by Sean Platt
I didn’t know Jack had signed a TV deal, meaning I don’t think he told his children yet. Jack’s memories confirm as much. He wanted to surprise the kids, take them to the pilot episode’s taping. The show had been a dream of his forever, and Waylon had helped Jack to make it reality — a daily syndicated self-help show that could make him a household name, not just among his fellow Christians, but among the mainstream — where the big money and endorsements are. This deal could be life-changing not just for Jack and his family, but for the world, the way Jack saw it. He could spread the Gospel in a less preachy way, through actions instead of only words. It had been his dream for years to give hope to the hopeless, and now he was poised to do exactly that. Waylon was right: If word got out about any of this, it would instantly crush his reputation. The TV deal would evaporate.
His image forever tainted.
And just like that, an empire on the verge of creation crumbles to dust.
What kind of Christian self-help guru could he possibly be if he couldn’t even see the darkness under his roof? A lesbian daughter sleeping with her teacher — who then tries to kill herself — isn’t the way to inspire confidence in the Jack Caldwell brand.
And these days, everything is about the brand.
After thinking about it for a moment, I say, “But won’t this get out anyway? Half of her school is already talking about the video. At least a few people know about her teacher. I don’t see how we can possibly keep this quiet.”
“Maybe not forever, but we can bottle it long enough to capitalize on the pilot. Get some stories out there about how you’re gonna change the face of daytime television, how you’ll be a bright light in a deluge of despair. Shit would probably blow up before pilot season, and the show would never air, but then we’ve got a new story, maybe a pitch for another show — where you acknowledge your weaknesses, and how God has brought you and your family closer than ever in the aftermath of this tragedy.”
I’m not sure if I should marvel at Waylon’s ability to spin disaster or be sickened by it.
“And what if Chelsea dies? Or what if she comes out of the coma, but hates me for disapproving of her lifestyle? What then?”
“Well, it might be a tough sell to the evangelicals, but we’ll find a way to make it work — whatever it is. Maybe we can have her deprogrammed. Or maybe you convert to a less-restrictive version of your faith. Christianity is big numbers and bigger money, but there are more and more disenfranchised every day, Jack. We could make a home for all those who feel abandoned by their faith. Hell, I can almost see a ministry being born out of this! Does your Jesus hate gays? Well, leave that old-school Jesus behind, and come to an all-loving God who will accept you just the way you are. Hell, why stop at gays? We can attract all the freaks who are tired of being judged. Into bestiality, kids? We’ve got ya covered here at Jack Caldwell’s Heavenly Outreach.”
Waylon breaks down laughing.
I’m not sure what to think of this man. He obviously has giant balls to insult Jack’s daughter’s sexuality and insinuate that his faith is merely for show. I wonder if he has precedent for this. Has Jack given Waylon a reason to doubt his faith, to make his agent think he’s nothing more than a charlatan out for money?
I feel that Jack’s faith is real, but it’s hard to tell from the memories he’s provided so far. I ignore Waylon’s comments, and say, “Please, just do what you can to find out who did this to Chelsea.”
“So, you wanna go to the police?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Okay, don’t call anyone yet. I’ll get started on a press release. Then I’ll head on over to your place so we can walk through this together. After that, you make the call.”
I’m annoyed that I have to wait to call the police, but at the same time, Jack’s in the limelight, and it would be easy for me to screw this all up. I accept Waylon’s offer and hang up.
I’m sitting in the police station, waiting for Detective Kevin Wilson’s return. His partner, Lucy Jimenez, has just coached me through what I’ll need to say during a controlled phone call to Ms. Valencia, designed to get Chelsea’s teacher to admit her crime on record.
I’m feeling uneasy about this, especially if the teacher hasn’t committed a crime. Chelsea’s journal says she was eighteen when this all started. While I’m sickened that a teacher would sleep with any student, seeing as it is a complete betrayal of custodianship, I don’t want to trick her into a confession that could land her behind bars if it isn’t against the law.
The detectives spent most of the morning questioning our family, going over details of the journal, and the suicide note we claimed to have found just this morning. Additionally, they took Chelsea’s laptop and phone to see if they could find any evidence against the teacher and any clues as to who was blackmailing her.
I sent Susan and Billy back to the house. Waylon is at the station with me; I suppose to make sure I don’t say anything stupid.
After a while, Detective Wilson comes in. He escorts me and Waylon to another room with one phone hooked up to another, and a recording device. I sit in one of the two chairs, Waylon taking a spot beside me.
Detective Jimenez is also there, standing in front of the table. “You remember everything we went over? Start off slow, and don’t use any words like rape or abuse, or mention legality. We don’t want to scare her off. You’re calling as Chelsea’s parent, concerned over what your daughter told you before she passed out.”
“Okay,” I say nodding.
Detective Wilson hands me a piece of paper with Ms. Valencia’s number.
I dial, my heart racing.
After a few rings, she answers.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Valencia?”
“Yes, who’s calling?”
“This is Jack Caldwell, Chelsea’s father.”
A moment of silence, followed by, “Oh, hello, Mr. Caldwell. I’m so sorry to hear about Chelsea. How is she doing?”
“She’s still in the hospital, still in a coma.”
I was instructed not to lie and say there was a good chance she might come out of the coma, as we don’t know if that would make the teacher more or less likely to say something.
“I’m sorry,” Ms. Valencia says. Her voice sounds pleasant, caring, a slight Spanish accent. “How can I help you?”
I look up at Detective Jimenez, listening on the other phone. She nods, giving me the courage to work the script.
“I just wanted to call because I know how close you were to my daughter, to let you know that she left some art at the house she wanted me to give you. She left it in her note.”
Another moment of silence. I can tell that Ms. Valencia is likely wondering if I know how close she was to Chelsea.
“Her note?”
“Yes, we haven’t made it public, but Chelsea tried to kill herself.”
“Oh, God. I was afraid of this.”
Detective Jimenez meets my eyes and nods, indicating that I’m doing well.
“You know she was having problems?”
“Well, yeah, she told me that some kids were bothering her.”
“How so?” I ask.
Another pause. “Well, you know how kids are. They say mean things to one another. Sometimes, they can get pretty ugly, single someone out, and make their life difficult.”
I wonder if I should ask why she didn’t call me to let me know that Chelsea was having issues, but the detectives urged me to keep things friendly as long as possible. The minute I put her on the defense, it will become difficult to get her back to that comfortable level. They also coached me on tactics to use if things do get ugly, to insinuate that I know something I don’t, to accuse her, to see if she verifies it in any way. Get a verification, you get a hell of a better case.
“What sorts of things did they say?”
She pauses again, maybe senses where this is going. I need to be careful.
“Well, the usual things. They made fun of her for being a ‘pastor’s
daughter’ … they called her a prude, and … some of them started rumors, saying she was a … slut.”
The last word comes out bluntly, like she isn’t sure how to say it. I wonder if she’s afraid where that word will take this conversation, or merely doesn’t want to say something so awful about Jack’s daughter.
“What kind of rumors?”
A longer pause. “I don’t know the specifics, just hurtful things that kids tend to say about one another.”
“Well, I want to thank you for being there for her. I know it can’t be easy for her to be my daughter, what with her homosexuality and all. It’s good that she had you to help her come to terms.”
A very long pause now. I sense she might be about to go on the defensive. I decide to go all-in.
“Listen, I know you were having an affair with my daughter. She told me everything. And while I wasn’t pleased, at first, she’s eighteen and can do whatever she wants. Truth is, her being in a coma has put this all in perspective for me. I just want her to get better. I want my little girl back.”
Silence, at first, followed by her tears.
“I’m not mad,” I say. “I was surprised, as I suppose any father might be. But love is love — we don’t control who we fall in love with. Right?”
“No, we do not. I just want to say that I never intended to fall in love with your daughter, Mr. Caldwell. I know how awful this must appear. And nothing ever happened between us until after she’d turned eighteen.”
“I know I’ve been hard on my daughter, have been a bit — okay, a lot — overprotective, but that’s only because I love Chelsea and want her to be happy. If that happiness happens to be with you, so be it.”
“Wow,” Ms. Valencia says. “I don’t know what to say.”
“There’s no need to say anything. As far as I’m concerned, you’re family.”
“Wow. Um, thank you, Mr. Caldwell.”
I look up at Detective Jimenez, who’s giving me a thumbs-up.
I got a confession of a relationship, which was the heavy lifting. Now, if I can get her to admit she slept with Chelsea before she was eighteen, the detectives will have what they need.
I tread slowly, “Um, there’s just one thing that doesn’t make sense.”
“What’s that?” Ms. Valencia asks, her voice betraying frazzled nerves. She can sense the hook. I need to be careful, or I’ll lose her.
“Well, you said you all didn’t get together until she was eighteen, but Chelsea told me something different, and she wrote something else in her diary — saying it began four months ago, which would be a month before she turned eighteen.”
A long pause.
I’m not sure if this means she’s busted, and she was, in fact, sleeping with Chelsea before she turned eighteen, or if she’s surprised that Chelsea would lie. Maybe she’s doing the math in her head? Or, a third option, she knows this call is being recorded.
What do I do if she asks if she’s being recorded? I can’t remember if the detectives covered that scenario or not.
They must have, right?
But I can’t remember.
Shit.
The longer her silence stretches, the more certain I am that she’s busted me.
Nothing.
Come on, talk!
Finally, she speaks. “I don’t know why she’d say that. Chelsea was eighteen. We specifically waited. She wanted to be with me on the night of her eighteenth birthday, you know, to celebrate, but she said you were bringing her to dinner at her favorite restaurant, Christopher’s Steak House. It was a school night — a Tuesday if I recall — so we waited until the following weekend.”
Now I’m the one who is quiet.
She was so specific, and her details match Chelsea’s diary. They waited. I don’t think she’s lying, and I don’t want to push her or trick her into a false confession. This is her life on the line and could be the difference between her just being fired and going to jail, registering as a sex offender, or whatever other punishment she’d face for sleeping with a minor.
I don’t look at Detective Jimenez. I say, “Maybe I’m mistaken. Sorry. Listen, I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you some other time to arrange picking up the stuff Chelsea wanted you to have.”
A beat of silence. Then, “Um, okay. Thank you for calling.”
“Thank you,” I say, hanging up.
Chapter Three
I wake up in a room so dark and cold it feels like a tomb. Given my hangover, maybe it’s fitting.
It takes a moment for the cobwebs to clear, but I soon realize I’m inside Carla Valencia, Chelsea’s art teacher.
I sit up, head pounding as fragments of last night’s memories rush through my head: Carla getting the phone call from Jack Caldwell, trying to keep her cool, then breaking down in tears the moment she hung up. The feeling of absolute loneliness as she lay on the floor crying, knowing that her career was over; and the walls were closing in.
And then the walls did close in — two detectives at her front door, asking her to come to the station and answer some questions. Before they left, they presented a warrant to search her premises. They didn’t take her away in cuffs, but may as well have. She felt a deep shame as her next-door neighbor, Mrs. Abrams, watched the detectives escorting Carla to their cruiser from her porch.
This was everything she’d feared from the moment her relationship with Chelsea crossed the line from friendship to more.
She’d waited until the girl was eighteen, but that wouldn’t spare her from losing everything — her career, her reputation, the possibility of ever teaching children again. No one would trust her. They’d all think she was some kind of pervert, deviant, a monster.
The police let her go after five long, excruciating hours of questioning, attempts to trip her up, to get to some “truth” they felt she was hiding. They were at turns nice, understanding, and accusing. Carla felt like she was being interviewed by schizophrenics, and by the end of the five hours, barely knew which way was up. She was reasonably certain that if they kept her any longer, she might slip. Not that she’d let out some incriminating truth — because she hadn’t slept with the girl before she was eighteen — but in her confusion, she might make a mistake, say something that wasn’t true, or which they could use against her. She was close to asking for a lawyer a few times but was afraid she’d look guilty the minute she did. Carla thought the cops believed her, but you could never tell, especially when they were all over the place throughout the questioning. She couldn’t tell what they were saying to persuade her, or play on her emotions, versus what was real.
No matter what the police believed, this would still go public. And nobody would ever see Carla the same. All the good she’d done as a teacher, all the students she’d helped by going the extra mile, showing them the beauty of art. She’d done a lot of good. She’d changed lives. Some of her students would go on to great careers because Carla had lit that fire inside them.
But that would all be meaningless once this story was public.
And while Carla could see why people wouldn’t understand why she’d throw her career away for a “child,” as the detectives described Chelsea, those people didn’t know the girl or understand their connection.
She went to bed afraid — afraid for her career, afraid for her life, afraid the police might return with charges to arrest her. But even more than all of that, she was afraid for Chelsea, that she might not make it out of this.
After she got home, Carla had to call her mother and tell her everything — not an easy conversation. Her mother had been surprisingly supportive. She cried, said she didn’t understand how a woman in her thirties could fall for a child. The conversation had many parallels to when Carla came out to her, also by phone, in her first semester of college, at the urging of Carla’s first love, Laura. Mom was resistant, at first, but eventually supported her daughter’s decision. And while she didn’t advocate Carla sleeping with a student, she did offer to pay for her legal support, should it be
needed.
I finish showering and get dressed, choosing sweat pants and a long T-shirt, as I have no intentions of leaving the house as Carla. I have no idea who knows what and don’t want to do anything that might screw things up, either for her or the investigation.
Her apartment is small but nice.
I go into the second bedroom, which has been turned into an art studio. Framed on the wall is an almost photo-realistic colored pencil sketch of an eye. Not just any eye; it’s Carla’s eye, drawn by Chelsea.
This was sketched early in their relationship, during the phase where they both knew there was something happening between them, but neither would move. Chelsea was too scared. Carla was still in denial, trying not to act on her feelings.
Carla thought she’d never love again, not after cancer had taken Laura five years ago.
She certainly didn’t think she’d fall for a student. But Chelsea was the first person since Laura whom Carla felt such an instant connection with.
As a kid, Carla had never been one to believe in soul mates. It seemed like the stuff that romance novels, movies, and greeting cards were built around, but which didn’t exist for everyday people. Of course, at the time, Carla was still in denial thinking she simply needed to meet the right boy. Who knew the right boy wouldn’t be a boy at all, but rather a girl she’d meet as a college freshman, a girl who would change her every notion about love and fate.
Laura had been the one. An artist and poet. She even played guitar. She saw things nobody else saw and said them in ways that no one else could. It was as if Fate had sought what Carla’s soul had been craving and decided to make a person for her alone.
Carla could truly be herself with Laura. She helped Carla to realize her potential, made her want to be something, to inspire others. Laura had been so full of life until Fate snuffed her out across six cruel months.
Forget love, Carla never thought she’d smile or laugh again. Only through teaching did she find any joy, and for a long time, that was enough. She would live in honor of Laura, inspiring others.
