by Sarah Bird
“Shit, I put Britney in the laundry room. She needs to be washed. Pretzels was gnawing on her. We’ve gotta take Lady Gaga. Credenza. Second drawer down.” Dori calls the weighted dolls I use in class Britney Spears and Lady Gaga.
Dori digs out my backup demonstration doll and jams her into the canvas bag as I shuffle my feet into the pair of sandals I locate under the couch.
“Let’s turn this mother out!” Dori yells as we run for the door. “Give me your keys. I’ll drive! You put on makeup!”
In spite of myself, whenever I jump into my dilapidated Chevy Malibu with Dori, an oldie plays in my head about “head out on the highway. Lookin’ for adventure.” It makes me feel as if I’m fifteen again and cruising with my best bud.
“Dori, slow down,” I order as the succession of gas stations, Subways, liquor stores, and dry cleaners that line the road out of my subdivision, Parkhaven Country, whiz past. “I’d rather be late than dead. Besides”—I point to a sign—“school zone ahead.” I flip down the visor and lean in closer to the mirror to swipe on some lipstick and mascara.
At the top of the steep hill we are descending, a football coach in royal blue stretch shorts stands blowing his whistle at some small boys—made even smaller by oversize helmets and shoulder pads—who, red faced and streaming sweat, are chugging up the incline.
“Oh, great,” Dori says, “I see Child Brutality Month is in full swing.”
This is another well-worn conversation. At this point I would usually jump in and suggest that Amnesty International should investigate a school system that takes children who’ve spent an entire summer exercising only thumbs on game controllers, wraps them in nonbreathable polyester, sticks solar-collection helmets on their little heads, shoves them into killing heat, and lets a sadist with a whistle run them around. But I don’t repeat my lines. Instead, I marvel at Dori and her imperviousness to the constant, eroding drip of regret. On some level, she still thinks that we—she and I—had it all figured out. That we were the moms going our own way, unconventional but, ultimately, right.
She slows down as we approach the four-way stop at the edge of the elementary school. A moment after stopping, she mutters, “Go, asshole,” and makes a face at the driver of the Jeep Cherokee across from us. The driver gestures at Dori to go ahead. She holds her hand out, impatiently indicating the empty intersection, mutters to herself, “You go, asshole.”
He doesn’t move.
“Dori, just go.”
“No, he was here first. It’s his turn. Oh, look, now he’s giving me Little Lady Fingers.”
It’s true, the driver is gesturing with two fingers twitching above his steering wheel for us to go ahead.
“I hate that patronizing shit.”
The cars on either side get tired of our standoff and zoom through the intersection. Then the Cherokee squeals out. As he passes, the driver flips Dori off. She gets a good look at his face and screams, “Oh my God, it’s Pastor Jesus Juice from Six Flags over Jesus!” The youth minister from the nearby megachurch whom Dori has decided is a child molester is, indeed, flipping us a giant bird.
Just as we finally cross the intersection, I shriek and flail at my pocket.
“Crap! What did I hit? Tell me it’s not a kid.”
“No, you’re fine.” I extract my buzzing phone. “Sorry. I forgot I put it on vibrate. I didn’t want to miss it if Aubrey calls.” I check the number, see that it’s not Aubrey, and try to figure out which of my patients or students might be calling. My best guess is the dad from the young couple with preemie twins. Their case is complicated and I’m not certain I can remember all the details. I pull up a mental file on the twins. Chase and Jason? Charles and Jeremy? Chance and Jared! Six weeks premature. Nurse started them on formula at the hospital. Nipple confusion. They’re losing weight. Pediatrician is pushing for formula. Mom is understandably frantic. Dad is clueless and thinks life with twins would be a breeze if his wife would just give in and do formula. He’s always the one who calls, since Mom, literally, has her hands full. I put on my professional voice—calm, competent, warm—and answer.
“Hello?” I repeat when the dad doesn’t respond. A scrambled fragment of his urgent answer bleeps in, then cuts out. I hold my phone aloft to try to amplify the signal, then twist around until another bar appears and yell, “I can’t hear you!”
A disjointed Morse code of garbled words machine-guns my ear, then right before the connection is decisively dropped, a name jumps out of the gibberish.
Dori glances over at me. “Who was that?”
I don’t answer.
Dori glances over, sees my expression. “Cam, are you all right? Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
I watch Dori move her mouth, but I can’t hear her anymore. We move forward along the road, but the houses, the vet clinic on the corner, the convenience store, they all pass by in silent slow motion.
“Cam!” Dori explodes. The volume comes back on and the world starts running at the correct speed again. “Who was that?”
“Martin.” I let my hand holding the phone drop into my lap. “That was Martin.”
6:13 P.M. OCTOBER 13, 2009
=How was school today?
=Fine, aside from the fact that it took place at Parkhaven High School.
=Any good Psycho Saunders stories from physics?
=Yeah, Matt McClune, whose big brother had Saunders last year and told him where all the crazy buttons are, said something about how many Asians have won Nobel prizes in science, and Saunders just WENT OFF! He had all these statistics about what percentage of all the engineers and chemists graduating are from Asian countries and how America can just kiss its ass good-bye in science.
=Angry white male? Get him talking about how the founding fathers meant for us all to carry AK-47s and never pay taxes.
=That’s good. I’ll remember that one.
=But beware, he sounds like the kind of guy who has given the same final for the past thirty years. So, one way or another, you’ve still got to cover the material. Here’s what I find works with crazy people: Don’t engage. If they—a teacher, a boss, whoever—control the board, just play their game until you’re free.
=Is this the kind of stuff people pay you to tell them?
=Ha! Not impressed?
=I didn’t say that. Is it?
=Not exactly. Next has its own set of rules. Sometimes they work in the real world. Mostly you have to leave the real world to make them work.
=So does that mean you don’t believe them?
=More and more, no. The one rule I’m certain I don’t believe anymore is the one about cutting anyone out of your life who doesn’t believe.
=Aubrey? You still there?
=Yeah. Just thinking.
=About what?
=To be continued. Pretzels needs to go out. TTFN.
OCTOBER 20, 2009
There is mayo on my turkey wrap when I specifically asked for no mayo. Plus the “wrap” is a cold, stale tortilla. Makes me wonder why I skipped my usual box of animal crackers eaten in the library and went off campus with Wren and Amelia to have lunch at this new place they love, Rap It Up. It has a theme going, playing loud rap music as if decibels can make up for crap food. Parkhaven could use some better lunch options. I mean, seriously? How hard can it be to put out a decent sandwich?
I can barely pull my attention away from creating the perfect lunch menu to listen to Wren and Amelia sitting across the small orange plastic table filling me in on all the band news I’ve missed since I dropped out.
“Did you hear that Dahlia Butler got a drama scholarship to Wellesley? A full ride.”
Two words I can live the rest of my life without ever hearing again: “full ride.” I can also do without “reach, match, and safety school,” “early action,” and “early decision.” In fact, the word “college” is starting to give me hives. The anxiety level is off the charts, with everyone writing essays and filling out their FAFSA applications and retaking SATs for the el
eventh time.
While Wren and Amelia debate the merits of Williams versus Bowdoin versus just going somewhere in state and which school would give them the most money, I tune out and wonder how tortillas can go stale in such a busy restaurant. I have no thoughts about or interest in any of the colleges they’re analyzing and try to work out what I’d like to be eating at this moment. Hot, I am thinking, hot would be good. But not pizza. I am sick of pizza. And sick of living off the microwavables that Mom has started lugging home from Costco since her work got so busy that even if, initially, the empanada or pot pie or whatever is all right, by the time I’ve choked down half a dozen of the things, just reading the words “Pierce film in 3–4 places to vent” can make me start gagging.
“Aubs? Aubrey?”
“Huh? What?”
“What are your top three?”
Their eyes drill into me, waiting for an answer. “Colleges?” I ask.
Wren and Amelia blink, stunned that anyone would think there is any other topic in the entire world.
“Uh, well, I’m not totally sure.” Then I remember the college I’m supposed to visit next week. “Peninsula.”
“Peninsula?” Wren repeats. “Is that the one that doesn’t give grades?”
“Really?” I can’t remember anything about this college, not even why I ever agreed to visit. At least I’ll get two days away from Parkhaven High.
“What if you want to transfer?” Amelia asks, alarm brightening her eyes, which, now that I think about it, are kind of always in a state of high anxiety. “I mean, what will they put on your transcript?”
I hold my cup up. “Do they give free refills here?” I leave Amelia blinking with worry. At the drink machine, I confidently fill the cup with Diet Dr Pepper, adding my signature squirt of Nehi Strawberry. Here is a decision I can handle.
Even though I am really late by the time I get to the attendance office, Miss Olivia is still putting her purse in a file drawer and locking it up. Unlimited tardies is the perk we give each other. Madison Chaffee’s mom and dad are waiting at the counter. Unlike most parents—who are almost always harried moms come to get their kid out for allergy shots or prenatal doctor visits or meetings with their probation officers or some other reason that ranges from mundane to tragic—the Chaffees are grinning like idiots.
“Aubrey!” Mrs. Chaffee explodes. I’m surprised she remembers my name. Maybe euphoria improves a person’s memory. “I’m so glad it’s you. We need to tell Madison something. In person.”
I look over to Miss Olivia. She nods that it is OK for me to go get Madison out of class. I take my time getting to Madison’s Calculus-for-Asians-and-Kids-Whose-Parents-Put-Them-in-Kumon-Math-Tutoring-When-They-Were-Two-Because-They-Knew-That-Public-School-Math-Teachers-Suck-and-Could-Afford-to-Buy-Better-Ones Class. As I dawdle my way through the halls, I realize that I actually have nothing against Parkhaven per se. In fact, the halls, when they are empty, are quite pleasant. I like the wide, airy breezeways with little hives of learning humming behind closed doors.
Going to get Madison makes me remember how, when I was little and got called out of class, my first thought was always, My dad’s here. My dad came back for me. I didn’t even like to talk to whoever came to get me. I didn’t want to give them the chance to tell me that it was just Mom waiting in the office to bring me my geography homework or an extra inhaler. Because for those few minutes, walking down an empty hall, I would just stop agreeing with the way things really were and I did have a dad and he was in the office waiting for me.
I guess that’s what my dad did. Stopped agreeing with reality. I could do it for as long as it took me to get from my classroom to the office. He managed it for sixteen years. He must have had more mental discipline than me. Or maybe it wasn’t that much of an effort to pretend that I didn’t exist.
Even though Madison’s class is right around the corner from the attendance office, I detour upstairs, then over to the east wing. I’d peeked at Tyler’s schedule, so I know that he has English in the east wing at this very moment. I slow way, way down outside his class, enough that I can hover by the window in the rear door long enough to catch a glimpse of the back of his head. My heart seizes up the instant I see his hair cutting dark curlicues over the collar of his shirt. He is leaning back, tipping his chair on its rear legs, running a pencil through his fingers so fast that it is a ripple going over and under one finger, then the next, then back again. Like most everyone else in the class, he is ignoring the teacher. A door opens somewhere down the hall and, pulse thumping, I hurry on to the math wing.
At Madison’s calculus class I hand her teacher the note. When he calls Madison’s name, it is obvious from the ecstatic/relieved expression on her face that she knows immediately what this means. I’m certain it’s something about college. Everything is about college. I beat her to the punch of pretending she doesn’t remember me and walk briskly ahead of her.
In the office, without speaking a word, Madison’s father takes a beat-up old Duke cap off his head and puts it on his daughter’s. Madison bursts into tears and squeals, “I did it?”
“You did it,” her father answers, beaming. “A perfect eight hundred in math. No way you’re not going to be a Blue Devil now!” Then Madison and her mother hold hands and jump up and down.
After they leave, Miss Olivia beams and says, “That’s a nice family.”
Miss Olivia’s daughter did two years at Parkhaven Community College and is selling tires at Costco now. There is so much I don’t understand.
12:12 A.M. OCTOBER 20, 2009
=You there?
=Aubrey! What a nice surprise.
=Maybe. I actually really need an answer. Why did you leave us?
=OK, then I actually need to give you one. Part of it, a big part, was that I left because, if I’d stayed, I wouldn’t have been a good father.
=You know, most dads aren’t that great. They’re not supposed to be. Not with daughters. They’re just mostly supposed to be the guy in the front seat who picks you up after band practice so you can sit in the back and giggle with your friends. It’s not like I ever expected any big interactions or anything. Just a dad who put oil in the car and thought about stuff like cleaning the leaves out of the rain gutters.
=Aubrey, I never would have been that dad.
=OK. Gotta study.
=Could we talk about this some more?
=No, probably not.
FRIDAY, AUGUST 13, 2010
Get out! Martin? Martin called? I thought Next swore they would kill him in this and his next ninety-nine incarnations if he ever contacted you again. Are you sure?”
I study the number on my phone. “Well, he was breaking up. A lot.”
“But he said, ‘Oh, hi, hey, it’s me, Martin, just checking in to see what you want to do for dinner.’ ”
“I think I heard his name.” The longer I look at the number on my phone, the more it starts to remind me of the number of the dad of the preemie twins.
“But you recognized his voice?”
“Kind of.”
What I recognized was that even though the words were garbled and mostly missing, from the first syllable that the caller spoke some switch was thrown in my reptile brain and my heart shifted into overdrive, thudding with a high-voltage mixture of surprise, fury, and hope. Since Martin’s voice was the only one that had ever been able to reach that switch, I’d concluded that it was him.
“Reception was all weird and wobbly.”
Dori shrugs indulgently. “Nerves. It’s a big day.”
“Yeah.” I take the absolution she is granting me for being a pathetic dork.
“Gary has a friend who sounds really nice.” Gary is a Match.com date who’s turned into Dori’s regular, two-nights-a-week guy.
“Thanks.” Gary’s friend gets brought up whenever Dori thinks that I am tragically hung up on Martin and need to move on.
By the time we reach Parkhaven Medical Center, where I hold my classes, I’m 95 per
cent certain that the caller was the preemie dad. A blast of polar air whooshes when the front doors slide open. We trundle onto the elevator and as it inches downward I do what I always do before I teach class and put everything else out of my mind—Aubrey, the preemie dad, Martin—and focus.
As usual, the basement annex is chilled to exactly the same temperature as the pathology lab next door. On summer days, I enjoy a break from the asphalt-melting heat. Today I can’t seem to warm up and wish I’d brought a sweater.
Five minutes before class is supposed to start nearly all of the folding chairs Dori and I set up have been taken. At the back of the room, Dori helps a few stragglers sign in. She checks that they’ve registered and paid, then loads them up with handouts.
Most of the twenty-nine parents-to-be are coupled up; a lot are well-off: husbands checking iPhones, wives sporting French-manicured toenails and linen blouses fresh from the cleaner’s. Some are less well-off. A couple in their late teens slump in the back row. Mom runs a tongue stud across her front teeth. Dad, in oversize jeans and a hoodie pulled up to hide most of his face, glances around, then retreats like a turtle back into the safety of his hood.
A teen mom comes in with her mother. The teen mom is slutty-beautiful with a sullen Elvis Presley sensuality. She turns away from her mother, curls herself around a phone, and starts texting. The mom glances at a young couple in the row ahead of her. They’re holding hands, heads tilting together, as they study the handouts. She-Elvis’s mom’s face tightens and she sits up ramrod straight, as if the couple’s settled, successful married state is a rebuke to her. I want to go to the mother, take her hand, and tell her that although she and her daughter believe that every bad choice the daughter has ever made in life is her fault, it’s not. It’s really, really not.
Everyone speaks in whispers. They all have the awkward air of people trying to avoid eye contact in a proctologist’s waiting room. From the back, Dori raises her arm and shoots a big thumbs-up, signaling that everyone who’s signed up is present and paid for.
