Page 3 of Traces of Kara

He used the sides of his fork to scrape bits of egg from his plate and slid the fork into his mouth, glancing up at the ceremony on the television.

“How you doin’ today, Roland?” Sergeant Agnew stood next to Roland’s booth, hand on his gun, fingers drumming against the leather holster. His thick, dirty blond hair swept off his forehead in a feathered style reminiscent of the 1980s.

Roland’s head lifted slowly, the fork held in midair. He nodded, sizing up the man’s five-foot-ten frame. “Sergeant.” Roland knew Sergeant Agnew kept an eye on him. He’d seen him talking with his boss, Harry, on several occasions.

Agnew looked toward the television. “Glad they don’t do that stuff around here. Can you imagine the ruckus?”

“I doubt you’d have any trouble controlling it,” Roland said sarcastically, then took a bite of his eggs. Roland had heard the rumors about Sergeant Agnew. A few years earlier, he had questioned a rape suspect, Charles Maynor, and let him go. A week later, Maynor raped a third girl.

Agnew looked down, then pulled his shoulders back and met and held Roland’s gaze. “Oh, I can handle just about anything. It’s not the folks around here I worry about. It’s the people those events bring. Strangers bring trouble.” A grin spread across his face. “You just never know when an outsider will turn dangerous.”

Roland sat back and set his fork next to his plate. “Gotta problem, Sergeant?”

“Just look at all the trouble you brought,” he said, laughing. “Following the same routine day in and day out. I’m just waitin’ for the day you order pancakes instead of toast.”

Roland held his stare until the other man turned back toward the television. Roland’s eyes followed.

An old man’s wrinkled face appeared on the screen, full of pomp and missing teeth. The camera scrolled left to the anchorwoman. Roland’s mouth went dry, his eyes transfixed on the television screen.

The anchorwoman tapped a passerby on the arm. “Excuse me, ma’am? What do you think of the ceremony?”

The woman turned and faced the camera head-on, her blond hair tumbling in waves, just as he’d remembered. A line of perfect white teeth gleamed at the camera as she spoke. Roland rose to his feet and walked past Sergeant Agnew to the edge of the counter. His eyes were riveted to the television screen.

“Whatcha need, hon?” Mable asked, then followed his eyes to the camera. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she? They just don’t grow ’em like that around here.” Mable returned to wiping down the counter with a damp rag.

Roland’s heart pounded within his chest. There she was, his coveted twin sister. This had to be a sign. Just like the release of the last restraining order, which had opened the doors for him to search harder, smarter. It was time. A lump formed in his throat. Roland reached up and touched the scars on his cheek. Roland’s mother had sent them to Lowrey’s because she had slippery fingers, she’d said. She didn’t want to accidentally burn Marissa the way she’d burned him.

He and Marissa had been reunited with their father, only to be separated three years later. Marissa had been ripped from Roland’s clawing hands, and he’d been returned to Lowrey’s. To Roland, it was like having half of his heart torn from his chest. They were fraternal twins on the outside, but Roland was sure they were identical on the inside. Marissa had treated him as if he were a real big brother, not just a mere one minute older. He missed Marissa, the way she’d curled up next to him and told him how lonely and scared she was. He knew in his heart God had given him Marissa as a gift, someone who could look past his disfigurement and love him, trust him; he’d promised her, and himself, that he would always protect her. His hands fisted. He’d broken his promise. How could he protect her if he wasn’t with her? At the Lowrey Home For Children and then at Pittsburgh Social Services, he’d threatened trouble if they didn’t disclose her whereabouts, but was always met with the same frustrating story. The files are sealed, they’d said.

But he’d found her. There she was: beautiful, captivating. Waiting.

At work, Roland watched the minutes tick by like hours. He’d had to reset a manifold three times, unable to concentrate. His heartbeat quickened as he thought about relinquishing his daily routine. He’d watched a show on overcoming anxiety, and had been practicing the self-soothing technique involving his sister’s picture ever since. He reached into his pocket and touched the picture of Marissa now, taking a deep breath, and letting it out slowly. He could do this. His plans were already in motion. He felt guilty for not giving Harry notice, but he knew better than to open a door for his plans to be foiled. Harry was a kind and generous boss. He’d find someone to replace Roland without trouble. Besides, Roland was two trucks ahead of schedule at all times. He’d worked extra hard this week and brought that number up to four, buying Harry time to find a replacement without getting behind schedule.

In the locker room, Roland swiped the travel alarm clock from his coworker’s locker. A grin lifted the corner of his lips. He’d prepared for his and Marissa’s birthday like a squirrel, stowing away supplies for the winter. He was ready. He’d show them.

For years the system had kept him and Marissa apart. He’d spent eight of his twenty-nine years trying to track her down. It hadn’t been easy. Roland had a mind for mechanics, but he had no mind for complicated computers or those newfangled cell phones. His boss, Harry, had tried to teach him to use them once. The frustrating lesson made Roland feel like the kid who never did anything right, just like at Lowrey’s.

Why can’t you get good grades like Jeffrey and Michael? Lowrey used to ask. Jeffrey and Michael, the smart kids, had met untimely accidents shortly thereafter. Roland clenched his jaw as he thought about Mr. Lowrey’s frustration at his inability to calculate simple formulas. The tutoring sessions always ended with Mr. Lowrey shaking his head in disgust, whispering under his breath. He’d tried to get Roland to take special courses at someplace called the Staton Learning Center, but there was no way Roland would go to some school for special kids, hours away from where Marissa lived. He wasn’t special. His brain worked just fine. He just wasn’t numbers oriented. Roland didn’t need any reminders of those days. What he needed was Marissa. He’d show them.

He eyed the clock, wiping axel grease on the thighs of his dark blue Dickies. 4:50. Almost time.

Two hours later he was behind the wheel of the Brown Derby, his 1999 Dodge Ram truck, heading south on Route 81—toward Marissa. Roland loved his truck. It was the one thing no one could take away from him. Roland didn’t really know what the word “derby” meant, but when he’d heard it on a television show, he’d liked the sound of it. The shine might have worn off the body, but the insides worked just fine. Roland was a master mechanic. He knew how to make an engine hum. He rubbed his hand across the dashboard. It would be hard for him to leave Her behind, but for Marissa, he would. He glanced at the thin, stiff blond hair of the Barbie doll lying on the seat behind him, then reached into his pocket and rubbed the picture.

The highway was crowded with eighteen-wheelers. The sky darkened as he traveled south. A sprinkle of rain dotted his windshield. He flipped on the wipers. Roland calculated the hours until their birthday, thinking about how many years had gone by without being together, and how many times he’d pressured the staff at Lowrey’s, and even Social Services, for information on Marissa’s whereabouts. It wasn’t Roland’s fault they’d pushed him to the edge. It wasn’t his fault he’d been impelled to take such extreme measures. Their birthday was coming, and Roland didn’t want another year to go by without being with her. They should have just told him where she was. Then, he wouldn’t have had to remove them from the equation. He’d had no choice.

His nerves tingled at the thought of finally seeing Marissa. It had been over twenty years since anyone had embraced him. Damn Mr. Lowrey used to drag him out of her bed at night, when he’d crawled in just to comfort her after hearing her whimper and whine in the wee hours of the morning. It was wrong, they’d said. Sick.

Roland reached up and touched his scars. They’d finally be together. He’d promised her, and he intended to keep that promise. He was sure she’d been looking just as hard for him all of these years. Hell, Lowrey probably lied to her, told her he was dead or something. Yeah, that was it. He was sure of it. He’d fought the urge to drive down the night before, just to see her walk to work. But who knew when the police were watching? If they knew he’d found her, they’d steal her away again. They may have lifted the restraining order, but Roland knew they had their eyes on him. Nope. Not this time. Roland was smart. He knew just what to do. He’d been careful. Born together, die together. With a sense of confidence, he turned up the country music and bobbed his head to the beat.

The sun mixed with the rainy mist, casting an eerie gray over Williamsport. Roland’s hands sweat against the steering wheel in anticipation. He scratched at the red bumps on his fingers. Psoriasis, the doctor at the clinic had said. Stress. He drove down the two-lane road, adhering to the thirty-mile-per-hour speed limit. Small brick ramblers lined the quiet road. The blinking red lights of the power plant emerged in the distance, high above the town. Roland stopped for a traffic light behind a line of cars, eyeing the beautiful brick library to his left. He could see himself walking into that library. Maybe he could move here, start over. He shook the thought from his head. His jaw tightened. The police would never let that happen.

The light turned green and the truck rolled down the hill. Roland pulled into the parking lot in front of Town Liquor, and parked amongst the other pickup trucks. Roland had spent so many nights over the last eight months trolling the town, he knew practically every truck. He thought back to seeing Marissa on the television screen in the diner. He nodded, a thin grin spreading across his lips. He never missed a sign.

Roland pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up around his neck, then tugged the bill of his blue baseball hat down over his eyes. Maybe he could hide his burn altogether. He knew it was a pipe dream. He could no better hide his scars than ignore his ache to be with Marissa, and every time he looked in the mirror, his broken promise to his sister came rushing back.

He climbed out of the car. A young girl driving a Honda Civic parked beside his truck. He waited for her car to stop before walking in front of it. The young girl looked up, bobbing her head to the music, which was turned up so loud, Roland could hear it. The girl’s eyes washed over Roland. Her smile faded, replaced with that all too familiar look of shock Roland had become so used to. His scars had that effect on people. She looked down, the music quieted. Roland was used to the stay-in-the-car-until-he-passed routine. People had avoided looking at him all his life. He stared at her, willing her to look up, to treat him as she would any other guy who happened to be walking by. Her eyes remained trained on the steering wheel. A hurt feeling pierced his heart. He tapped on the hood, startling the young girl. He nodded, the right side of his lips curling upward. Maybe she’d see that he wasn’t so bad. A few seconds later, Roland walked casually into the store.

The cashier looked up, her smile instantly fading, her eyes dropping to the counter.