“What do you mean?” She swiped at her flour-dusted nose. “I’m doing this for you.”
“Then we should stop. I feel like I’m being held prisoner in a cookie sweatshop.”
I thought Cornelia was going to get mad. Instead she dropped the cookie cutter she was holding and said, “I’m sorry.”
“Excuse me?” I wondered if I’d heard her correctly. My aunt was not one to casually throw around apologies.
“I didn’t mean to get all worked up,” she said. “I’ve always had trouble letting my hair down. Your mother used to make fun of me all the time. She was the only one who could loosen me up.”
I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes. My daddy and my aunt were continually describing jolly versions of my mother. I didn’t believe a word.
“You reminded me of Nina when you said the thing about the sweatshop. She always thought I worked too hard.”
The topic of my mother made me want to flee the room. “I know you must miss her,” I said quickly. I picked up a spoon and returned to beating the cookie dough.
“Especially this time of year, and not just because she died right after Christmas. Your mother was wild for Christmas. Decorating, parties, picking out the perfect gifts for everyone, the whole shebang. This house was lit up like Las Vegas during the holidays.”
And now it’s not even decorated anymore, I thought. Christmas at Tranquility Hall died with my mother. After she was gone, my aunt and Dad tried to celebrate for my sake. They hired people to decorate the house, bought me piles of toys, and instructed my nanny to take me to see Santa Claus, a one-time occurrence because I peed on his lap.
It was a relief for both of them when I started spending the holidays with Joelle’s family. After that, except for buying me a few gifts, they’d given up on Christmas altogether.
“Once you were born, your mother got even more Christmas-crazy,” Cornelia said. “She was like a little kid. Playing on the floor with you. Having the time of her life.”
That story seemed about as probable as tales of unicorns and mermaids. Either my aunt was lying or my mother was a master at hiding her true feelings about me.
After the cookie-baking flop, I assumed Aunt Cornelia would give up trying to cheer me up, but later that evening, she announced we were watching a movie together. I wasn’t used to her wanting to spend so much time with me. It was unnerving.
“We’re watching The Way We Were. It’s a favorite of mine. Have you ever seen it?”
“Is it in black and white?”
“Color, silly,” she said. She dimmed the lights in the den and placed a jumbo box of Puffs on the coffee table. “You’ll be needing tissues. It’s a tear jerker.”
Not me, I thought. If I couldn’t cry over Carl, why would I cry over actors playing parts?
During the film Cornelia kept reaching for the tissues, dabbing at her eyes. She didn’t cry quite enough to smear her mascara. The movie was entertaining. Robert Redford looked like an airbrushed version of Owen Wilson. Barbra Streisand was lithe and sexy. No sign of those caftans she’d worn in Meet the Fockers.
After the credits rolled, Cornelia scrutinized me and said, “I can’t believe it. Not a single tear. Everyone cries during The Way We Were.”
I shrugged.
“When’s the last time you had a nice, long boo-hoo session?”
“I don’t remember.”
She plunked the tissue box on my lap. “Give it a try. You’ll feel better. If I can cry now and then, so can you. Nothing to be ashamed of, so long as you don’t make a spectacle of yourself.”
“I’m not ashamed. I just can’t.”
“Why not?”
“My tear ducts have seized up.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“No. It’s true. And…”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Go on.”
“My mother hated it when I cried.” I surprised myself by saying that last bit; I plucked a tissue from the box and tore it into small pieces.
“Where did you get that notion?”
“I just know.”
“That’s nonsense. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
Was it my imagination or was she protesting too much? Whichever the case, I was tired of tiptoeing around the issue of my mother.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Cornelia. I know you loved your sister very much, but we both know she wasn’t happy being my mother.”
“Why would you say such a thing?”
I’d started down the path. Might as well spill all.
“I found her diary. She wrote she didn’t love me and that I was a terrible child and she wished she’d never had me. She said that her life had been perfect until I came along.”
There. I’d said it. I could still see my mother’s cramped handwriting on the page. She’d used a fine point black marker. It was as if she’d wanted her words to be indelible. Sometimes her pen had even gouged holes in the paper.
Two spots of color burned in Cornelia’s cheeks. “You’re wrong. Nina loved you as much as any mother could love a child.”
“Don’t bother trying to deny it. I still have the diary. I can show it to you.”
I knew it backward and forward; my mother’s words had worn deep, painful grooves into my memory. I would never forget them.
Silence stretched between my aunt and me. What could she say now that I’d thrown the facts in her face?
She coughed a couple of times before she spoke. “I’m very sorry you found that diary. It should have been tossed in the garbage. There was no reason for you to have ever read it.”
“But I did.” It was a relief to speak of my mother’s true feelings, to quit pretending I’d ever been a cherished daughter.
“Your mother wasn’t herself when she kept that journal.”
“Maybe you need to read it.”
“I don’t need to. I can imagine what it said. You have heard of post-partum depression, haven’t you?”
“What?”
“PPD. It’s frequently in the news. When you were a child there was much less known about it. People called it the baby blues. Your mother had a bad case. Wouldn’t get out of bed for about over a month, refused to care for you. But over time, the depression lifted, and she was her old self again.”
I thought about all the things my mother had written. The venomous tone. The word “hate” in big, block letters. How could they not be her real feelings?
“Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”
“Your father and I never saw a reason to tell you about it. You were a baby when it happened. You couldn’t have possibly remembered it. I don’t know why you didn’t come to me with this when you first found the diary.”
“I was afraid.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Actually I did know. First of all, Cornelia and Daddy adored my mother. Who was I to be badmouthing her? Certainly they’d be upset if I tainted her memory. There was also one another reason: I’d feared my mother had a very good reason not to like me. That I was not a lovable child.
After reading that diary, I’d drifted through my early elementary years, ducking my head, cowering in the back row, speaking in a near whisper. I was too shy to interact with others except for my best friend Joelle. My first tennis lessons changed all that. Suddenly I had something to feel good about. But then I got injured.
The PPD explanation wasn’t enough for me. How could I be sure what came first, my mother’s distaste for me or her depression? Maybe the former had caused the latter and even when my mother got better, she may have resented me. Regardless, there was nothing my aunt could say that would convince me my mother had loved me.
Twenty-Eight
>
The day after Christmas, I called Doc, hoping he’d pass on a message to Carl. What I had to say wouldn’t change anything between us, but I still wanted him to know it.
When I got Doc on the phone, we initially discussed Carl’s legal troubles and how absurd it was that an upstanding guy like him been accused of sleeping with a student.
“There’s not a male teacher in this world who doesn’t worry about that kind of accusation,” Doc said. “In most cases it’s your word against the student’s. Even if you’re cleared of all charges, you still have a dark cloud hanging over your career.”
Doc hadn’t spoken with Carl since his arrest and wanted to know if I had any news. “I’ve tried to call him a few times but he hasn’t gotten back with me,” he said.
“I haven’t heard from him either.” I told Doc we’d broken up the day before his arrest.
“Sorry to hear that. You two made a sweet couple,” Doc said.
“Thank you,” I said softly. I went silent, gathering up my strength for what I was about to say next.
“Toni Lee. You there?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. Listen, there’s something I need to tell you about what’s going on with Dr. Lipton and me.”
I told him I knew about the “poker games,” but promised I’d never tell a soul. I went on to discuss my arrangement with Dr. Lipton concerning mid-year testing and how he threatened my job if I didn’t go along.
“I agreed to help him cheat. But I’ve done a lot of thinking over the last few days and…”
I took a deep breath. Could I say it? If I did, there was no going back.
“Toni Lee?”
“I’ve changed my mind.” The words flew out of my mouth in a great rush. “I’m not going to help Dr. Lipton cheat.”
Doc was quiet for a minute. Finally he said, “Good for you. I’m proud of you.”
“I won’t be telling Dr. Lipton about my decision, of course. Otherwise he’ll just recruit another teacher to help him.”
“You do know what’s going to happen when the test results come back and they aren’t as high as Dr. Lipton expected, right?”
I leaned against the kitchen counter for support, still floored by the enormity of what I’d just done. “He’ll fire me, but I don’t care anymore…Anyway, I wanted you and the other teachers who meet for poker nights to be aware of my decision.”
“Thanks. If we could just find one more teacher who Lipton has tried to strong-arm, we could get the superintendent to listen to us. Truth is, he and Lipton used to be fraternity brothers and the two of them are pretty tight. You don’t know of any other teachers who are helping Lipton, do you?”
“No, sorry. There is one more thing though…”
“Yes?”
“If you do talk to Carl, will you tell him about my decision? I just wanted him to know that, in the end, I did the right thing.”
“Sure thing. Be glad to.”
When our conversation ended, I glanced out the window. The sky was winter white. A single crow perched on the bare branch of a dogwood tree. It was so quiet in my house I could hear the wind nudging against the windowpanes.
I’d done it.
I’d declared my intention to give up the money.
I didn’t have to do it. Carl was lost to me for good. Unless they could find another teacher to finger Lipton, he was going to be the next superintendent. Some people would have simply proctored the tests and collected the money at the end of the year. No harm. No foul.
I sat motionless, awaiting a sickening feeling of regret but it never happened. Instead an unfamiliar feeling of freedom swept over me. I might be a pauper on the verge of losing my low-paying job, but I wasn’t beholden to anyone. For the first time ever, I felt like my life belonged to me and me alone.
Twenty-Nine
The holidays coughed up their last bit of tinsel, and I spent New Year’s Eve with my aunt, drinking melon mocktails and watching the countdown in Times Square. We talked a little bit about my daddy; Cornelia claimed he was acting weird.
“How so?”
“He hasn’t asked me for extra money in weeks.”
“That’s a good thing. Right?”
“Maybe. But also odd.”
She wanted to talk about my mother more, but I pleaded with her to stop. I said it was something I’d have to figure out on my own. To my surprise, she listened to me. Maybe she sensed the conviction in my voice.
I almost told her I was going to get fired, but decided to wait. Maybe some kind of miracle would happen. Dr. Lipton would hit his head and lose his memory. Maybe the “poker players” would get enough evidence on him to get the principal sacked. One could only hope.
On January second, the long, tumultuous holiday break was over, and it was time to drag my sadder-but-wiser self back to school. I actually looked forward to seeing my students. Unfortunately the reunion was bound to be bittersweet, considering I was on my way out as their teacher. Mid-year testing was only a week away, and I’d been told results would come back within a month.
I also hated to think about Carl’s absence from the halls of Harriet Hall. How was I going to endure it?
I arrived at the school ten minutes before the first bell and on the way to my room, I ran into a few of my colleagues. Everyone seemed a little sober and subdued, as if they’d been rudely roused from an eggnog and fruitcake daze and couldn’t quite believe the party was over. I was stowing my purse in my supply closet when Mule Jordan, the security guard, stuck his bullet-shaped head into my room.
“You ready for the rabble?” I said with a smile. “Hopefully the students won’t be too hyped up after the holidays.”
Mule filled up the doorway. He was as broad-shouldered and muscular as a bull but his brown eyes were soft. His manner was courteous.
“Hate to be the bearer of bad news, ma’am, but Dr. Lipton has asked me to tell you to clean out your desk and escort you off school property. He says your services are no longer needed at Harriet Hall.”
I blinked several times, confused. “I don’t understand.”
“Let me put it more bluntly. You’ve been dismissed, and you need to leave the grounds.”
“Did I do something wrong? What did Dr. Lipton say?”
“Sorry, ma’am. He didn’t tell me any of that.”
“I’ll just have to speak with him myself then.” I headed toward the door.
Mule blocked my path, his chest wide as a baby grand piano. I’d always thought of him as a gentle giant but, at that moment, I could imagine him strong-arming me.
“Please start clearing out your desk, Ms. Wells. And I’ll also be requiring your key.”
I was completely befuddled. Lipton needed me. Why would he fire me? It made no sense. Mule shot me an impatient look so I promptly gathered up a few personal items from the desk and slipped my room key off the chain.
I grabbed my purse, a box of my stuff, and my motorcycle helmet and followed Mule down the stairs. When we reached the first-floor hallway, I saw Doc striding in our direction, wearing a striped sweater with plaid pants. He looked like a walking optical illusion. When he spotted us, he immediately turned and scuttled the other way.
“Doc. Where are you going?”
Instead of stopping he quickened his pace.
“I know you can hear me,” I called after him.
Doc broke into a run.
“Traitor!” I yelled and started to sprint after him.
Mule trotted behind me and grabbed my arm before I could get far. “Ms. Wells. You’re coming with me. And no more outbursts.”
“But I—”
His grip got firmer, and I knew I wasn’t going to be allowed to confront Doc. Mule was obviously experienced at excising Dr. Lipton’s enemies. He guided me to the side door and out t
o the faculty parking lot. In the distance, the high-rise projects rose up like gray ghosts against a milky sky.
“You can’t return to the campus for any reason,” Mule said to me as I put on my helmet. “If you do, you’ll be considered a trespasser.”
He waited until I was on the bike and the motor was rumbling. Then he loped back to the main building. I gunned the engine and shot out of the Harriet Hall parking lot.
At home I paced my tiny condo, desperate to act, but not knowing what I could do. Lipton was protected by Mule; Doc was unreachable and obviously a spy for Lipton. I wondered what Doc had told Lipton about Carl’s role in the poker game. Was Carl aware that his old friend Doc was a turncoat? I knew I wasn’t supposed to contact Carl again but I didn’t have a choice. I picked up my phone, my fingers flying as I texted him. “Call me,” I typed. “Emergency.”
A few minutes later my phone rang. I choked out a hello, expecting to hear Carl’s familiar baritone. Instead the voice on the other end was high-pitched and extremely pissed off.
“Leave my husband alone,” Ms. Sprague said. “He doesn’t want to talk to you, he doesn’t want texts from you, and he definitely doesn’t ever want to see your skanky self again. In fact he hates the sight of you and wishes he’d never met you. You got that?”
“Ms. Sprague, I’m sorry to bother you, but I really need to—”
Click.
I stood motionless for a moment, reeling from her nasty comments, especially the part about Carl hating me. That didn’t stop me from trying again. I pressed “Return Call.” It rang several times, and then it was picked up.
“Listen, Deena. I have to speak with Carl. It’s—”
WOOOOOOOOOT!
My ears rang, and I threw down the phone, the battery popping out as it hit the floor. Ms. Sprague had blown a whistle directly into the phone receiver. I wandered around the house rubbing my stinging ear, wondering if she’d punctured my eardrum.
Girl Meets Class Page 21
