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.
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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,
