The Admissions

by Meg Mitchell Moore

  Angela slowed until Nora caught up and they began walking in tandem. It was better that way, neither of them looking directly at the other. “And nobody told me?” asked Nora. This isn’t about you, a little voice said. But wasn’t it? If it was about her children, then it was about her. That’s what parenting was, the good and the bad of it.

  “Dad wanted me to tell you, but—I thought you’d get all mad.”

  “I would! I am! I am all mad!” Nora was livid, absolutely livid. “I’m furious—”

  “But I’ll never do that again. It was stupid. I won’t, Mom, I swear. The pills made me feel terrible and jittery and awful and lose my appetite, I hated them, I don’t even think they helped that much…”

  What had Maya said back in the fall? Angela’s been crying in the afternoons. And Nora hadn’t guessed. She remembered Angela dropping the water glass, bursting into tears, running to her room. She remembered Angela at Thanksgiving dinner, not hungry. She wanted to scream.

  This was why Catholics went to confession. You told your sins to a priest, hopefully one you’d never seen before and would never see again, and you were in the clear. You didn’t have to tell your mother or your daughter or anyone else. You didn’t really even have to go into the details. I killed a man. I yelled at a child. I lost my temper, I said a swear, I disobeyed my parents. Nora stole a sideways glance. Angela closed her mouth and then opened it again and for a second she looked like a baby bird trying to capture a worm from its mother, and, just like that, Nora’s heart melted a little bit, and then a little bit more.

  After a few beats of silence Angela said, “I feel different. Toward Dad. He doesn’t seem like the same person, ever since he told me. He seems like a stranger. Is that crazy?”

  Well, it wasn’t crazy at all—this was the crux of Nora’s problem too. So there, under the redwood canopy, she made a decision. Be first. Be better. Be the example. She rooted around inside the ball of anger and resentment and found a small bloom of love. Small, but with the potential to grow. She said, “You know what, honey? You won’t always.”

  “I will. I will.” Angela kicked at a chunk of dirt on the trail.

  “Not if you don’t let yourself.”

  They had come to a fork in the trails. How perfectly appropriate! Wouldn’t Robert Frost (New England by way of San Francisco) just have had a field day with the symbolism. Angela stopped and sighed. “I don’t believe you. I want to, I just—don’t.” Angela shook her head. “I don’t want to do Bootjack. Do you?”

  “No,” said Nora. “Bootjack is exhausting. I never wanted to do Bootjack. I want to go home and have a big glass of wine.”

  “Yeah,” said Angela. “Me too. Except for the wine.”

  They turned back toward the visitor center, toward the parking area, toward home. Nora wanted to look again at her daughter but instead she concentrated on the trail ahead of her.

  Such a messy and complicated business. Life. Family. But there was only one way to do it, wasn’t there? You just had to keep going, one foot in front of the other.

  “You’ll get over it, sweetie,” said Nora. “People get over worse.”

  “No,” said Angela. “No, I won’t. It’s too big. It’s huge, Mom. I can’t get over it, and I won’t. I know I won’t.”

  Truly there was nothing to match the righteous anger of a teenager, was there? That feeling of being wronged, there was almost a joy in it. Look, see? I told you the world had it out for me!

  And after all, maybe Angela knew her own potential for forgiveness better than Nora did. Maybe the damage was too great, and maybe she wouldn’t get over it at all.

  —

  In no time Cecily was shaking her shoulder. She had overslept! Nora never overslept. She was generally up with the birds, up like a farmer’s wife, preparing her charges for their day, packing Cecily’s and Maya’s lunch boxes, whipping dishes around the kitchen to get breakfast made for whomever would eat it.

  Cecily was dressed, ready for school, right down to her backpack and her shoes, which she wasn’t supposed to put on until she left the house (realtor’s rules, or just another sign of the differences between Nora’s generation and her children’s; she and Marianne had grown up cheerfully clomping through their 1,800-square-foot Cape in their Stride Rites and their Buster Browns).

  Cecily leaned close to Nora and Nora could smell the mint from her toothpaste on her breath. The spot next to Nora in the bed was empty. Gabe was gone too—that offsite.

  “Oh geez,” said Nora, squinting at the clock. “I totally overslept. I’m sorry, honey. Let me get you some breakfast.”

  “I’m good,” said Cecily. “I made toast. I made some for Maya too.”

  “Did you?” said Nora. “That’s great.” She felt prouder than she should have—it was only toast, and Cecily was ten. But in the world of cosseted, twenty-first-century children self-made toast represented some sort of achievement. “Great,” she said again. “I’ll throw on some clothes, and let’s get you two to school. I can give Angela a ride too, if she’s running late.”

  “Angela’s gone,” said Cecily.

  “What do you mean, gone?” said Nora.

  Cecily shrugged, “She must have left early. She must have walked to school.”

  CHAPTER 52

  CECILY

  Cecily kissed her mother goodbye and watched her drive away from the turnaround.

  To be extra-helpful, Cecily brought Maya to her classroom. Then she walked back toward the turnaround and stood in a knot of students until Pinkie dropped out of her mother’s Acura.

  “Hey,” Cecily said. “Come here for a second.” She pulled Pinkie over near the shrubs past the kindergarten building. There were kids playing wall ball and four-square on the blacktop, and two teachers on car duty. The car-duty teachers weren’t looking at Cecily and Pinkie. It was easy enough to go unnoticed, and to crouch behind the shrubs as though they were looking through their backpacks.

  “Do you have your phone?”

  “Of course,” said Pinkie. “I always have my phone.”

  “Good.” Cecily walked away from the building, away from the shrubs.

  “Where are you going?”

  “We have to do it now,” said Cecily. “Today.”

  “But—” said Pinkie. “Today? Now?”

  “Now.”

  “But we’re already at school. How will we—”

  The first bell rang.

  “Follow me,” said Cecily. “But act natural.”

  Second bell.

  “But we don’t know how to get there!”

  “I do, I copied it down last night. We take the 10 and then the Muni. I have it all right here. I have money for us both.”

  “But. What about school? They’ll call our moms.”

  “We’ll call ourselves in sick, once we’re away from the school. You can do your mom’s voice perfectly now, you know it. Try it.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Try it, Pinkie. Say, ‘Pinkie’s staying home sick with me today.’ ”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Say it, Pink.”

  “Pinkie’s staying home sick with me today.”

  “See? Perfect.”

  “But I’m not sure—”

  “I’m doing this either way, Pink, with or without you. Are you coming?”

  CHAPTER 53

  NORA

  Nora found the note while she was tidying up the kitchen. Angela must have laid the note on the counter, but it had slipped to the floor and somehow wedged itself under one of the kitchen stools—that’s why she hadn’t seen it sooner, and why Cecily hadn’t seen it when she was making toast.

  Nora recognized the stationery she’d given Angela for her twelfth birthday, with Angela’s initials monogrammed along the top and a little butterfly stenciled in the corner. Angela used to go crazy for butterflies; Nora had forgotten all about that. The note was folded, with Mom written on the outside. Not Mom and Dad. Just Mom. It would kill Gabe
to know that, later.

  CHAPTER 54

  GABE

  The partners at Elpis liked to hold their offsites in a suite in downtown hotels. Twice a year, June and December. This time it was the Fairmont on Mason Street. At approximately seven thirty Gabe was crossing the Golden Gate Bridge. The sky was pinkening and purpling, the city coming into view. Far out in the bay Gabe could see Treasure Island, and, closer, Alcatraz. Think of all the people who’d been incarcerated at Alcatraz, they’d learned about it on the guided tour they took out-of-town visitors on. Out-of-town visitors loved Alcatraz. Gabe loved it too. Being at Alcatraz made you realize that whatever you’d done in your life, you probably stacked up okay compared to the guys who used to live there. Al Capone, for example. He’d done bad, bad things. Murder. Multiple murders.

  Gabe had never committed murder, not even a single murder.

  And even so. From what he’d done there was plenty of collateral damage. Gingerly, like a car accident victim feeling around for bruises, he assessed the past few months. Nora’s job: gone. Angela’s Harvard application: rejected. His lie: revealed. Well, partly revealed, but if Abby was true to her word soon to be completely revealed.

  Nora was exactly correct: he’d pinned his own hopes on Angela, and it wasn’t fair or right. It was never right when parents did that, but in Gabe’s case it was particularly egregious because his hopes were based on something that had never happened. It wasn’t something a good father should do.

  He might have ruined Angela. Had he ruined her? He should call and check on her. But his Bluetooth wasn’t working, and no way did he need a cell phone ticket on top of all the other shit that was going down. Anyway, she’d be on her way to school by now.

  He hated Abby Freeman, really hated her. But in a way he didn’t.

  Because she’d forced him to face something he would need to face eventually: the fact that long ago he’d set a lie in motion, and that the lie had determined the trajectory of his life and a good part of the lives of his family. Wouldn’t it be not only humiliating but downright wrong to allow his lie to be revealed by Abby Freeman when he could more honorably reveal it himself?

  Traffic, there was always traffic. He stopped too close to the Nissan in front of him. Then the Nissan jerked ahead a little bit so Gabe did too. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard.

  He’d read somewhere that there’d been thirty-six auto fatalities on the Golden Gate Bridge since the 1970s. Sixteen of those were head-on collisions. What a way to go. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and drove like an old lady. Nothing wrong with old ladies.

  What would he tell his daughters to do, if they found themselves in this situation? His funny, quirky, infuriating, completely one-of-a-kind daughters? He’d tell them to be honest, stand tall, right the wrong.

  But what would he be, without this identity, without this job? Without the phantom degree that had followed him for two decades? He didn’t know, he couldn’t know, but he knew it was time to find out.

  Traffic eased—no rhyme or reason to it, it just eased—and Gabe stepped on the gas. Then, the red lights of the Nissan. He slammed on the brakes. A screech of tires.

  CHAPTER 55

  ANGELA

  Dear Mom,

  Don’t worry about me. You have to trust me. Do you promise? I’m doing the right thing, for me, and when I’ve done it I will make sure you know. Do not call the police or the school or any of my friends’ parents or my cross-country coach or anyone at all. I’m not kidding. Please trust me on this. Don’t freak out.

  Can you do that one thing for me, can you let me go?

  That’s it. I’m sorry if I disappointed you.

  I disappointed myself too.

  Love,

  Angela

  The phone.

  Nora was trying not to worry. Like the note said. But she’d been a mother for nearly eighteen years now. She was going to worry. She ignored Angela’s instructions, of course. She wasn’t going to sit there and not call anyone. She called the high school—Angela wasn’t in homeroom, hadn’t Nora gotten an automated call from the office? No, Nora had not gotten an automated call from the office. She wanted to call every single one of Angela’s friends, but she didn’t have the numbers—they were all stored on Angela’s phone. Gabe was unreachable; his phone was off for the offsite.

  It was a beautiful early-winter day in the Bay Area, which meant that it was sixty-five degrees and sunny, or would be until the fog rolled in later in the afternoon. No need for so much as a mitten.

  The police? The note said not to. But the note also said not to freak out, and Nora was freaking out. Yes, she had to call the police. She had to. She was reaching for her cell when the home phone rang.

  Nobody ever called the home number. She’d threatened to have it disconnected so many times that it was now a standing joke in the Hawthorne family. Because she never had time to do anything she threatened to do.

  Mrs. Hawthorne?

  Yes. Her hand shaking as she cradled the receiver.

  A man’s voice, unfamiliar.

  Nora hadn’t thought her heart could climb any farther up her throat than it had in recent weeks. But it could, it turned out, it could.

  Three wishes, rapid fire.

  One. Say what you have to say, quickly.

  Two. Tell me it’s going to be okay.

  Three. Let me go back to the beginning and start over.

  My name is Sergeant Stephen Campbell, California State Highway Patrol.

  Stephen. Such an ordinary name, Nora would think later, for such an extraordinary phone call.

  Mrs. Hawthorne?

  Yes!

  Yes. I’m right here. I can hear you.

  Mrs. Hawthorne. I’m in the security office at the Golden Gate Bridge.

  The what?

  Do you know how to get here, Mrs. Hawthorne?

  She couldn’t say another thing. The room was whirling. She sat down on one of the kitchen stools.

  Listen carefully, please. I’m going to tell you how to get here, and I want you to come right away. Do you understand me? We’re on the south side of the bridge. From where you are you have to cross the bridge to get to us.

  She swallowed, tried to breathe. She watched a hand that didn’t seem like hers grasp at the edge of the counter. She watched the fingers try and fail to grip the edge. There was a sharp sound all around her, a high-pitched noise three octaves beyond glass breaking.

  Mrs. Hawthorne?

  Mmmmmmph. The only sound she could manage.

  I’m going to put your daughter on the phone, just very briefly, before we disconnect. Before you get in your car, Mrs. Hawthorne, which I want you to do right away.

  CHAPTER 56

  GABE

  The Fairmont suite must have cost a pretty penny. Twenty-third floor. Wraparound views of the city and the bay. Wet bar. Full stereo system. Two and a half bathrooms. Five grand a night, Gabe guessed, although what did he know of such extravagances, except that he lived among them.

  Joe Stone from HR stood at the door of the suite, holding a basket into which each of the partners was supposed to put his or her phone. “Company offsite policy!” said Joe. Joe loved offsites. He got all hopped up on the change of scenery. He usually introduced some touchy-feely get-to-know-your-coworkers game, the sort of game that really worked well only when people had been drinking. Was anybody drinking? Gabe cast a hopeful look at the wet bar. Of course not, it was eight fifteen in the morning. Just carafes of orange juice and cranberry juice, and coffee.

  “Give up the phone!” cried Joe merrily. He made a motion like he was going to snatch it out of Gabe’s hands, but Gabe was only too happy to comply. His phone had been off all morning. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. His heart was still hammering away from the close call on the bridge. He dropped it into the basket. “Ready to brainstorm?” said Joe, gesturing to the plush couches. “Have a coffee first. You look terrible. Rough weekend?”

  “Something like that
,” said Gabe. “Rough drive in.” Close call with that Nissan. Team building and brainstorming were the last things in the world he felt like doing. His brain didn’t seem like an actual brain anymore, more like a bowl of pudding, unformed and useless.

  Do it now, Gabe. Get it over with. Do it now.

  Gabe took his coffee and strolled to the windows to check out the panoramic view. Alcatraz and the San Francisco Bay (again), the double mounds of Twin Peaks, the financial district. And now that he was no longer on the Golden Gate he had a spectacular view of the Great Lady herself. Gabe didn’t think anyone called the Golden Gate the Great Lady; he wasn’t sure if it had any nickname at all. But it should. Maybe he’d get it started.

  Now, Gabe. Now is a good time.

  But it wasn’t a good time; the partners were settling onto the couches and helping themselves to pastries and tropical fruit salad.

  “Gabe?” said a voice. “Gabe? You with us?” Joe Stone was setting up a giant whiteboard, and Kelsey was passing out legal pads and perfectly sharpened number two pencils. It was time to brainstorm.

  Now, Gabe? No, not now. Don’t be an idiot.

  “Of course,” he said. “You bet.” In fact he was a million miles away. He was thinking about the ranch, imagining himself there. He could feel the presence of the cattle surrounding him, shaking their heads and lowing; he could see the ranch house in the distance, and behind it the majestic and forgiving Wyoming sky. The biggest sky in the world. Bigger than all of them; bigger than all of this.

  At the midmorning break he thought, Now. Yes. He pulled aside Joe Stone. “Listen,” he said. “When you get a minute. I don’t want to interrupt the morning. But maybe during lunch, or after the afternoon session. I’d love to talk to you, one on one.”

  “Sure thing,” said Joe. The lenses of his glasses caught the light so his expression was inscrutable. He clapped Gabe on the back, a friendly, man-to-man gesture, probably no real meaning behind it. “I’m all ears,” said Joe. He was already moving on to the next person he needed to speak to, but over his shoulder he said, “I’ll come find you in a quiet moment.”