my hand. It came away covered with blood.
“You’ve lost your nose stud,” Dad said, handing me a wad of tissues.
“No problem. It’s time I lost it, anyway.” I struggled to my feet and looked over to see the race officials trying to coax Russ into the First Aid Tent. He was still shrieking and flopping around on the grass. The exposed skin on his head and neck was turning a sickening red.
Helen came up beside me carrying a big plastic cup of water. I plunged my sore hand into it. It sure felt good. “So, I guess you two have met, eh?”
Dad shook Helen’s hand. “Jill tells me I’ll be coming to your grief session next week.”
I grinned at Helen and she gave me a thumbs up.
I turned and looked up the hill then, to where Amber Thompson was standing stock still, staring at Russ. She caught my eye and walked stiffly over to where we were standing. I hoped she wasn’t going to pass out.
“I want to thank you,” she said, and her voice sounded wobbly and weak. “That acid was intended for me.”
“I figured.” I said. “Did you know he came to our bereavement group and he was carrying a picture of you?”
“Bereavement group?” She closed her eyes and sighed. “So he’s still grieving for Debbie Simpson.”
“Did you even know he was in town?”
“No. I had no idea he’d managed to track me down. It’s been years since I got away, changed my name, my appearance, everything. I thought I was safe.”
“I’ve been wondering,” I said, “if you’re the woman he told us about, the one he says killed Debbie Simpson.”
She looked puzzled. “Is that what he said?” Then she nodded without waiting for my answer. “That would make some kind of sense, I guess.”
“It would?”
“Absolutely. I did kill Debbie Simpson, and she deserved to die. She was a pathetic, frightened little girl, totally controlled by her abusive husband.”
“I see,” I lied.
There was a long pause. Then she held her hand out to me.
“I think I’d better introduce myself,” Amber Thompson said. “I am Debbie Simpson.”
SUE PIKE doesn’t own a camera but she greatly admires anyone able to capture mood and meaning in a single snapshot. She limits her hobbies to writing and has had stories in all of The Ladies’ Killing Circle anthologies. “Widow’s Weeds” from Cottage Country Killers won the Arthur Ellis Award for best short mystery story of 1997.
RETURNING THE FAVOUR
JOAN BOSWELL
Finished with the day’s training and back in my dorm, I flipped through my mail. Pizza Pizza—a two-for-one deal. VISA—a pitch for my business. A hand-addressed envelope—probably a machine-simulated charitable appeal.
I removed a single sheet of paper.
“Dear Anna. Because of what I read in an article about you and the Olympic rowing team, I realize I’m your mother. I left you in St. Michael’s church when you were three months old. Just like the article said, your birthday is February 15 and you’re 26. I saw in the picture that you still have the birth mark on your left shoulder.”
Much larger printing and capital letters made the next sentence jump from the page. “IF I SPILL THE BEANS, YOU WON’T GO.
“You’re not a citizen. I brought you to Canada from Holland. Your father emigrated first but didn’t meet us. I couldn’t look after you. I did you a BIG FAVOUR by giving you up and letting you have a good life. It’s time to return the FAVOUR. Pay me $10,000 and I won’t tell your secret. I’m in Cabin Ten at the Bide-A-While motel. If I don’t hear from you by FRIDAY, I’ll phone the Victoria paper.”
I reread the letter. The shocking message remained the same. My birth mother wanted to blackmail me. What kind of woman was she to even contemplate doing this? But she had one thing right. She had done me a favour—a huge favour. No one could have been luckier with her adoptive parents than I’d been.
If what she said was true, what should I do? Borrow $10,000 and pay her? But was she right? Would the circumstances of my birth bar me from the Olympics? The Children’s Aid Society would know. I dialed and asked for the director.
“Ms. French is out of the office for the day. She’ll be in tomorrow, but, if it’s urgent, perhaps I can help you?”
Twenty-four hours to wait for the verdict. Should I warn Carol, my coach? Of course not. Why upset her about something that might not happen? I threw the envelope in the waste basket and shoved the letter in my desk drawer.
But I couldn’t get it out of my mind. After a nearly sleepless night, I staggered out of bed. Exhausted, I debated whether to drive or walk to the lake for the first of our three daily rowing practices. I opted for the twenty-minute walk, hoping the exercise would untie the knot in my stomach. The grey clouds that blanketed the sky, promising rain, echoed my mood.
As we gathered on the dock, my team mates handed folded sheets of paper to Carol. Damn, I’d forgotten this morning was the deadline for returning one of the many forms our bureaucratic country required.
“Carol, I left it on my desk. Is it too late to run over at lunch?”
“It is. One of the guys from the office is coming to get them…” she checked her watch “in half an hour. They have to go out in this morning’s mail.”
“Dad could go,” Bobbie Johnson said.
Most mornings, multimillionaire Marshall Johnson, a rower on Canada’s 1968 Olympic team, parked his Porsche at the far end of the lake and watched our practice.
Carol shook her head. “The girl at the desk in the residence wouldn’t let him go up.”
“My car’s here,” Bobbie said.
It always was. Her car, a dark-blue Porsche that matched her father’s, seemed to be her security blanket, her reassurance that her daddy loved her enough to buy the very best. Poor Bobbie lived in fear she’d lose her place on the team and her father’s approval. Marshall Johnson supported Olympic rowing financially. I suspected he’d withdraw his money if Bobbie lost her spot. This had to be the reason why Carol kept her when Marnie, the first alternative, was a better rower.
Bobbie curried Carol’s favour in every possible way. “It won’t take me a minute. I’ll be back by the time everyone’s warmed up.”
Carol nodded.
I could offer to go with her, but why spoil her chance for brownie points? I thanked Bobbie and tossed her my room key.
We’d just finished our stretching exercises when, true to her word, Bobbie’s Porsche peeled around the lake and screeched to a halt beside the dock. She delivered the paper to Carol and joined
