Ripple Effects

by Greene, L. J.

  He looks completely adorable.

  I burst out laughing. Teasing Dan is officially my new favorite thing.

  §

  Danny

  “So why does a middle school science teacher need a Ph.D.?” Sarah asks me. “Are you planning a career change?”

  We’re seated at a causal little Italian place up the street for dinner called Spiedo Café. I lean back in my chair, and cross my arms over my chest. I get this question a lot, actually, and my answer is well practiced, even if it’s not entirely true.

  “No, mostly it’s a personal goal. Although with some of the consulting work I do outside of the classroom, it’s definitely useful.”

  “So, you still love teaching?”

  “Yeah, it’s sort of my thing,” I say with a grin. That is true. It’s actually the best job in the world.

  She nods as if she understands, but not quite like I’ve satisfied her question. And now I’m curious what is such a puzzle in her mind.

  “What? You can spit it out.”

  A warm flush rises in her cheeks and brightens her pale blue eyes.

  “Okay–don’t take this the wrong way,” she starts hesitantly. I laugh inwardly because when isn’t that opening used to soften something that you can’t help but take the wrong way? And just because she seems fun to mess with, I have an urge to feign great offense, and give her loads of shit for whatever it is that comes out of her mouth next. But I don’t know her well enough for that. So I opt for professionalism instead, schooling my features into a look of pleasant curiosity.

  “What made you decide to move to middle school?” she asks, making a goofy face.

  It’s funny that she thinks that question would offend me. I’ve had far more contentious conversations with people over the years about teaching–mostly about budget cuts or tenure or global competitiveness.

  “I actually think the middle school years are the best years to teach. Kids are primed for huge leaps in learning, if you can get them engaged. And what’s more engaging than science?”

  Oddly, she just looks at me like she knows there’s more to it than that.

  “I guess what I like best is that they’re old enough to be able to handle more complex instructions and concepts while at the same time, they’re too young to decide that they don’t have an aptitude for science. Or that it’s not cool to get excited about learning. Seventh graders are just wide open. And I feel like if I do my job well, I can make a difference for them.”

  “I think you do make a difference,” she says softly, and her corresponding expression is so warm and sweet that I can’t stop looking at her. I struggle for something to say.

  Fortunately, the waiter arrives just then to take our orders. Among other things, he explains in fine detail the process by which the rabbit special is prepared. And I have chuckle to myself at the look of barely concealed horror on Sarah’s face as he repeatedly refers to the animal as a bunny. I know for a fact she’s not ordering that. And I wouldn’t confidently bet against her storming the kitchen for survivors, either.

  Throughout dinner, the conversation is surprisingly easy. Listening to Sarah talk about her career plans only deepens my respect for her. She’s genuine and substantive. It takes a special person to do the job she wants to do, and from the way she speaks of it, it’s a very personal thing.

  “Anyway, I just want to thank you again for helping me today. I really need this scholarship to come through.”

  The slip in her self-confidence is just barely perceptible, but there, nonetheless.

  McKinley High School drew from both wealthy and very middle class areas of town, and I don’t recall ever having the impression that Sarah came from the wealthy part. My guess is that this scholarship is the difference between her getting an advanced degree and not getting one–at least not from Stanford.

  “It’s my pleasure. I enjoyed it, too.”

  I really did. I take another sip of wine and feel myself relax, settling into the pleasure of just being here in the moment. It’s been such an unexpected evening, and yet, honestly, it’s one of the nicest I can remember.

  “You’ll get a kick out of this, Sarah. I actually sold two photographs from that exhibition at Charlie’s. One of them was a picture you might remember of the Golden Gate Bridge.”

  She smiles. “I remember it. It’s a beautiful piece.”

  She toys with the tiny necklace at the base of her throat, and I realize I’m watching her fingers.

  “I have this hike I love to do up in Wunderlich Park,” she tells me. “The trick is to leave by about 5:00 in the morning so you can make it up to the crest by sunrise. You can get shots of the most incredible early morning landscapes from that vantage point. If you haven’t been there, you definitely should. As a photographer, you’d love it.”

  Now, I do a lot of hiking. In fact, it was always a major point of incompatibility with my ex-girlfriend, Carolyn, because hiking was not her thing. Early in our relationship, she’d go with me. But over time, her interest in spending a portion of her weekend on a trail diminished substantially, until hiking became something I did without her.

  It surprises me that I haven’t yet been on the particular trail Sarah is referring to. But something else about her comment strikes me even more. Hiking in the dark is dangerous, on so many levels.

  “You don’t go alone, do you?”

  The question comes out sounding far sharper than I had intended. And I realize a little belatedly that the expression on my face is probably no better. I consciously adjust it back to something more neutral, but whatever pleasantness I might have felt from the wine is definitely gone now–replaced by an odd sense of…uneasiness?

  “Yeah, it’s stupid, I know; but I don’t have many takers at 5:00 a.m. I always carry mace.” She lifts one shoulder, her mouth pulling up slightly at the edges.

  “Christ, Sarah. Please don’t do that again,” I implore her. “I will gladly go with you any time you want to hike.”

  I’m not sure which of the two of us is more surprised by my offer, and we both just let it sink in for several seconds. Then something passes over her face that I can’t quite identify. She says nothing for a long minute, and, finally, she nods. “That would be great. Let me know when you’re free.”

  Before I can think twice about it, I shrug. “This weekend?”

  §

  Sarah’s phone rings from her purse, and when she sees it’s her roommate, she holds up a finger, and steps away from the table. I hear her say she’s fine, and that she’s coming home soon.

  While she’s gone, I flag down the waiter, and quickly pay the check. I remember what my budget was like as a student, and there’s no way I’m letting her pay for dinner. She’ll be mad at me since I was the one who lost the bet but, truthfully, I almost look forward to seeing what she’ll do when she finds out. She’s a riot.

  Predictably, she’s pissed.

  I have to force back a smile as I watch her berate me for welching on a bet. She tells me she can think of a few choice words to describe me, and, coincidentally, two of them are hyphenated. This girl–this woman, actually–is unreal.

  When we finally make it back to our cars at the end of the evening, we say our goodbyes. But I can’t help noticing that the smile on my face lingers for a long time after she’s gone.

  Chapter 4

  Danny

  IT’S DARK WHEN I PULL into the lot on Sunday morning and I’m impressed to see Sarah’s ancient-looking burgundy Camry already parked by the trailhead. She’s pulling a daypack from her trunk when my headlights grab her attention, and she gives me a small wave.

  I step out of my truck with two cups of coffee, and she stops abruptly.

  “How the hell did you manage that? Starbucks doesn’t open until 5:00.”

  “They can be very accommodating,” I tell her innocently.

  “I don’t even want to know.” She shakes her head, and takes the cup I hold out to her. “But I suppose having a charmer for
a friend has its benefits.”

  I laugh at her expression, although inwardly, I’m more than surprised to find that her use of the word “friend” twists slightly in my gut.

  We start up the trail with flashlights, and it’s so dark around us that it feels a little like the opening scene in the Blair Witch Project. There are oak trees thickly lining both sides of the narrow dirt path, throwing eerie shadows from the moonlight on the ground. We see what look like birds flying above us but, given the darkness, they’re more likely bats. There’s an almost unnatural quiet and yet, it feels intimate and adventurous.

  “What’s your mom doing these days?” I ask her, more to make conversation than anything else. I remember meeting Carol many years ago at a parent-teacher conference, and sympathizing with her situation–widowed so unexpectedly.

  But Sarah is quiet for a moment. “She moved to Auburn a few years ago. She works part time as a bookkeeper.”

  The sun isn’t up, and there is only enough early morning light to cast shadows on her face, yet I have this odd sense that I’ve stumbled onto something sensitive.

  I hesitate. “Do you miss having her around?”

  Sarah takes a deep breath, and doesn’t answer me for a long time. Then she says simply, “My mom has some issues. She’s been sober for a while, but her relapses are hard to predict. Sometimes, it’s a relief not to have her close by.”

  Christ. That was not at all what I expecting her to say. Flashing back to my meeting with Carol, I recall her telling me about Sarah’s father, but I don’t have any other distinct impressions of her–and certainly not that.

  Still, I instantly recognize the bravery in Sarah’s honesty. It’s a brutal reality that probably every child of an alcoholic comes to recognize: At some point, you have to take care of yourself. And the price Sarah just paid to speak those words out loud shows plainly on her face.

  “Was she always an alcoholic? When you were growing up?”

  Sarah shakes her head. “No, not when I was young. She was a really good mom…to both my brother and me.” The longing in her voice is palpable; I look away to give her a little privacy. “She was tireless, really. It wasn’t until my father’s heart attack that she started drinking. She just couldn’t cope with his death. And she couldn’t handle my brother’s needs so, more and more, she just left that to me.”

  I’m blown away by the revelation, and maybe more by how well she concealed it when I last knew her. “You were fifteen when your dad died.”

  “Yeah.” Her voice is soft, distant.

  “Sarah, I’m so sorry,” I know this is wholly inadequate.

  She just lifts one shoulder, and shakes her head slightly, never making eye contact.

  “Where is your brother now?”

  “CalTech. Computing and mathematical sciences.”

  “That’s impressive.” Christ, it really is.

  “Yeah,” she smiles proudly.

  We walk along for a few minutes in silence. There is so much I want to say to her now that the pieces are beginning to fall into place. The sad, reticent girl that I remember was a product of the compounded loss of not just one parent, but, in effect, two. And it’s all right there in her posture, the weight of the burden she must have been carrying for years. I ache for her, and I have an urge to console her, or offer some sort of comfort. But I also know from experience that sympathy is not what she wants, and so I offer none.

  Instead, without much thought, I tell her things I haven’t told anyone in a very long time.

  “When my folks died, I kind of went off the rails. I couldn’t seem to get a handle on my grief; I had no perspective on it. I got kicked out of my apartment; I blew off most of my friends, and nearly got thrown out of the master’s program at Stanford. I was a mess.”

  Her light blue eyes lock on to mine. She seems to understand that this is a difficult subject for me, as well.

  “How did you pull yourself out of that?”

  “I didn’t,” I tell her. “I couldn’t. But one day I was in a bar, not so much drinking as just hiding from my life, and Dr. Frick walked in, and literally yanked me out by the collar of my shirt. He sat me down on the curb and handed me a letter of expulsion.”

  “Dr. Frick, as in our department head?” she says, stunned.

  “The very same. I didn’t know him well–we spoke from time to time, I guess. But when I started missing my student teaching, my cooperating teacher notified him. He got a hold of my sister, Casey, in New York, and she put him in touch with my friend, Jamie, who I was crashing with at the time. Jamie helped him find me.

  “When he came to the bar, he told me that I needed to make a choice right then and there, and he’d either tear up the letter or make it official. Did I want to finish my program and get my credential, or did I want to piss away the opportunity the university had given me? He said life can deal some devastating blows but, in the end, it’s always our own poor choices we regret the most.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah,” I nod, remembering that day. “The thing is, I was so lost. I was at sea with nothing to hold on to. And, so, I just grabbed on to him. He made me come to his office every day after classes, and often on Saturdays to make up for the coursework I had missed. I think I actually did far more than anyone else in my program because he knew that I needed the distraction; I needed something to apply myself to. But it worked. I graduated with the rest of my class, with honors even. Frick was the one who referred me for the teaching position at McKinley. And, later, he made a special exception to oversee my Ph.D.”

  “I had no idea.” Her eyes are wide, and she looks at me with the recognition of someone who shares a similar history.

  I shrug. “I’m just telling you this because we both know that grief is a terrible thing. And lots of people lose their way trying to deal with it. I was really fortunate that I had people who were able to step up for me when I couldn’t do it for myself. Your mom was alone with two kids. I’m sure she never meant for things to end up the way they did.”

  She says nothing, just nods slightly and continues walking up the trail–at home in her surroundings, but totally lost in her head.

  §

  When we get to the top, the sun is just beginning to peak above the horizon. Sarah was right about the views; they’re a photographer’s heaven. From the crest of the mountain we’ve hiked, you can see a 360-degree view of the valley, covered in old oak trees, and blanketed in a light veil of mist. The soft pinks and silver blue of the clouds in the sky don’t look real. No artist can ever replicate the colors in nature.

  I pull out my camera, and begin to adjust it for the lighting and conditions, snapping a few test shots to make sure I have it just right.

  Sarah, too, gets out her camera. She seems deep in thought, though, and I know from experience that’s not always a good thing.

  “I think you just took a picture of my ass,” I tell her just to get a reaction.

  “I definitely did not take a picture of your ass!”

  “I think you did,” I smirk.

  “You are such a guy,” she says laughing, in spite of herself. And just as she begins to turn her face away from me, I take her picture. It’s a close-up of her profile with the tall grass blurred in the background. A few pieces of her long, blond hair have come loose from her braid and are drifting lightly across her shoulder. Her gaze is soft and unfocused, and she looks relaxed and happy.

  And absolutely beautiful.

  Not just beautiful. Ethereal. It’s as if the camera has captured something that my brain was too slow or too reluctant to acknowledge openly: This woman is remarkable.

  I stare at the shot in my viewer, rendered almost breathless by the perfection of the subject. Maybe Sarah was right; maybe somewhere along this unexpected road we’ve found ourselves on, a friendship has begun between us. And, perhaps I need to admit to myself that there may also be a kernel of something just a little bit more.

  “You’ll like this one,” I say hoa
rsely, the words catching in my throat as I show her the image on my screen.

  She stares at it wordlessly for a stretch, and then, turning to meet my eyes, hands me back the camera.

  “Thank you,” she replies softly, though it’s not the picture, I think, that we’re talking about.

  §

  The hike back down the mountain is much faster than the trip up. Mostly, we avoid all heavy topics of conversation, keeping the mood light and easy. Sarah tells me about a beach volleyball tournament that the university is hosting in Half Moon Bay next Friday afternoon. Sarah is playing, and she asks me if I was planning to go. But this is the first I’ve heard of it. At this point in my Ph.D. program as an ABD, I’m not on campus on a regular basis.

  “You should come watch, if you have time. It’s going to be fun.”

  Her involvement makes the event much more interesting to me, and I think for a moment about what I might have planned that day.

  “Yeah, maybe I will.”

  She misreads my hesitation, though, and her expression quickly turns to embarrassment.

  “I didn’t mean to pressure you,” she quickly adds. “I’ve monopolized so much of your time already, and you probably have plans with friends, or a girlfriend or whatever. Honestly, don’t worry about it.”

  A girlfriend?

  I guess hadn’t thought about the fact that my relationship status would ever be remotely relevant to her. But did she really think that I’d be here on a hike with her at 5:00 in the morning if I had a girlfriend? Did she think that any girlfriend would be okay with my befriending someone like her?

  “I don’t have a girlfriend. I did, but we broke up fairly recently.”

  A dozen things seem to cross her face as she stares at me. She’s surprised, that one I recognize, but there is something else there, as well.

  “Oh.” She swallows noticeably. “I’m really sorry, Dan. Are you okay about it?”

  “Yeah, of course. It was a long time coming.”

  “How long were you together?”