She gave a small smile and nodded.
“The next morning you woke me up bright and early with the news someone had rear-ended poor old Mrs. O’Mara’s parked car, smashing her rear taillight.”
“May she rest in peace,” his mother said, on account of their next-door neighbor had died one year earlier.
“That morning you told me how bad you felt because she didn’t have the money to fix the damage and the car wasn’t safe to drive with a broken taillight.” His leg started to ache so he moved his cane and shifted his stance to redistribute his weight. “Then, like you already knew I’d done it—”
“You had a suspicious dent in your fender.”
“You went on to tell me a real man takes responsibility for his actions. A real man admits he made a mistake and does everything he can to fix that mistake.”
“And you got right up and dressed and went over to talk to Mrs. O’Mara.”
Then he’d taken on a month of extra night shifts stocking groceries at the supermarket to save up enough money to pay the body shop. “Well I’m trying to do the right thing now, too.” Because even though he wasn’t the one who’d posted Brooke’s picture on Facebook, he’d badgered her for some sexy pictures for months before she’d finally given in. He was the reason the pictures existed. And he’d been so proud a girl like her had taken an interest in a guy like him he hadn’t kept them private, like he’d promised. And he’d failed to lock them up to keep them out of the hands of an idiot like Chad Deyo.
“Only this time,” he went on, “doing the right thing involves me going to New York.” From his home in New Jersey the trip to Westchester County should take about three to four hours of driving, depending on traffic. “A friend of mine is in trouble because of me. She doesn’t deserve what’s happening to her and I have no intention of leaving her to deal with it on her own.”
“A real man also honors his commitments,” she pointed out quietly.
“I’ll do my best to make it home in time.”
“I know you will.” She rose to her toes to kiss his cheek. “I love you, too, and I’m so proud of the man you’ve become.”
Because she didn’t know the truth—that he was a tired man, a used-up man who just wanted to be left alone in a dark room with a couple of cases of beer. So he could quiet his mind, dull the constant ache of loss and frustration and guilt. So he could simply lapse into oblivion and forget—
Ma’s words brought him back. “So this trip to New York involves a she?”
“Don’t start,” he warned, turning back toward his desk.
“Would she happen to be the mysterious Brooke?”
Almost to his chair he turned and looked over his shoulder. “What do you know about Brooke?” Thank the Lord his mom wasn’t on Facebook.
“In the hospital you used to call out her name in your sleep. Sometimes when I hear you thrashing around in here,” she motioned to the bed, “I come to check on you and hear you mumbling it.”
Because of that damn dream.
Everything starts out fine. He’s back in the United States. He and Brooke are out on a date. It’s dark, the full moon casting the wooded landscape outside of town into shadows. He’s driving on a deserted patch of road surrounded by trees, looking for a place to pull over, his blood surging with the desperate need to hold her close, to feel her beautiful body pressed against him, his heart pounding with urgency to kiss her and love her and make her his for real.
Then—poof—the landscape changes. Trees and bushes disappear, leaving barren nothingness as far as the eye can see. Gunfire erupts in the distance, getting louder, coming closer. The shadows of men appear, dozens of them, closing in fast. Straight ahead there’s a flash of light. A blast. Impact. Dust and debris. The smell of smoke. He turns his head to the side as the force of the explosion ejects him from the vehicle, long enough to see Brooke with her head blown off, same as his buddy Shep.
Blinking and shaking his head, trying to dislodge the disturbing image, he sat down in front of his laptop. “Don’t make more of it than it is, Ma. She’s too good for me.” Too smart, too pretty, too classy for his sorry-ass self, even more so now.
Women loved the idea of a heroic soldier fighting for freedom. But beneath the impressive weaponry, uniform, and body armor, he was just a regular guy. Imperfect. Tattooed. And now broken. “In fact, she’s so far above me I’ll probably have to dodge her feet when she walks by so I don’t get stuck to the bottom of her shoe.”
“Nonsense.” His mom waved her towel. “Any woman would be lucky to have you.”
Spoken like a mother blinded by love for her son, because what woman would consider herself lucky to be saddled with a twenty-six-year-old man who was missing one eye and required a thick corrective lens to see out of the other? A man who had to sleep with the radio on to drown out the loud, incessant, sometimes temporary-insanity-inducing residual ringing in both ears? A man with chronic left leg pain who needed the assistance of a cane for balance so he didn’t fall on his face while taking a stroll? A man with no job and no prospects and an uncertain future no woman in her right mind would want to sign on for?
“Thanks, Ma.” He didn’t look at her. “I need to send out a few e-mails, then I’m going to throw some stuff in a bag and hit the bed so I can get on the road early.” According to his eye doc, due to his visual deficiencies, driving at night was not recommended. In Shane’s book, “not recommended” counted as a suggestion not a mandate. Of course his mother wouldn’t see it that way. So he’d wait to leave. Until after his mother went to bed. Oh, he’d get on the road early, just like he’d told her. Very, very early.
“Be sure to stop at the fridge before you go. I’ll put together some snacks for your trip.” She walked over to him and kissed his cheek. “Drive carefully. And slowly. Take frequent breaks to rest, and call me when you get there.”
“I will.” He started to type the message part of his e-mail, which basically told Mic and Big G to hunt down Chad Deyo, retrieve Brooke’s pictures, get him to delete the image he’d put up on Facebook, and then beat the shithead unconscious, without getting caught, of course. He signed off with his usual “Gump” for Forrest Gump, a nickname he’d earned back in basic training for his ability to run farther and faster than any of the other recruits. He considered changing it to “Gimp,” since now he couldn’t run at all, but hit Send instead.
Then he leaned back in his chair, closed his eye, and tried to imagine how Brooke would react to his arrival.
Chapter Three
The next morning, after an exhausting night of more obsessing over “what-if” and “worst-case” scenarios than sleeping, Brooke squinted to make out the blurred numbers on the clock, her sore eyes not yet ready to work as a team for the purpose of focusing.
7:42.
She rolled onto her back and stared up at the blurry ceiling.
Her second year of teaching had gotten off to a fantastic start. Two months in and all of her classes were right on schedule with only a small number of behavioral issues. She let out a frustrated breath and sat up. Today was Friday. She should be preparing for her first-period class, not lying in bed.
She walked to her bureau, opened a drawer, and took out clean underwear and a matching bra.
Her students looked forward to Fridays when, for ten minutes at the end of each class, she opened Math-Mart where the kids could exchange the Best Effort Bucks they’d earned for class participation, homework completion, and perfect test/quiz scores for snacks and prizes. They’d no doubt be disappointed to find her absent—at least the ones who hadn’t gone on Facebook yesterday. As for the others, who knew what they were thinking this morning?
Although she didn’t think it possible, apparently, yes, she did have more tears left. She wiped them away and headed for the bathroom and Oh. My. Goodness. She sucked in a breath.
The reflection staring back at her from the large mirror over the sink was that of a harried, crazy person. A woman on the edge, her da
rk brown hair a wild mess, her brown eyes surrounded by dark pink and encased in swollen lids, her nose red and dry around the nostrils, her complexion pale and almost sickly.
In her present state her image would fit right in with the mug shots she’d seen on the news and Internet. Guilty teachers who’d had inappropriate sexual contact with their students for real. Disgraced. Arrested. Serving jail time.
Nausea started to build.
Then she thought of the clock, ticking. When would the police come to question her? Would she be taken from her home in handcuffs? Would she be forced to ride in the back of a police car, like a common criminal, to be interrogated in a windowless room and held in a dirty cell with dangerous degenerates?
Her heart pounded. Her lungs seized. Feeling lightheaded, she grabbed onto the counter for support.
“You’re innocent,” she said, lifting her head to meet the frantic gaze of the woman in the mirror. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
But what if innocence wasn’t enough? What if that boy lied and continued to lie and people believed him? If the police believed him? If the judge believed him?
Brooke wanted to run. To grab some clothes and her pocketbook and leave town until this whole misunderstanding could be resolved.
Then she’d be a fugitive. On the run from the law. In hiding.
“Stop it.” She leaned in close to the unfamiliar reflection and stared into her puffy eyes. “Get it together. Ellsteins do not fall apart.” She stated her mother’s words, repeated over and over so often, year after year, when Brooke was a child, until she’d finally mastered the ability to hide her emotions when in the presence of others, including her family.
A few deep, determined breaths later, Brooke had a plan.
Fifteen minutes supine, with her head elevated and cold cucumber slices on her eyes, effectively eradicated the telltale redness and puffiness that’d rimmed her eyes. A long hot shower while practicing some meditative breathing helped with relaxation, and heavy-duty anti-frizz conditioner helped to tame hair gone wild in the night. Generous usage of concealer took care of her nose and pallor. Careful makeup application enhanced her girl-next-door appearance.
Brooke returned to her bedroom and chose her clothes with care. A pale pink cashmere sweater set, beige slacks and flats, and Grandma Ellstein’s pearl necklace and earrings for fortitude. Grandma Ellstein was the strongest woman Brooke had ever known. She’d lost two sons to war and a husband to cancer, yet she kept on going, managing to maintain a positive outlook in the process.
When Brooke was dressed, her full-length mirror showed a perfectly poised, well-put-together young woman, a woman confident in her innocence and ready to convince the world—or at least her small, affluent Westchester County town.
But while Brooke could fix up the external image she presented to the public, inside, her body knew the truth. She was a nervous wreck. And one look at the coffee maker in the kitchen made her stomach cramp out an acid warning that shot up to the back of her throat.
Message received. She filled a mug with water, put it in the microwave to heat, and hunted down a box of herbal tea.
By nine o’clock, after some tea and a few bites of whole wheat toast, she felt more like herself.
Until she sat down on the couch, turned the television to the morning news, and was greeted with her father’s picture in the top right corner of her screen accompanied by the young blond anchorwoman’s words: “The race for New York State governor is heating up as frontrunner Republican candidate Len Ellstein’s lead in the polls is at risk amid reports his daughter, Brooke Ellstein, a junior high school teacher, is being investigated for inappropriate sexual relationships with several children.”
Her eyes went wide and her fingers flew to cover her mouth as she sucked in a horrified breath. Daddy’s campaign.
Someone had leaked the story to the media. Her investigation was being discussed on television. Now the entire state would know.
This was an absolute nightmare, not only for her, but for her father.
The anchorwoman went on. “Victims came out on the popular social networking site Facebook.”
Victims. Plural.
Before Brooke could process the anchorwoman’s implication that there was more than one victim, her staff yearbook picture from the prior year popped onto the screen, and her lungs seized. Would not work. At all. Life as she knew it imploded.
Someone knocked. Her heart pounded. She couldn’t open the door, couldn’t show her face in public ever again. She’d never find another teaching job in New York State. She’d have to leave her home and her friends and the comfortable life she’d built for herself. Black dots danced in her vision. Numb. She felt absolutely numb, was going to pass out, could feel it coming.
A door slammed. Footsteps. Someone shook her shoulders. “Breathe.”
A woman’s voice.
“Come on, Brooke. Breathe.”
Neve must have used her key to get in.
“Can’t,” Brooke forced out, her chest tight, like someone had tied a tourniquet around her ribs. “Believe.” She struggled to suck in air. “This is…happening.”
Her friend sat down and pulled Brooke into a hug. “It’s going to be okay.” She rubbed Brooke’s back. “Everything is going to be okay. I promise.”
A picture of the front door of her condo flashed on the screen with the words “Whore” and “Die bitch” painted on the diagonal in clearly visible black letters. She pointed to the television. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Neve glanced at the screen. “I didn’t want to upset you.”
“Whore,” Brooke whispered. Horrified. Then panic surged through her body and she gasped. “If they have a picture of my door, that means the press found me.” She ran to the window and carefully made a tiny opening between the blinds to peer out. A news van had parked perpendicular to her car. A bunch of men and women were standing around, some on their cellphones, maybe twenty feet from where she stood watching them. Trapped! Even if she wanted to leave she couldn’t. They had her car blocked in.
“Get over here,” Neve urged.
On the television a reporter stood in front of her school, interviewing a colleague Brooke barely knew. The sixth-grade science teacher said, “It’s always the quiet ones, the ones you’d least expect.”
“You have got to be kidding me.” Brooke fought to remain calm.
Never concerned about remaining calm, Neve yelled at the screen, “Consider the source, you moron. Facebook! Where kids go to brag and make themselves appear more interesting than they really are. They’ll say anything for attention. This could easily be happening to you!”
The shot changed to the reporter standing with a woman dressed in a pale blue tracksuit. “How do you feel about the allegations a teacher at this school has been engaging in inappropriate sexual relationships with children?”
“Why do reporters ask such stupid questions?” Neve asked.
“There it is again,” Brooke pointed out. “Relationships. Plural. What—?”
“Shhh.” Neve motioned to the interview in progress. “I’ll tell you in a minute.”
The parent she didn’t recognize went on, “…and her rich daddy is all involved in politics. You know she’s going to get off scot-free.”
“Because I didn’t do anything wrong!” Frustration started to build, the pressure making her head throb. “What happened to innocent until proven guilty?” Last night Brooke had decided against calling an attorney for fear that retaining legal counsel would make her look guilty, naively hoping the boy who’d made the false claim would come forward with the truth and her name would be cleared by morning.
Maybe she needed to reconsider.
The parent kept right on going. “Who suffers? Our children, that’s who. My daughter’s scared to come to school.”
Brooke clutched the back of the sofa in an attempt to keep her life from spiraling even further out of control. “I’m a good person,” she said quietly, her
eyes locked on the television, wishing she could talk to the concerned mother and the reporter, to explain what happened, to make them understand the truth, to tell them who she really was.
“I follow the rules,” she said, even though they couldn’t hear her. “I walk in the crosswalk. I obey the speed limit in town. I volunteer my time to improve literacy in the county. I stay after school every day to provide extra help to my students. I’m an adviser for student council. I run the school’s Thanksgiving food drive.” She looked at Neve’s sad face. “And a few comments on Facebook are enough to erase all the good. To have my fellow teachers thinking I’m the type of person capable of sex with children. To have parents thinking I’m a threat to their children, and students afraid to come to school.”
She felt more tears coming—helpless, desperate tears, the worst kind.
“First of all, that teacher is an idiot,” Neve said. “And that kid probably jumped at the chance to stay home and play video games all day. These are the opinions of two narrow-minded, stupid people. Who knows how many teachers and parents that reporter had to interview before she found two who would say something negative? You know how the media operates. They go out of their way to paint a terrible picture to sensationalize stories to pique people’s interest.”
“It worked,” Brooke said. “Look at my dad. After months of voters thinking he deserves to be the next governor of New York, he’s at risk of losing their support. Because of me. Because he raised me and they think I’m a horrible human being.”
She brought a fist to her mouth to hold in the sob that wanted to break free. Her heart ached. Years of working so hard to be the best daughter and student and teacher, wasted. There’d be no recovering from the damage to her reputation, both personal and professional. And her parents were going to be livid that she’d done something to negatively impact her father’s campaign, a stepping-stone to the White House, as her mother would say.
“You are not a horrible human being.” Neve picked up the clicker. “You are a wonderful person. A perfect daughter. Your parents just spend so much time focused on their social status and your dad’s political aspirations they’re too busy and self-centered to see it. You’re a fantastic teacher. You’ve been my best friend for as long as I can remember, and I am very selective.” She turned off the television. “You shouldn’t be watching this.”
Loving You Is Easy Page 4
