Shake Down the Stars

by Renee Swindle

  “What? How am I betraying her?”

  “You’re having another baby, that’s how.”

  “Piper, you’re making absolutely no sense. I’ll always love my little girl; you know that.” He steps closer and tries to touch my arm, but I won’t let him. “P, this doesn’t have to be bad news. I’m proof that we can move forward in our lives. Nothing is stopping you from meeting someone, too, you know. You can meet someone and have a family.”

  “But I don’t want to meet anyone! I don’t want any more children!”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “But I don’t.” I feel my lungs tightening again and begin patting my hand against my chest as if this will somehow help my heart rate slow down. “I don’t want any more children,” I say to myself. “I don’t. I want Hailey back. I want Hailey.” I drop my head into my chest and whisper fervently, “I want Hailey back. I want my baby.” Hugging myself, I whisper again and again as if reciting an incantation: “I want my baby, I want my baby back.” I can’t make myself stop. A part of me thinks if I say it enough, she might just appear. “I want my baby. I want Hailey. I want Hailey back.”

  When I feel Spencer’s arms around me, I bury my face into his chest and burst into tears. He runs his hand over my hair and rocks me while I sob. We stand together until eventually my tears turn to an occasional hiccup. “I miss her so much.”

  “I know, baby. I do, too.” He kisses me near my temple and holds me tighter at the waist. I snuggle my face against his sweatshirt and close my eyes. I know everything there is to know about Spencer. Except for this separation, we’ve never spent more than two days apart. I’ve seen him at his happiest, Hailey’s birth, and at his lowest, her death. How in the world can he leave me?

  “Everything is going to be okay, Piper. A baby is a good thing. Can you be happy for us? Please?”

  “No. I can’t. I can’t.” I pull away.

  “Okay,” he says. “Okay.” He leans down so that he can meet my gaze. “I’ll always love you, P. You and Hailey have a special place right here.” He points to his heart.

  I know the gesture is meant to be kind, but right now it’s nothing more than trite and beneath him. Its underlying message: He’s locked Hailey and me away in the recesses of his heart so that he can make room for Tisa and his new baby.

  His new baby.

  “I should go.”

  “No, I can’t let you leave like this. Stay, finish your cake.”

  “No, thank you. I really should leave.”

  “You’re going to be okay, P.”

  I bite down on my lower lip to keep from crying. “No, I’m not.” I open the patio door and walk through the kitchen and into the hallway. I pause when I reach the den.

  Tisa sits on the couch with her back turned as she types on her laptop.

  I hear Spencer coming from behind. “Babe?”

  I turn but immediately feel myself blush when I realize he’s talking to Tisa. “Piper’s leaving. We should say good-bye.”

  She looks over her shoulder and sees me in the hall. “Leaving? Already?” The laptop rises on her knees, and I catch the sight of baby cribs on the screen. The floor shifts from under my feet, and again my lungs collapse and my windpipe shuts down.

  I inhale through my nose. “I have to go.”

  She rises from the couch. “No, stay. I was hoping we could all talk. Did you tell her our news, babe?”

  “Yeah,” Spencer says. “P, stay and talk. You’ll feel better if you do.”

  I’m near frantic by now and rush toward the front door. “That’s okay,” I call out.

  I open the door and run to my car. I tell myself not to look back as I hear them call after me. I start the engine and peel out of the driveway. It’s not until I have some distance between us that I glimpse them in the rearview mirror, standing on the porch hand in hand.

  • • •

  “Miss Nelson?”

  I’m currently floating past the Cat’s Eye Nebula, as red as a rose. I just can’t figure out how it’s possible that I’m hearing Gladys’s voice right now. How did she manage to find me in outer space? Shouldn’t she be running things back at the school?

  “Miss Nelson.”

  I feel someone’s hand on my shoulder and watch as the beautiful nebula begins to expand.

  “Miss Nelson.”

  Another shake.

  “Miss Nelson, we need you to wake up now.”

  Gladys’s voice is right next to my ear, so close it strikes me that the nebula may not be real after all.

  I feel my slumped-over body sitting on a chair, the left side of my face pressed into wood. I probably wasn’t floating through space either.

  I open my eyes and stare directly into Gladys’s gold belt, loud and gaudy and with some kind of bird at the buckle. I roll my eyes upward and catch sight of a plastic Santa pinned to her blouse, followed by her stubbly chin and sad, disappointed mouth. “Miss Nelson, we need you to wake up.”

  I slowly sit up, even as the room shifts under my feet. I wait as the blur of faces staring at me comes into focus. My students eye me with their mouths agape. Some whisper; others giggle. The clock on the wall lets me know it’s only first period.

  Gladys clamps her hand down on my shoulder. “Everyone, get back to work. Miss Nelson isn’t feeling very well today. Mr. Young will watch you until the end of the period. Miss Nelson?”

  She gives my shoulder a tight squeeze, and I rise like a student who knows she’s in deep shit. I feel spittle on the side of my mouth and wipe. I try to fix my hair, which is a lopsided mess, but give up. “Sorry,” I mumble to the group of students on my right. Theresa cuts her eyes at me. I look to the other side of the room and offer another apology. “I’m not feeling very well,” I explain. “Sick all night. Probably shouldn’t have come in today.”

  Theresa says, “It’s okay, Miss Nelson.”

  Tranica adds with a laugh, “Yeah, Miss Nelson. We all know what it’s like to have a hangover!”

  Several students burst into laughter; some high-five one another.

  “Enough!” Gladys snaps. She uses her walkie-talkie to call Mr. Young, the vice principal, who arrives in no time.

  Gladys doesn’t say a word as we trudge down the hallway and only keeps her arm linked in mine, much like a nurse helping a patient.

  We’re halfway down the hall when I feel my stomach surge. “Gladys?” I whimper.

  She studies my face closely. “Miss Nelson, you’re not about to be sick, are you?”

  My head swirls along with everything around me. When my stomach takes another dive and I feel the bile coming, I clasp my hand over my mouth and nod.

  Gladys turns up her nose in disgust. Not waiting until she dismisses me, I run for the girls’ bathroom. I have to push a student aside as I rush toward a stall. I make it on time at least, and I remain bowed over the toilet until my stomach is empty.

  I avoid looking in the mirror while washing my hands and rinsing out my mouth. What’s the point? I can tell how awful I look from Gladys’s reproachful glare.

  She’s gone when I reach the hall. I take my time walking to her office and try to piece together what happened. I remember the scotch I opened last night. Since hearing about Spencer and the nitwit, even I’ll admit I’ve been drinking more heavily. I remember rushing to work this morning and the grammar exercises I passed out at the start of class while I breathed through my hangover. “Work on this. Keep quiet,” I had told them. But that’s it. I have no idea how long I was asleep before Gladys came to wake me.

  My things are already in her office. She motions to the seat on the opposite side of the desk. I’ve never been called to the principal’s office and can’t seem to meet her gaze. I don’t need to see her face to feel her rebuke, though. Gone, the sweet smile and airy voice, the offer of candy and a pat on the back.
<
br />   When I get the courage to look up, she stares back with the same severity that’s known to get a stone-cold gangbanger to give up his gun. No wonder the kids respond to her as they do.

  “I understand your loss, Miss Nelson. I understand that you’ve had your world turned upside down and that you have experienced the kind of loss no one should have to suffer. But we cannot accept this kind of behavior. I prefer to return every cent of that money you and Mr. Randolph gave the school than to have one of my teachers showing up here drunk out of her mind.”

  I start to speak.

  “Don’t you dare try to deny it—and falling asleep during class? Your behavior is completely reprehensible.”

  “I’m sorry,” I mutter.

  “Are you? Do you know the effect you’re having on your students? Poor Alexandra Clark came in here, thinking you’d passed out. She thought you were dying! She came running in here, begging me to dial 9-1-1. Miss Nelson, you know what our kids see in their homes. We can’t let them see that kind of dysfunction here at school. I won’t have it. As you know, many of our kids have experienced their own share of loss, too, and they need role models, not teachers showing up here and behaving like you did today. School should be their haven.”

  “I’m so sorry. You’re right, Mrs. Edwards. I’m sorry.” I hang my head farther. I have never felt more ashamed than I do right now. “It’ll never ever happen again, Mrs. Edwards. I swear.”

  “You bet it won’t. You’re going home—without pay. Use the rest of this week and Christmas break to do what you need to do. That gives you sixteen full days to get your act together. But when you return from break, Miss Nelson, I want all of you back. No more absences, no more missed meetings. If you mess up a single time, I’ll do whatever I have to do to have you suspended. I’ll do whatever it takes and will fill out every bit of paperwork. I do not care about your donation to the school; I care about our kids, and the only reason I’m not suspending you now is that I know you care about our kids, too. I know you’re a good teacher because of what you’ve accomplished with your students in the past. I want that Miss Nelson to return two weeks from now. If I can’t get one hundred percent of her, I’ll settle for ninety-five, but no less. Miss Nelson, do we have an understanding?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. Now please go home and take the weekend and your vacation to figure out whatever it is you need to figure out so that I won’t have to fire you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I get my purse and briefcase and slink out of the office toward the exit doors, my head hanging low in shame.

  nine

  I knew the Reverend’s church had quadrupled in size since I last attended as a teenager, but seeing the three interconnecting buildings and immense stained-glass windows help me fully appreciate what a one-thousand-member church actually means.

  I’m here out of desperation. After Gladys sent me home yesterday, I’m ready to try anything to get my life back on track. Hence, the “miracle,” as Mom is calling it—my visit to tonight’s Friday evening service.

  Mom called last night while I was stargazing. There’s currently a storm taking place on Saturn, large enough for amateur stargazers to see. Gigantic plumes of smoke rise from Saturn’s lower region as if being discharged from a locomotive, billowy and caterpillar-like in shape. Because of the storm’s location and length, astronomers are calling it Storm Alley. I listened to Mom as she went on about what a great speaker Bishop Thomas is and how he uses science as part of his sermons. He’s so popular, she told me, the Reverend was lucky to get him on the Friday before Christmas.

  I hadn’t had a drink all day (I’m going to sober up or else), and her voice was grating on my nerves, but I managed to offer the appropriate uh-huhs and listen as she sang rhapsodically about the bishop. When I told her I’d go, making sure to leave out the info that I was almost fired that day and much in need of a miracle, she went on about God having a plan for me—“Praise Jesus! You won’t regret it, Piper. I promise you!”

  So here I am.

  From the droves of sheep flocking to tonight’s program, it appears that the entire congregation skipped catching a Friday night movie so they can hear tonight’s guest speaker, Bishop Ron Thomas of Atlanta. I follow one of the men wearing a T-shirt that says PARKING as he leads me to an empty space. After cutting the engine, I find the pack of cigarettes I bought on the way here. I’m sure it’s bad form to smoke in a church parking lot, but I’m craving a drink so badly, it’s either light up before going inside or not go at all.

  The air is filled with the kind of excitement that makes it seem as if we’re attending a rock concert. I’m in no rush, though, and watch the hordes make their way to the building while quietly smoking my cigarette. It’s not until I reach the nub that I smash it underfoot and join the gridlocked crowd at the front of the church.

  Ushers lead us inside. There are two elevators against the back wall and ushers handing out programs at various entrances. After taking the elevator to the second floor, I find a seat in the front row of the balcony. There are so many people, I half expect peanut vendors to walk up and down the aisle. One thing’s for sure: The Reverend has come a long way since preaching in the movie theater where I was forced to hear his sermons every Sunday.

  Down below, there’s a massive Christmas tree decorated in white lights and silver and white ornaments. A four-piece band plays while two young men wearing microphones jump and run back and forth in front of the stage and up and down the aisles, clapping their hands above their heads and pointing at people as they call out cheers.

  “Do you love Jesus?”

  The crowd responds, “We love Jesus!”

  “Do you love God?”

  “We love God!”

  “I can’t hearrrrrr yooooooou!”

  “We love God!”

  On and on until I’m praying for an aspirin.

  Once the church is full, the organist shifts into a quiet hymn. The screen behind the podium rolls down as one of the cheerleaders steps on stage and asks everyone to close their eyes. He then leads the congregation in prayer. I close my eyes but feel like a charlatan. I don’t think of God so much as the image of Storm Alley lining the underbelly of Saturn. I know I’ve been here only five minutes, but watching a storm take place thousands and thousands of miles away already feels more holy than this.

  The band switches into a different song as the choir starts to enter. The two women on either side of me, the entire congregation, in fact, are on their feet at once and start clapping and raising their hands toward the ceiling. The choir enters from two different entrances, one person after another as if there’s no end. It’s a mixed choir and a relatively mixed crowd, which is no small feat when one considers how segregated churches can be. They follow one another up to the stage, clapping and walking on beat, all dressed in bright yellow robes decorated with purple and gold Kente cloth. Once they’re on stage, Mom and the Reverend walk out hand in hand, waving to the congregation like politicians. The Reverend kisses Mom’s cheek, and she finds her seat in the front-row pew. After a minute or two she turns and begins searching the church. When our eyes meet she blows a kiss and waves. I honestly don’t remember the last time I’ve seen her this happy to see me, and I smile and wave back.

  The music dies, and the Reverend nods his head solemnly. He’s handsome with slicked-back hair and big white teeth. “Good evening, saints.”

  “Good evening.”

  “I don’t know about you, but I serve a mighty God. I say, I don’t know about you, but I serve a mighty God!”

  People suddenly stand on their feet and start whooping it up.

  I listen passively, meanwhile. Everyone has always fallen for the Reverend because he’s handsome and charming, but for all these years, he and I have never exchanged a meaningful conversation. I was grounded on a regular basis for “disrupting” Sunday
school or Bible class because I dared to ask questions I thought were perfectly reasonable: Why did Mary have to be a virgin? Did she remain a virgin while she was pregnant? Or, how can anyone possibly believe humans were created in a day when it’s been proven it took billions of years for humans to evolve from bacteria?

  Charles never said anything to me directly; punishment came through Mom. “Just shut your mouth during Sunday school. It’s all based on faith; that’s how we know.”

  I could sometimes hear her and Charles arguing about me, too. “You have to get her to behave appropriately, Margaret. She’s the child of a minister now. I can’t have her sneaking off when she’s supposed to be in Sunday school.”

  “I’m feeling good today, saints!” he says now. “Hallelujah! I’m feeling sanctified!”

  I clutch my stomach. I wish I felt something even remotely close to sanctified, but I feel more akin to a veteran experiencing post-traumatic stress and have to fight the urge to run out. I watch Mom nod in agreement with whatever the Reverend is going on about. I suppose she could honestly believe everything he preaches, but she sure did a three-sixty once he showed interest in her and told her he was a child of God. She abruptly stopped going out on dates, stopped drinking, and stopped bringing men home. To this day I’m not sure if she truly accepted Christ in her heart or Charles; maybe it’s both. I’m not sure, but whatever the case, she’s not the most loving Christian in the world. At least my unsaved mom had a sense of humor.

  The ushers open the doors, and the last of the stragglers walk in. I lock my gaze on a young couple. The guy isn’t as tall as Spencer, but he may as well be his doppelganger with his goatee and globe-shaped Afro. He has his arm around a woman carrying a toddler. I drop my head at the thought of my husband—ex-husband—with his new baby. It still hits me hard: Spencer being a father to someone other than Hailey. I can’t get my head around it.

  The choir finishes its song, and the Reverend goes on again about how sanctified he is and how he’s not of the earth. “I am only visiting this place! My real home is the heavenly realm! We are only passing through, saints! One day we will return to the arms of our heavenly Father! Amen?”