chair oak dining table set from our old house would never fit here.

  “How was school today?” Aunt Holly bit into a slice of extra cheese pizza. My favorite.

  “Okay.” I savored the tangy sauce and melted cheese. Pizza was the perfect food in every way.

  “Anything new?”

  “Not really.” My thoughts traveled to my earlier encounter with Tommy. No, I didn’t want to talk about him. Not like I had anything to say anyway. “Well, I did get invited to a slumber party this weekend. At Lanie’s house. It’s her birthday.”

  “Are you going?”

  “I don’t know. I’d have to get her a present. Probably be boring anyway.”

  “Might not be. What if I pick you up Thursday at school and we go shopping for a present?”

  “I guess so.” I knew Mom asked Aunt Holly to check up on me. She worried about me being home alone so much. But I didn’t mind. I liked Aunt Holly. She was fun and smart, too. She always said she was too smart to be caught by any man. But I knew she’d had her heart broken many years ago by a man she loved. They’d met in college, and one fateful night her boyfriend promised to pick her up at the department store where she worked. He never showed up. The icy roads that night resulted in a deadly crash with a semi-truck. He was killed on impact.

  Aunt Holly never talked about it, but Mom had shared the story with me. I guessed she just never found another person who spoke to her heart the way he had. I wondered if Mom would find someone she loved as much as Dad. I knew it was selfish, but I hoped she didn’t.

  Chapter Three

  Clutching my sketchbook, I trailed through the woods the next day. I’d sketched a lot more after Dad had died. The family therapist recommended it to work through my grief. I didn’t think I’d worked through it. Not yet. I still had an aching hole inside me. Never closing, never healing. But I enjoyed sketching. It made me feel happy when I did it.