A Child's Wish

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  “I had my annual physical last week and the blood work raised a few questions.”

  “What’s the worst case scenario?”

  “Cancer, cirrhosis of the liver, maybe hepatitis….”

  Meredith dropped her granola bar onto the car’s console next to her drink. Stared out the windshield, registering nothing—focusing. Feeling.

  Her widowed mother. Alone in Florida—except for the many friends she’d made. Kind. Sixty-one. Active.

  Alive. Very alive.

  Meredith nodded. She stared again, barely aware of a horn honking behind her, a car speeding around her.

  And then, blinking, she picked up her granola bar, stepped on the gas and turned onto the road that would take her to school.

  “It’s going to be okay, Mom,” she said.

  “It is?”

  She found it hard to listen to the fear in her mother’s voice. All her life Evelyn had been Meredith’s strength. Sometimes her only strength. Meredith didn’t want to think about her mother getting older. Failing.

  “Yes,” she told her, grinning over her own relief as much as for the relief she felt for her mom.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Meredith told her, eating half the bar in two bites. “But you feel fine to me.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, I knew it wasn’t serious,” Evelyn said brusquely. Then she added, “I love you, Meri.”

  “I love you, too, Mom.”

  “Be safe.”

  “You, too.”

  Meredith clicked the phone shut and took a long swig of soda. She was tired and the day had hardly begun.

  “SUSAN INVITED US over to her house for dinner tonight. You want to go?” Mark had been working up to the question most of the morning and now they were almost at school.

  His daughter, ponytail centered on her head after a third try, turned away. “No.”

  He could barely hear the words aimed at the passenger window, but her slumped posture said enough and his mood slipped a notch.

  “How come? She’s going to make chicken alfredo. You loved her alfredo, remember?”

  “I just don’t wanna.”

  “But Monday night’s our night to have dinner with Susan.”

  “It’s your night, not mine,” Kelsey said. “I never said I wanted to.”

  This was going from bad to worse.

  “Talk to me, Kelse,” Mark said, taking the long way to school. “Why don’t you like Susan? Do you resent the time I spend with her?”

  “No.”

  “Then what? Is it that she’s not your mom?”

  “No!” The derision in the child’s tone put that one to rest.

  Mark pulled onto the shoulder of the country road he’d chosen, put the car in Park. “Then what?”

  His question garnered no response. Not even a shake of the head. But he had plenty of time to analyze the perfection of the ponytail his daughter was showing him.

  “Why don’t you like her?” he asked again. He couldn’t deal with what he didn’t know.

  “I do like her.”

  Really? “Then why are you so quiet around her?”

  The hardness in the eyes that turned to face him shocked Mark. He’d had no idea his daughter was capable of such strong negative emotion. “She treats me like I’m an alien from Mars.”

  “No, she doesn’t,” he said, and then wished he’d bitten his tongue instead. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to discount your feelings.”

  Kelsey showed no reaction other than to stare out the windshield at blacktop, gravel and emptiness.

  “Susan’s not very good with kids,” Mark said. “But only because she’s never been around them and not because she doesn’t like them. She never had a chance to be a kid herself. But she likes you, Kelse. She wants to get to know you, to be your friend.”

  “No, she doesn’t.”

  Don’t argue perspective, his schooling taught him. It was a lose-lose approach. “Why do you think that?”

  “I dunno.” Hard not to argue, when the opposing side gave illogical answers.

  “You don’t have a problem with Ms. Foster—Meredith,” he said, in response to his daughter’s knowing glare. Meredith had been at their house the previous Thanksgiving for dinner, helping Susan with the meal. She’d granted the child the right to call her by her first name, since Kelsey had graduated from her class months before. As long as she could remember not to do it at school.

  “So?” Kelsey said, sliding down in the seat as she crossed her arms over her chest. When had his precocious pal turned into a drama queen?

  “She and Susan are best friends.”

  “So?”

  Well, he didn’t know. That was the point of this conversation. He thought. But obviously Kelsey didn’t think so. Until the past few months, they’d had no problem communicating. What had changed?

  Not him. At least he didn’t think so.

  “You never talk to Susan.” He tried a different approach, glancing at his watch. In fifteen minutes they were going to be late.

  Good thing he was the boss. Because he was willing to miss the whole damn day if that was what it took to reach an understanding with Kelsey again.

  “She never talks to me.”

  This was getting more frustrating by the second.

  “But you don’t wait for Meredith to talk to you.”

  The child’s eloquent answer to that was a shrug.

  He could make her clean her room. He could make her brush her teeth. He could make her do her homework. But he couldn’t make her share her confidences.

  “What do you two talk about?” he asked, without much hope of enlightenment.

  Kelsey sighed. “I’m growing up, Daddy. Girls have stuff.”

  Stuff. Uh-huh. For the first time since his daughter’s birth, Mark felt completely incapable of caring for her.

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “You know,” she said, having a stare down with him. “Girl stuff.”

  He almost choked. Did girls start that stuff at nine? He’d thought he had more time….

  And then he caught the uncertainty in Kelsey’s innocent gaze. The child was out of her league.

  At least they still had something in common.

  “You don’t want to tell me.”

  “Nope.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  She glanced over at him and then away. “Sure, why wouldn’t it be?”

  He had no idea.

  “Have you ever tried to talk to Susan about some of this ‘stuff’?”

  Kelsey’s silence said far too much.

  Watching her for another minute, thinking over everything he knew about child development and patterns of behavior, Mark figured it was best to cut his losses for the moment. He pulled back onto the road and drove the rest of the way to school in silence.

  And the first thing he did when he arrived was phone Lucy’s mom to say that Kelsey wouldn’t be coming on Friday, after all. Then he called Susan and cancelled dinner that night. As always, she was understanding.

  MEREDITH STOOD AT THE DOOR to her classroom, dressed in a red turtleneck sweater and a black cotton shift that featured a colorful shoe print. She’d opted for hose and pumps in honor of a new week, and her gold shoe earrings, necklace and charm bracelet completed the day’s ensemble. Smiling, looking forward to Monday morning, she welcomed each student as the kids slowly filed in, shouted greetings at classmates, put backpacks in lockers, took their seats or a place at one of the computers against the far wall or stopped to chat with a friend.

  “Good morning, Erin. How was your weekend?” Meredith asked a tiny red-head who, though the smallest in the class, had proven to be one of the most rambunctious. If there was trouble, Erin usually found it.

  Innocently, but completely.

  “Boorrringgg,” Erin sang, knocking her backpack into Jeremy Larson as she passed on her way to her locker.

  �
�Hey!” Jeremy shoved back.

  “Hold it!” Meredith’s voice stopped all movement in the classroom. “Jeremy, what’s the first rule of this classroom?”

  The boy turned red and looked down. Then he mumbled.

  “Excuse me?” Meredith asked, aware of the eyes turned in her direction, but focusing only on the boy.

  “Don’t hit.” He refused to look at her.

  That wasn’t it, exactly. “And?”

  “Don’t be mad.”

  That wasn’t it, either, not exactly. But he was close.

  “Do you think Erin bumped into you on purpose?”

  Jeremy shifted from foot to foot, his chin tucked down on his chest. He was one of the kids who caused her the greatest concern. He had far too much pent-up anger. But she had no idea why. He came from a good family—lots of siblings, support, closeness. She’d taught an older sister and a brother of his, so far. Knew both of his parents well enough to be completely comfortable with them.

  “I didn’t,” Erin blurted out, as Jeremy remained silent.

  “Jeremy?” Meredith said again, smiling as another couple of students shuffled in, eyes wide at the silence so early on a Monday morning. “Do you think she did it on purpose?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Erin? Do you have anything to say?”

  “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

  Meredith bit back a smile. “You already said that. What else?”

  “I’m sorry.” The boisterous little girl spoke so softly she could barely be heard. But because of the earliness of the day and because of the kids still coming in, Meredith chose to accept the apology, thin as it was. She watched long enough to see that the kids were separated by half the room and then turned back to the door.

  “Macy! How long have you been standing there?”

  Mark’s secretary, Macy Leonard, was one of Meredith’s heroes. Calm and unflappable, the plump fiftyish woman exuded good nature.

  Usually.

  “What’s wrong?” Meredith asked more softly, reaching the other woman’s side.

  “You’ve been summoned.” Her voice was low, serious. Concern shadowed her soft blue eyes.

  With a quick look up at the loudspeaker directly over her head Meredith said, “I didn’t hear anything.”

  Macy shook her head, her short gray curls stiff with spray. “He sent me. I’m supposed to stay with the kids.”

  Her chest tightened. “He wants me to come right now?” Before she’d called roll or set the kids to work?

  Macy nodded.

  “Why?” Meredith asked, attempting to quell the nerves in her stomach. “What’s wrong?”

  Shaking her head, the older woman gave Meredith’s hand a brief squeeze. “I don’t know, honey, but judging by the look on his face when he came from his office it’s probably best not to keep him waiting.”

  “I used to think he was such a happy guy,” Meredith said softly, a bad attempt to make light of the situation. Better that than let her nerves have their way. That was never good.

  With a quick clap of her hands, Meredith called her class to their seats, told them that Macy was in charge and moved after-lunch reading to first thing in the morning.

  She’d never been called to Mark’s office twice in one month. Never two school days in a row.

  She’d phoned both of the Barnetts as she’d promised to. And she hadn’t spoken to a single parent—or student, for that matter—since she’d gone home on Friday.

  Hurrying down the hallway she tried her best not to fret, not to make a big deal out of something that would probably be nothing.

  But she couldn’t for the life of her figure out what would require an early Monday morning summons. As a rule, a teacher never left her classroom if there were students in it, unless there was an emergency. The kids always took precedence over administrative business.

  Had she talked to any other parents recently? Said anything that could have backfired and caused friction? She didn’t think so. Couldn’t remember if she had.

  So who was missing that morning? She turned the corner, mentally checking her roster, praying there’d been no accidents or emergency surgeries over the weekend—nothing that she’d have to prepare her students to face.

  Other than Tommy Barnett, she was pretty sure everyone had arrived before she’d left the room. And Tommy was always five to ten minutes late.

  Mark was standing behind his desk, staring out the big metal-framed window that took up most of one wall. The lush green trees that Bartlesville was known for were in full spring bloom, but Meredith was pretty sure, judging by the tense way Mark was holding his shoulders and neck, that he wasn’t finding any joy in their beauty.

  “Did you see the editorial section in the Republic this morning?” He spoke with his back to her.

  “No.” Her heart started beating heavily, blood pounding so hard she could almost feel its passage. Had there been an accident?

  Mark’s silence was excruciating. “I don’t get the newspaper…. I don’t watch the news, either,” she said inanely, in case he thought maybe she’d heard about whatever it was they had to discuss. “Too depressing.”

  Mark shook his head, sighed loudly and turned. She couldn’t decipher the look in his eyes, but she knew he wasn’t pleased.

  And if she wasn’t mistaken, he was more angry than sad and the unkind sentiment was directed at her.

  At least, unlike Larry Barnett, he wasn’t lashing out.

  Yet.

  He reached for the Bartlesville morning paper and tossed it in her direction.

  “Read it.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  REPUBLIC EDITORIAL

  FAMILIES AT RISK

  Local Teacher Sticks Her Nose Where It Doesn’t Belong

  Washington County district attorney Larry Barnett got the shock of his life Thursday evening when his ex-wife called to say she had to speak with him on a matter of urgent business regarding their eight-year-old son, Thomas. This “urgent business” was a message from Tommy’s teacher saying that recently elected, highly respected Barnett was abusing his son—and all on the basis of some kind of hunch!! In a society that is becoming obsessed with its own shadows, why would we put in our classrooms, in charge of our impressionable young children, women who send out alarms without a trace of proof? And to make matters worse, according to Barnett, the teacher in question had made the damaging statement after referring the boy to his school counselor, who sent him back with a clean report. Lincoln Elementary School principal Mark Shepherd assured Barnett that he had the situation in hand, after which an apology was forthcoming. An apology? For scaring a single mother half to death? For falsely accusing a father of hurting his own son? I say fire the woman immediately!

  HOPING THE TREMBLING in her lower lip wasn’t visible, Meredith glanced up. “He didn’t waste any time, did he?”

  It was only an editorial.

  “That’s all you have to say?” His words were soft, far too controlled. She’d never seen Mark so angry.

  “Bo Reynolds is always trying to scare up trouble about something.” Even Meredith, who rarely saw the paper, had heard of him. “Everyone knows you have to take him with a grain of salt.”

  “I’ve had more than forty calls already this morning,” Mark said, still by the window and facing her now, arms behind his back.

  She had a feeling they were being forcibly held there for her protection. He’d sooner have his hands around her throat. She stood up.

  “From whom?” she asked, pretending a calm she couldn’t even remember how to feel.

  “Parents who wanted to make sure their third-grader was not in the same class as Tommy Barnett.”

  Sweat oozed out her pores. “How many of them were?”

  “One.”

  Out of four third-grade classes, roughly 120 students, with forty calls, only one had been from her group?

  “My parents know me and trust me.” Other than the obvious exception.

  Mark dropp
ed his arms, sighed. “I suspect you’re right,” he said with some hesitation. He leaned on his desk with his palms down, bringing his face closer to hers, his eyes deadly serious.

  “It has to stop, Meredith.”

  She said nothing.

  “I mean it.”

  “I know.”

  “Not one more time,” he warned. “Please.”

  Meredith withstood his scrutiny even when that hard glint returned to his eyes. He stood up and said, “I don’t want to have to fire you.”

  “I know.” But he would if he had to. Still, the threat wasn’t going to stop her feelings, wasn’t going to stop the knowing. And she wasn’t going to stand by and silently watch children suffer, if she thought she could help them.

  Of course, if she wasn’t around, she’d be useless to them.

  She was just going to have to get a whole lot better at figuring out how to act on those situations that “occurred” to her without her being told about them.

  “Can I go back to my class now?” she asked. “Mrs. Brewer is here for music this morning and we’re second on her list.”

  “Yes.” Mark waved a hand at her. “Go.”

  She didn’t wait for any niceties, didn’t intend to say another word. But at the door she turned.

  “Mark?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Who was the one?”

  She wasn’t surprised when all she received in reply was a frustrated stare.

  TOMMY BARNETT DIDN’T show up late for school on Monday. He didn’t show up at all. But his mother did, late in the afternoon, avoiding Mark’s gaze as she withdrew her son from Lincoln Elementary School.

  “I’m sorry,” she told Mark, sitting in his office, filling out papers on a clipboard she rested on her lap. The obviously expensive gray pantsuit she was wearing, the jewelry, makeup and well-tended hair didn’t seem to give her any confidence at all.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Mark told her. “I completely understand.” He sat behind his desk, an authority figure who lacked the power to change a situation that had arisen under his care. Or even to explain it. “We’re the ones who are sorry,” he continued. “We let Tommy down—and we let you and his father down, as well.”