by Lea Geller
“Hey,” he said. “You OK?”
“I need to find Gavin,” I said. “It’s important.”
“I just saw him setting up for a meeting in the conference room on the ground floor,” Adam said. “Everything all right?”
“Kind of.” I didn’t think the meeting would be happening so soon. I thought I’d have time to plan for it, to think about what I was going to say. Hell, I at least wanted to be wearing a clean shirt. I looked down and saw a clump of Grace’s cereal clinging to the hem of my blouse.
“He’s meeting with some parents now, and I think I need to be in on it,” I said.
“Word of advice,” Adam warned me. “Try not to interrupt him. Even if he is saying literally the dumbest shit you’ve ever heard, let him finish. He goes nuts when someone cuts him off.”
“Good to know,” I said. “I’ll try to keep that in mind. Wish me luck,” I called as I ran down another two flights of stairs to the ground floor. Sure enough, I looked through the wall of glass along the conference room and saw Gavin sitting with a couple who could only have been Guy’s parents. I wanted to stand and stare for a few minutes, but I didn’t have a few minutes to spare, so I reached into my bag, grabbed a handful of sweet potato puffs, swallowed them whole, and charged into the meeting.
Gavin looked up as I pushed myself through the door. “Agnes, can I help you?”
“Hi,” I said, trying to give myself time to think and swallow the puffs. I looked at the couple at the table and addressed them directly. “I’m Agnes Parsons. I teach your son.” I ran my tongue over my teeth to remove all traces of food.
“Agnes,” said Gavin, with far less patience in his voice, “I don’t know what you’re doing here, but this meeting isn’t open to teachers. Why don’t you and I talk later?” He said the word later through clenched teeth. I noticed he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt. His eyes were the same, though, mismatched and intense. It was hard to look at them but harder to look away.
“I’d really like to sit in, Gavin.” I used the neediest voice I could muster, the voice I used when I wanted something from Jack that he didn’t want to give me. It was the voice I’d used for the If-I-Die folder. Hopefully I’d have more luck this time.
“Fine,” he said, his teeth still clenched, a forced smile on his face. “Let me introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Martin.” He motioned to the impeccably dressed couple sitting next to each other on one side of the table. Mrs. Martin looked so much like Guy—small and thin, with dark, shiny hair and big brown eyes. She wore a gray cashmere sweater set, her hair in a neat twist, a gold lariat around her neck, and an enormous pair of diamonds in her ears. I momentarily thought about my own diamond studs and wondered who was wearing them now. Mr. Martin was tall and broad, and his hair was lighter, a thick sandy brown. He wore a sports jacket over a checked shirt and thin navy cashmere sweater. Neither of them smiled. Mrs. Martin looked birdlike and terrified, a look I had seen so many times on her son. Her husband stared at me, a look of annoyance crossing his face. I waited for Gavin to introduce me. The less I said, the better.
“Mr. and Mrs. Martin, this is Agnes Parsons, Guy’s English teacher. Apparently she would like to join us.”
Neither of the Martins said a word or reached to shake my hand. I took a seat opposite them, on the other side of Gavin, who presided from the head of the table.
“As I mentioned to you on the phone, we feel that Guy’s behavior has reached a new low. Just to list a few of the highlights,” he said, lingering sarcastically on that last word and opening a manila folder in front of him, “Guy frequently skips class, is often found hiding in the bathroom or the lunchroom, and when he does come to class, it’s usually long after class has started.”
Mrs. Martin opened her mouth, but no words came out. Gavin marched on.
“Honestly, attendance is only one part of the problem, a much larger problem. Let’s see,” he said, riffling through the folder, “he has a serious problem completing schoolwork. Well, I shouldn’t really say problem—it’s more like an unwillingness. I’ve spoken to all his teachers, and it seems he has barely done any work this semester.”
I wanted to say something, but I remembered Adam’s words and let Gavin finish his sentence. Had he spoken to all—or any—of the teachers? He certainly hadn’t spoken to me. It was true that Guy hadn’t completed all the work I’d assigned, but frankly, none of the boys had. I’d only just learned that the boys paid Miles Wahler, a quiet kid who sat in the back and drummed on his desk, five dollars each to read The Red Scarf Girl and tell them what happened.
“Maybe this is a good time for me to say something,” I said.
“Not yet, Ms. Parsons,” Gavin shot back through a forced smile. “Not quite yet.”
“Then there are the continued disruptions in class,” he went on. “When Guy does feel like showing up, he likes to disrupt the class as much as possible. Many teachers report that they have no choice but to throw him out of class for the sake of the other students.”
This wasn’t true at all. I’d heard from his other teachers that Guy spent many classes on an extended bathroom break, but I hadn’t heard a single teacher say he was disruptive. He certainly wasn’t the most disruptive kid in class. If anything, on some days he wasn’t disruptive enough—he often sat in class sullen, almost catatonic.
“So you see,” said Gavin, “we have a problem here. Before we take any further steps, we wanted to fill you in.”
Mrs. Martin looked right at me. “What were you going to say?” she asked.
I didn’t wait for Gavin’s permission to speak. “What I wanted to say was that I really do think he wants to do well. He doesn’t want to cut class. He doesn’t want to get into trouble.”
“Then why is he?” asked Mr. Martin. “Why is he cutting class if he doesn’t want to? You’re not making any sense.”
I had to get back in before Gavin cut me out. “He wants to do well, Mr. Martin. I really believe it. He just may not know how.”
Mr. Martin looked at Gavin and silently threw up his hands. Without even looking at Gavin, I knew he was glaring at me. I looked at Mrs. Martin, whose eyes had filled with tears. She began to nod.
“What do you mean, he doesn’t know how?” she asked.
I looked at her as if we were the only two people in the room. “What I mean is . . . that for Guy this is kind of like not being able to do math or read well. He doesn’t know how to be in class and not be nervous. He goes to the bathroom and hides because he’s scared. I think Guy is so terrified of messing up that he slowly falls apart during the day.” Mrs. Martin nodded, and I kept talking, refusing to look at Gavin. “The good news is that he wants to do well, which means we can help him do well. Does that make sense?”
She nodded some more and then turned to her husband. “Phillippe,” she began, “maybe it’s all the medication . . .”
But he would hear nothing from her, or from me. “Laura, we didn’t send him all the way up here to be coddled,” he said in French-accented English, so that “coddled” sounded like “cuddled.” By the look of things, Mr. Martin didn’t believe much in either coddling or cuddling. “Soft doesn’t work for him. The boy needs consequences, real consequences.” He looked at Gavin, who nodded in approval. Mr. Martin had just said one of Gavin’s favorite words, and he’d said it twice.
“I agree,” said Gavin, “and I apologize for Ms. Parsons.” He glared at me again. “She’s new.”
“What I meant to say—” I started, but Gavin jumped in.
“It isn’t just the detentions. Guy applies to high school next year. I don’t need to tell you how competitive the admissions process is. This is going in his file, and his file is going to high schools. I don’t know any admissions committee who’d take a student with problems like this without serious intervention.” He paused and waited.
“So tell us. What do we do?” Mrs. Martin said, leaning in, putting both her manicured hands on the table. She looked tired and desperate.
Gavin sat forward in his chair and clasped his hands on the table in front of him. “There are ways of helping kids like Guy. I have contacts in all the admissions offices. They know me. They trust me. If we do enough work with him, perhaps a deal can be made with one of them.” He looked down and then back up again as if an idea had just come to him. “There’s a program that I run the summer between seventh and eighth grades for kids like Guy, kids who have had serious behavior problems in middle school. I select children to participate in it, and if they agree to go, I remove all behavior incidents from their transcripts. High schools never need to know any of this has happened.”
The Martins were both nodding vigorously, their eyes wide.
“For now, though,” Gavin went on, “we need to put him on academic and behavioral probation.”
“But that goes in his file, that is something that sticks,” said Mr. Martin, his voice rising.
I heard my phone buzz suddenly. I reached down into my purse and lifted it out, holding it under the table.
Darling. Soon.
It took every unused stomach muscle I had not to fall back in my chair. My heart pounding, I stared down at my phone, refusing to put it down, not wanting to let go.
“You can put your faith in me,” said Gavin, shooting me an icy look. “There are things we can do to ensure nobody knows about this. Let’s reconnect after the holidays. Besides, I’m sure you want to spend time with Guy while you’re up here.” Both Gavin and I knew full well that Mr. Martin had zero desire to spend any time in the presence of his disappointing child. Mrs. Martin got up and followed her husband out of the room, her head bowed. I realized that in another life we might have been contemporaries. She could be leaving here to meet me in the city for lunch, maybe some shopping. We might laugh about the frumpy, inept teacher who sat in on the meeting. Instead, she looked right through me. I barely registered. She didn’t even say goodbye.
When they were out of earshot, Gavin spun to face me.
“What the hell was that?”
“Gavin, I’m sorry.” My phone, still in hand, buzzed again.
I promise.
I stared, unable to take my eyes off the screen, as if I were holding Jack right there in my hand.
“Are you texting? Is this not important to you?”
“What? No.” I dropped the phone into my bag and stood to face him.
“Then what the hell’s going on? Why would you show up and sabotage a meeting like this?”
“Gavin, I wasn’t trying to sabotage anything. I just want to be helpful. The kid is terrified. Have you seen him lately?”
“Please don’t try to tell me about Guy or any of these kids. These are my kids.” He banged his fists on the table. “I’ve known them all for a lot longer than you have. Don’t walk in here and act like you’re some kind of expert, and never, ever undermine me again.” He stared. It was hard to stare back at both of his eyes, so I chose his blue eye and looked into it.
“Don’t you want these kids to be successful?” I asked. “Haven’t you thought that maybe they aren’t doing what we want them to do because they can’t, not because they won’t?”
“Spare me your West Coast education bullshit, please.” He took a step closer so we were only separated by the edge of the table.
“Just because you haven’t tried it doesn’t mean it’s bullshit,” I said, now switching to his brown eye.
“Agnes, are you winking at me?”
“No.” I blinked a couple of times and settled on his nose.
“So what?” he asked, confused by the disarray of my facial expressions. “You really expect me to believe that these boys aren’t behaving because they can’t behave, not because they won’t behave?”
This was exactly what I was saying, but I realized I needed to dial it back for him if I didn’t want his narrow little mind to combust. “I think we’re expecting more of them than some of them are capable of doing. That’s all.” I sighed and crossed my arms, thinking back to Sunny Day. “Kids do well when they can,” I said, hearing Marge’s words come out of my mouth.
He pulled away. “You’re obviously not cut out for the rigors of an East Coast prep school. You need to take this act back to your preschool on the beach.” He waved me off dismissively and started walking to the door.
That was when I realized that Gavin didn’t want to help these kids out at all. He talked a good game, but he was happy with the way things were. He had no desire to help these boys succeed. I just didn’t know why.
“One more thing,” I said. “About Guy.”
“What about him?”
“I know he had a bad week last week—” Before I could say any more, Gavin cut me off.
“First of all, Guy Martin is having more than a bad week. Let’s not downplay things,” he said. “He’s having a bad year, just like he did last year and the year before. Guy Martin, you could say, is having a bad middle school.”
“He’s a mess, Gavin,” I begged. “Please go easy.”
But Gavin just laughed, shook his head in mock disbelief, and walked out. I slumped down into one of the chairs at the table and pulled out my phone.
Jack.
I let my fingers run over the screen, over the words of the texts. Then I texted back.
Jack? Is this you? Where are you? Are you OK?
Within seconds of sending the text, I received a message: The number you are trying to reach is blocked or not in service. I tried calling the blocked number, but the voice mail woman turned me away. Jack was still not in service, so I texted the only person I thought could help me. I texted Don.
Got a text from Jack. I tried to respond. His number is blocked.
A few moments later, Don replied:
What do you want me to do?
I had to hand it to Don, that was a good question. What did I want him to do?
Is Jack texting me?
He could be. And then seconds later, he wrote, Yes.
How do I contact him?
You don’t. You wait.
Let me guess—stay put? Do my job? Ears open?
Exactly.
Where is he? What’s going on?
Don did not respond. He had no answers for me. He couldn’t tell me why this all had to be on Jack’s terms, every detail in his exacting control. He couldn’t tell me why I’d been reduced to sitting and waiting to hear from a husband who wouldn’t even let me text him. Having my texts bounce back to me was a humiliating reminder of just how little control I had.
When I’d told Beeks that I hated everything about the situation—what Jack had done, what he was asking me to do—I’d left out the thing that made me the angriest. I’d left out myself. Because it was beginning to occur to me that not only was Jack the kind of husband who could disappear and return at arm’s length and on his own terms, but that I had been the kind of wife he expected to be willing to take it.
-19-
I know they say that when it rains it pours, but that night it rained so hard I awoke to a puddle of water in the middle of my bed. I slept soundly, so soundly that I didn’t hear a single drip. I only realized what had happened when I heard Grace’s cry on the monitor and noticed that the bottom half of my comforter was underwater. My first reaction was one of surprise—not at the water itself, but at the fact that I had slept at all, let alone deeply.
When I realized I was literally underwater, I looked up at the ceiling and saw what looked like a puddle suspended over my bed. Outside sheets of rain were falling. I rescued Grace from her crib, ignoring the enormous wet sag of her diaper, and ran to the kitchen to get a bucket. Once I’d taken off all my sheets and positioned the bucket in the center of my bed, I walked around the rest of the house looking for leaks. I discovered that it was only leaking over my bed, so I changed Grace’s diaper and put her down on the kitchen floor while I prepared her breakfast.
I mixed up some cereal, grabbed a banana, and went to pick her up. Grace was not where I’d left her. I fra
ntically looked around the kitchen but didn’t see her. I ran into the dining room, instinctively looking down. I stooped down under the table and saw Grace, her hand seconds away from the glue trap I’d forgotten to take away. Grace had crawled. She’d crawled, and I hadn’t seen it. All I could see was a look of victory and terror on her face. I dropped the food I had been holding and threw myself under the table, right in between Grace and the trap. I lay there, on my back, looking at her, willing her to crawl to me. She obliged and moved toward me perfectly, putting her little hands on my belly. After weeks of rocking back and forth on her hands and knees, Grace had mastered the perfect crawl. Jack. You’re missing this. You’re missing all of it.
“Gracie! You did it! You crawled! You crawled!” I squeezed her to me. Yes, I was under a table. Yes, I was an inch away from a glue trap, which had only managed to trap a couple of roaches and some mouse droppings (how was this possible, and why had I forgotten to call the exterminator?), but I wanted to stay under that table with Grace for as long as possible. The carpet was matted, scratchy, and uncomfortable, the space under the table dusty and confining. But under there I felt safe and happy in an uncomplicated way. Everything else I’d been feeling was so tangled. Grace’s crawl was the opposite. It was a perfect, uncomplicated crawl.
I lifted the two of us out from under the table and danced around the dining room with Grace on my hip. Even though life had been on hold in so many ways for us, Grace’s life moved on. She’d done what babies her age are supposed to do. I had a wistful moment when I realized I wouldn’t be able to march Grace into my pediatrician’s office in Santa Monica, with its modernist, pristine furniture and parents who could pay out of pocket for medical care. That office had been replaced by a neighborhood clinic that took the insurance I got through the school, a clinic with no natural light and furniture that looked like it had been picked up off the sidewalk. Dr. Reilly was kind enough, but it was an entirely different level of service—I was a patient, not a client. Nobody in the office was jockeying to show me how well they knew me or Grace. Nobody was trying to make me feel good about my choices as a parent. If I called to tell Dr. Reilly that Grace had crawled, chances were he wouldn’t know who I was talking about. I waited for Grace to crawl again, then took a video and sent it to Beeks. I wanted most to send it to Jack, but Grace’s crawling was something we’d celebrate without him. For now.
