by LK Rigel
“Maybe Jane Eyre didn’t imagine those cries,” she said. “Maybe she actually heard them. Her soul connection to Mr. Rochester and to Thornfield Hall is one of the great stories in fiction.”
Sara understood Jane completely. She felt spiritually connected to a big old gothic house herself. She longed to see Turtledove Hill again, her great aunt’s mansion on the northern California coast. She’d been there once, when she was fourteen, the same age as her students. Only once, but the place had captured her imagination.
Until now she’d forgotten the other thing—or repressed it. She’d caught a glimpse of Aunt Amelia’s lover in the kitchen. He’d reminded fourteen-year-old Sara of the hero in Jane Eyre, the book she’d just been reading. He was the same man twenty-eight-year-old Sara had just imagined was standing in the corner of her freshman English classroom.
The so-called bell blasted, as caustic as a penalty buzzer on a game show, and the kids leapt up from the desks with their books and backpacks. “Great discussion today,” Sara said. “I look forward to reading your essays.”
Across the hall another teacher leaned against her door, a dazed look on her face. Her kids poured out of her room into the hall, and she moved mechanically with the flow of students.
Sara caught up with her. “Marie, what is it?”
“Did you check your mail yesterday?” Marie said.
“Dammit,” Sara said under her breath. She’d forgotten yesterday was the 15th.
In the teachers’ room, Marie sank into a chair. “I got my final notice.”
This year everyone in the district with less than five years’ seniority had received Reduction in Forces notices. RIFing season, they called it. Yesterday was the deadline for final layoff letters. Sara poured two cups of coffee and gave one to Marie.
“I knew you’d escape.” Marie said. “They won’t RIF fourth-years.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Sara said. “I forgot to check the mail.”
With every year of added seniority, she hoped to escape the RIF. But as the lower rungs were chopped off, every year the ax reached higher up the ladder.
Marie stirred cream into her coffee. “I knew the cuts would be brutal, but I hoped…”
Charlotte and Frank came in, laughing over some kids’ antics out in the hall. Both went silent when they saw Marie’s face.
“She got a final notice,” Sara said.
“It doesn’t mean you’re out.” Frank pulled out a chair. “There’s the August rehire. They always lay off more than they need to, just to cover their butts.”
Charlotte slammed the freezer door. “I’m quitting.” She popped her Lean Cuisine into the microwave. “It’s not worth it.”
“You’ve got ten years’ seniority, Charlotte,” Sara said. “You’re safe.”
“I don’t care. I can’t stand it anymore. They’re not getting rid of any kids, are they? We need more teachers, not fewer. How big do you think our classes will be next year?
“I’m up past midnight all the time as it is grading papers,” Frank said. “I swear I’m going to make everything multiple choice.”
“But what will you do, Charlotte?” Sara said. It was amazing to her someone could decide, just like that, to change her life. Even if she desperately wanted to. Even if she’d felt frozen in the wrong life for a long time.
“I’m going to be a stay-at-home mom,” Charlotte said. “We want another baby, and John just made partner. We can afford for me to quit.”
Great work if you can get it, Sara thought. The old pain returned. She and Bram had been married four years and hadn’t had their first child yet. That is, if you didn’t count the miscarriage.
“All the years of college and student teaching,” Marie said. “You finally get a job and…”
“You think it’s going to be like Little House on the Prairie,” Frank said.
The room went silent, and the women stared at Frank. Then they all burst out laughing at the thought of the big, athletic guy loving the Little House books.
“Frank’s right,” Sara said. “For me, it was Anne of Green Gables. The school at Avonlea.”
“Children who listen and do the homework and parents who always have your back,” Marie said dreamily.
They didn’t talk much through the rest of the lunch break. Sara kept thinking about the weird chill she’d felt in class—and Aunt Amelia’s lover. When the warning buzzer blasted, they all winced and Frank said, “There was never a bell like that at Avonlea.”
Charlotte snorted. “Another beastly thing I won’t miss.”
“I once rang a fantastic bell,” Sara said. “An old brass thing I found it in my aunt’s barn.” Turtledove Hill was in the air today. She hadn’t thought of that bell in years either.
She couldn’t actually remember the sound of it, only that it was beautiful—and how ringing it had made Aunt Amelia so angry. Yes, Sara had been snooping where she shouldn’t, but what was the harm? Did it justify banishment from the only place that ever touched her heart—her soul?
It sounded melodramatic, but Turtledove Hill called to Sara as much as Thornfield Hall ever called to Jane Eyre. She’d tried to reconnect with her aunt during college, even invited herself for a visit, but the old lady wasn’t having it. Don’t come here. Sara could still hear the voice on the telephone. Don’t ever come here.
The door swung open and the next group of teachers came in for lunch. Sara cleared off her place and headed back to her classroom. She couldn’t shake off the anxious feeling, the sense of impending doom. It was crazy, but she knew something was wrong at Turtledove Hill. Something had happened to Aunt Amelia.
Since Sara’s husband was RIF’d last year, he’d been waiting on tables at a steakhouse at The Fountains. From the beginning their marriage had been difficult, and this last year hadn’t helped. With Sara working days and Bram working nights, everything they did together was at odd hours. Like today, meeting for dinner at four o’clock before his shift started.
She parked at the restaurant next door to where Bram worked. As she turned off the car, her phone buzzed with a text from him. There was also a voicemail from an area code she didn’t recognize. It must have come in while she was at school and had the sound turned off.
Babe, Bram’s text said, I will b erl get table, kiss kiss. She smiled and logged on to her voicemail.
“Hi. I hope this is Sara Lyndon,” said a cheerful unfamiliar voice. Sara stayed in the car to listen. “My name is Bonnie Norquist. I know your great aunt, Amelia Lyndon. Amelia had a fall this morning.”
Sara froze. Her premonition had been right.
“She’s fine!” The message went on. “Oh, my god! I should have said that first.”
You think?
“Anyway, she broke her ankle pretty bad. Dr. Kasaty admitted her to rehab. I’m calling because you’re listed as next of kin on the paperwork. You might want to give the rehab facility a call.”
Sara played back the message and wrote down the number the woman left. Her ears burned as she punched it in. You might want to give the rehab a call. As if she hadn’t tried to talk to Aunt Amelia so many times over the years!
Someone answered, “Pelican Chase Rehab.” The receptionist put the call through to Aunt Amelia’s room.
“I’ll be fine, dear.” Aunt Amelia didn’t sound fine. She sounded tired and weak. “I just need therapy on my leg. Bonnie’s made all the arrangements.”
“Who is Bonnie?” Sara felt like a jealous child. “I’m your flesh and blood. Your closest relative.” Technically that was true; her father, Amelia’s nephew, was in Texas with Sara’s little sister and his new wife. “I’m coming to see you.”
There was a pause.
“Aunt Amelia?”
A longer pause.
“Are you there?”
“All right, dear.” There was a world of meaning in that all right. As if a decision had been made, more than mere agreement. There was defeat…and acceptance. “But wait until I’m out of this place.
Then you come to Turtledove Hill, Sara, and we’ll have a long talk. It’s time.”
It’s time.
Something in Sara broke loose, something deep inside. It broke loose and burst forth and flooded into the light of day from a place long hidden.
end of excerpt
