If We Had Known

by Elise Juska

  The paper was written for that class. For that English teacher. My dad was a corporal in the US Army. It was a ritual we had. My mother packed our lunches and said for us to be careful. My dad said women always worry too much. As she read it, she felt furious. She felt slighted, left out. But what bothered her most was that he’d idolized his father, pretended they were close to each other, put him front and center. That this was what the world would read and think was true.

  A few reporters showed up again. She closed her curtains, floated in the shadows. She was running low on pills but was too ashamed to go refill them, so she’d started cutting them in half to make them last. Time passed. She remembered a time the power went out, a lightning storm, and he’d held Sergeant’s head in his lap until it was over. The pinging, she heard it constantly now, in her head, or from behind the closed door. She closed her eyes and drifted in and out of sleep and imagined he was in there, her younger sweeter boy, the one she knew.

  When she woke one day in the darkness of the living room, there was a car pulling up outside. She heard the bang of a door and sat up straight. Peeling back the curtain, she squinted out the broken pane. The car was sitting at the end of her driveway, someone walking across her lawn. She was ready to ignore them, shout out if she had to. But as her eyes focused, her heart seized—it was a boy. A young boy, skinny, hands in pockets. As he climbed up the stairs, he disappeared from view, and the house shook a little as he stepped onto the porch and knocked on the door. She opened it only partway, left the chain on. But the boy was smiling. When he started talking, she heard only part of what he said. How have you been doing, Mrs. Dugan? And: I’m really sorry about what’s been happening. And: I want to hear about Nathan. This boy was looking at her with no anger, she thought, no blame. Just sweetness. A good boy.

  Part Three

  Eighteen

  It was Maggie’s class who showed her the video. Later, this would strike her as appropriate—even somehow poignant—that her last act as a teacher at Central Maine State should be in her classroom, surrounded by students, watching her fate play out.

  But in the moment, when she arrived in the room and found them all gathered around a single laptop, her first instinct was a gratified rush—look at the shared camaraderie, the class finally getting on track. Then she registered the uncertain looks on their faces. She recognized the woman on the screen.

  Marielle Dugan was sitting in what Maggie knew to be her living room. Behind her stood the mantel with the framed picture, the gold vase. Her face was bare, lined deeply. Faded blond hair, now dark at the roots. There was still a vagueness in her eyes, but her brows were arched.

  So what did you think of that paper? the reporter asked. A male voice, offscreen.

  Marielle shook her head slowly. What did I think? She paused, moving her jaw, as if summoning the words. He made the whole thing up. He never went out with him. He hasn’t seen his father in twenty years. A small note of triumph in her voice. You can check. That’s a fact, she said. And they act like I’m the one who’s a bad parent. They think something’s funny about me moving here. But I just wanted to be close to him. I loved my son. Her face sagged then, as if pried abruptly open. A moment passed.

  The reporter asked: And what’s your impression of his teacher? Professor Daley?

  Marielle touched a shaky pinkie finger to the corner of each eye. The teacher? She showed up here too.

  Did she.

  Another nod, more vigorous. She came here telling me she was sorry for messing up with Nathan. She said she could have done something for him. She could have saved him—she has a kid too, she said.

  The reporter paused. Did it surprise you, that another mother wouldn’t see how important it was to help Nathan? A teenager who clearly needed her help?

  Then Marielle’s eyes grew watery, and she touched her chin with trembling fingers. I told you this wasn’t all my fault.

  In her classroom, listening with her students, Maggie stopped absorbing the words Marielle was saying. She registered only the tones: indignant, proud, pained. Vaguely, she heard, “Maggie, are you okay?” It was Kara, looking at her with concern. The entire class was turned toward her, but this time she couldn’t attempt to conceal her despair. She thanked them, for some reason, then she let them go.

  Shooter’s Mother Speaks Out. This was the title of the video that had appeared on YouTube. At home, Maggie watched and rewatched it until the shock dulled and the panic set in and it struck her fully, stark as a précis: what she had done, and how foolish it had been. She didn’t reply to the text from Robert, the call from Bill; since their conversation the week before, she had more or less avoided him. Now she knew she had to face him, but first she needed to evaluate the interview on her own. She parsed it line by line. The screen froze, unfroze. She came here telling me she was sorry for messing up with him—surely this was not what Maggie had said. She’d walked onto Marielle Dugan’s porch to express her condolences. Maybe, in her numb state, Marielle had misunderstood her. Maybe she was twisting her words deliberately—she herself had been scrutinized and criticized, perhaps unfairly. Or maybe Maggie’s own judgment was so compromised that she couldn’t see it clearly. She had been wrong already, in ways she never could have imagined. Maybe this wasn’t what she had said, but was in fact what she had meant.

  What troubled her more, though, was Marielle’s assertion that Nathan’s essay had been a fabrication. He never hunted with his father. It was spoken with such matter-of-factness that Maggie felt certain she was telling the truth. And in fact, it was not uncommon for students to embellish their personal experiences, but Nathan was so literal that the possibility had never occurred to her. Now, though, she wondered what might have been lurking beneath those particular fictions, that display of bravado in the woods—being abandoned by his father, feeling powerless, ignored, forgotten. She’d always prided herself on her ability to read between the lines. A good teacher: She had poured herself into it, believed it completely. But maybe she’d never been that good. Obviously this teacher knew there was a problem and did nothing, said the comments that swarmed the screen. She should be fired, end of story. She’s a liability. Maggie didn’t resist them, accepted them as truth. For if she’d misread Nathan’s paper, surely there had been other papers—seemingly autobiographical ones that had been invented, true ones hinting at trouble she had misread, overlooked. Did it surprise you, that another mother wouldn’t see how important it was to help Nathan? A teenager who clearly needed her help? Yet that same ignorance had translated to her life with her family. Her troubled daughter, her unhappy husband—what else had she missed?

  On Friday, she got in her car, drove to campus, and walked to Tilghman. She passed by a few colleagues and was certain she saw judgment on their faces but tried to maintain a neutral smile, let the rightness of her decision tide her along. She needed to leave with her dignity intact. She concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, following the path of dusty tiles as she made her way to the administrative annex, past Bill’s assistant and toward his open office.

  “With a student,” Holly told her, and Maggie stopped outside his door. “I’ll wait.”

  From inside, Maggie heard fragments of Bill’s conversation. London, Dublin, Oxford. She recognized the voice of the student: Lisa Grenier. She’d been in Maggie’s comp class two years earlier. Maggie loved her. Not a polished writer, but a serious worker. The first in her family to go to college, she’d approached the class with the urgency of someone who took nothing for granted. “Maggie!” she said when she emerged.

  Despite everything, Maggie smiled. “Lisa. How are you?”

  “Just talking about studying abroad.” She pointed to Bill. “He thinks England or Ireland. For literature. I’m a little nervous but I think I want to do it.”

  “You’re the perfect candidate,” Maggie told her, and she was. “Let me know where you end up going,” she said, and Lisa promised that she would. As she walked off, enormous backpac
k hitched to shoulders, Bill nodded toward his office and Maggie followed him inside and shut the door.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t returned your calls,” she said, still standing. “But I’ve been thinking that you were right. That I should take time off.”

  Bill looked surprised for only an instant before relief crossed his face: that he wouldn’t have to raise the subject again, wouldn’t have to press for it. “Please,” he said, and gestured to a chair.

  Maggie sat, and instead of making his way around his desk, Bill pulled up a chair beside her. He crossed one leg over the other, studying his knees. “I’m assuming,” he said, “that means you indeed paid a visit to Mrs. Dugan.”

  “I did,” Maggie said. She was determined to remain calm, despite the quiver in her voice. “It wasn’t something I planned on doing. It was an impulse. I passed by her house accidentally, but, yes—I did.” She paused. “It was poor judgment.”

  “It doesn’t seem like you,” Bill allowed.

  “It wasn’t,” she said. “It was right after our meeting, so I had a lot on my mind—I suppose I felt somewhat responsible.”

  Bill didn’t try to persuade her differently. “You’ve been teaching a long time” was what he said. Then he sighed, threading his hands on his knee. He went on to explain the terms for the rest of the semester: an administrative leave with pay. He would take care of identifying a replacement, contacting human resources, and notifying her students. Maggie floated toward the ceiling, absorbed every other word.

  When Bill was finished, she said, “I want to apologize if this has reflected poorly on the department.”

  He gave a sober nod, as if accepting condolences. “Well, I regret that it’s had such repercussions for you too. Not just here. But personally,” he said, and she imagined him reading the ugly comments about her online. Then he asked, “How’s your daughter?”

  She blinked. “My daughter?”

  “Didn’t you tell me she was heading to college? A freshman?”

  “She was,” Maggie said. “She’s enjoying it.” At least that’s what she could tell. After that shaky phone call, Anna had been sounding better, and Tom had gone to check on her. “I’m just hoping none of this is affecting her too much.”

  Bill nodded. “Maybe it’s good that she’s away.” There was a longer silence, but Maggie felt no call to fill it. Bill was looking at his lap, fingers of one hand clasped in the fingers of the other. He cleared his throat. “My son Ethan,” he said. “He didn’t have an easy time in high school. He struggled with depression. But he’s at school now. A sophomore. At Colby. He’s doing much better.”

  It was the only personal detail Bill Wall had ever shared. “That’s good to hear,” Maggie said, and they lapsed into quiet. No longer dean and professor, but two natural introverts, worried parents. The worry never ceased, Maggie thought, from the moment they were born. It just deepened, changed shape.

  Inside her office, Maggie sagged briefly against the wall, holding her hands against her eyes. She drew a deep breath and scanned the room. There was surprisingly little she felt the need to take. A few books, mugs, a folder of research. She removed Nathan’s essay from her desk drawer and pressed it deep inside her bag. Then she scooped up her thank-you cards, Alison Bower and the rest, and dropped them in the trash.

  She sat down in front of her computer. Bill had said he’d notify the students, but Maggie needed to email them herself. I write with some unexpected news. She typed fast, hands trembling. She added that she regretted not telling them in person. She was genuinely sorry to be leaving them. She was proud of what they’d accomplished in just a few short weeks. I will miss this class.

  Nineteen

  I

  Over the past two weeks, Anna had established a few simple rules for herself. Drink eight glasses of water each day. Take the stairs instead of the elevator whenever possible. Eat small portions. It was all about moderation. Exercise more, eat less: just math.

  She had read once, in a magazine in the doctor’s office (ironically, a nutritionist), that the formula for dieting was to have your daily caloric intake equal your current weight, times ten. 1520 calories: This seemed reasonable, not-obsessive and not-extreme.

  At six thirty every morning, she went swimming. At that hour it was just her and Ralph, the guy who swiped IDs. Alone in the pool, Anna could swim without stopping. She focused only on the surface of herself: head turning, mouth opening, side of palm grazing ear, breath going in/out.

  She hadn’t heard from James, not since blocking him. If there was a knock on her door, she worried it might be him, wanting to talk to her, but it was only Hilary needing to borrow batteries or Violet wanting to steal food and complain about Carly, who had taken to sleeping with a white noise machine next to her bed. She’s so depressing, Violet said.

  Alcohol was a problem: so many empty calories. Yet to forgo all alcohol was out of the question, of course. She invested in cheap vodka, 40 calories per serving. Cut out beer, for the most part.

  Cut bread. Cut pasta. Cut snacks in general, especially when drunk.

  The snacking part was tricky, with Alexis around, but not impossible. Anna told her she was just trying to be healthier—so I can fit into your clothes!

  Claudia Jones tagged you in a post on Facebook. It was Claudia from high school, posting a link to that article, the essay. She’d even been thoughtless enough to include a comment: Is this your mother Anna Daley-Briggs??? Anna untagged herself immediately, heart thudding against her ribs.

  She walked to the Save-A-Lot and returned with five bags of three things: Diet Coke, rice cakes, sugar-free gum.

  She walked to Liquor Land, where she bought a backup bottle of vodka with Brian Tucker’s brown-haired older sister’s old Maine state ID.

  Links to the article appeared a few more times. Thinking of u, Anna! And: your mama??? She squashed them as soon as they appeared, like stomping ants.

  Worst-case scenario: Student writes troubling essay, teacher misses it, student later kills four people, troubling essay is sent to local paper that reprints essay in full and random people won’t stop posting it online.

  Anna decided to get off Facebook completely. Turn off all notifications. Tunnel vision: She would wipe it from her mind.

  -

  In the fitness center, early morning, she swam until her lungs ached. At the end of week one, she returned to the locker room and shed all excess—peeled off suit, emptied bladder, scrubbed self dry—and stepped onto the scale.

  151. Just one pound, but she felt lighter already.

  II

  Her routine, after swimming, was to consume one cup of dry cereal (120 calories) and three cups of black coffee (0). She crunched her stomach in/out beneath the table. At that hour in the dining hall, she was virtually alone.

  There was a clarity, a sense of accomplishment, that came on the other side of hunger. She felt competent and productive. Near buoyant. If that’s what you’re into, James had said—why yes, she was.

  An A - on her poetic-obsession-with-nature essay. Great improvement!

  Results from the health center: STD-free!

  She stopped eating after three o’clock because, really, there was no reason to. If she could make it from dinner to the end of the day without food, she could make it from midafternoon.

  When she called home, Anna tried to ask her mother how she was, but Maggie immediately changed the subject. How are you doing? The meaningful emphasis was enough to make her scream.

  Text Message Dad: Still on for lunch this Sat right?

  Before parties with Alexis, Anna pre-drank four vodka-and-Diet-Cokes, then arrived sufficiently drunk to hold one beer and nurse it for the rest of the night.

  At the fitness center, she kept her eyes open, staring at the ribbony black line on the pool floor. Twenty-three laps, twenty-four. She added one more lap each day, letting the line guide her back and forth.

  Saturday morning, she swam twenty-five laps and ate 120 calories and weighe
d 149 pounds. Her dad arrived just before noon. He was alone. He said Felicia wasn’t feeling well. He said hello to Alexis, who was headed to a study session. Met her RA, Isabel, who called Anna a beautiful person inside and out (what was that supposed to mean?). Then they went, the two of them, to a pub he’d found on Yelp. As she scanned the menu, Anna picked her lip—there was literally nothing healthy here—then stopped when she saw the worry cross his face. So she recalibrated, refocused, told him how much she was liking college so far, about Alexis and her poetry seminar, and watched the worry soften into relief. She seemed a little distracted at first, he’d later tell her mother. But happy. She looked healthy. Guiltily, Anna knew that anytime she was just a little thinner, a little more toned, her dad would misread it as her looking good. She ordered fries and a chicken sandwich, to seal the deal (she would let herself eat it, she thought, most of it, then not eat again until tomorrow morning), but had only forced her way through six bites when her father said: So I guess you’ve heard what’s been going on with Mom. Her throat began to close. That article, he said. As always, his timing was impeccable. Maybe, for him, the food was a comforting distraction; for her, it was like being ambushed twice. I know it’s probably unsettling, he said, and she realized this was the reason that he’d come, the reason Felicia hadn’t. She made the mistake of looking down at her plate: repulsive. Fries glistening in the sunlight beaming through the window, chicken wan and fleshy. Like all food, look too closely and it breaks down into its component parts: slime and veins. It’ll blow over, her dad was saying. I don’t want you to let it slow you down. She pictured the food in her stomach, revolving in slow circles, like one of those metal spits in gas stations. The thought of it, the actuality of it, was revolting, almost incomprehensible: that the same chicken, those same fries that had just been sitting on the plate were now inside her. She could practically feel her face blowing up. It won’t, she said.