“Oh, Joshua,” Mrs. Lovelace says soothingly, “it’s okay. We can put it back together. See?” Mrs. Lovelace begins to rearrange the blocks again, one on top of the other. Joshua sniffles, but begins to help rebuild the wall. In a few moments Joshua is once again safely ensconced behind the barrier.
Mrs. Lovelace leads Jonathan and Claire to a table surrounded by exceptionally small chairs and invites them to sit. “Tell me about Joshua,” she says.
“Joshua is a very sweet, caring little boy, but he can get very anxious at times. Especially when he is asked to try something new,” Claire admits. “Sometimes he seems like he’s off in his own little world and it can be really hard for us to pull him back to us.”
“That’s not unusual in a kindergartener, Mrs. Kelby,” Mrs. Lovelace says. “I promise to keep a close eye on him and let you know of any issues that come up.”
“Joshua also had a very traumatic experience recently,” Claire explains, trying to keep the tremor from her voice. Jonathan squeezes her hand. “Last week, the bookstore that we own was robbed and Josh was right there and saw everything. It scared him, and me, terribly.” Claire shakes her head at the memory of the thieves and the glint of the knife in the tall boy’s hand.
“The police haven’t caught them,” Jonathan continues, “and Joshua’s very worried about not being with Claire at all times. He feels like he needs to be her protector.”
Mrs. Lovelace furrows her brow with concern. “Thank you for telling me about this. Let’s see how Joshua does the first few days of school and then touch base again. We can always bring in the school counselor to visit with him, if needed. All new kindergarteners have an adjustment period when starting school. Some adjustments take longer than others.” She stands and walks over to where Jonathan is sitting in his fortress. “It was nice meeting you, Joshua,” she says to him.
“Nice to meet you,” Joshua replies, his voice barely audible.
Mrs. Lovelace turns her attention back to Claire and Jonathan. “It was nice meeting you, too, Mr. and Mrs. Kelby. If you’re interested in chaperoning any of our amazing kindergarten field trips, just let me know.” Her voice noticeably louder, she continues, “This fall we get to visit the fire station, the apple orchard and the pumpkin patch. In the winter we go sledding down the hill behind the school and make gingerbread houses, and in the spring we get to go on the very best trip of all!”
“Oh, what’s that?” Claire says in an affected tone she reserved specifically for trying to get Joshua excited about something.
“We don’t tell anyone that until the first day of school. It’s just too special.” The three glance covertly at Joshua. He is still sitting behind the wall, but his toes, clad in sandals, peek out, inching slowly forward.
“Hmm, I guess we’ll just have to wait until then to find out. Come on, Josh,” Jonathan says. “What do you say to Mrs. Lovelace for letting you play with these great blocks?”
“Thank you,” comes Joshua’s squeaky, timid reply.
“You are welcome, Joshua,” Mrs. Lovelace says warmly. “The blocks will be here waiting for you on the first day of school.”
Jonathan holds out his hand to help him up from the floor, but Joshua ignores it and scrambles to his feet on his own and moves out of the room ahead of his parents, his footfalls echoing off the newly waxed floors. He is walking slowly, head down, his shoulder hugging the painted cement wall.
“Oh, Josh,” Claire whispers, knowing he can’t hear her. “It’s going to be okay.”
Allison
I’m nervous about my upcoming interview at the bookstore. I’ve never had a real job—I never had time when I was in high school. Oh, we practiced interviews in Cravenville and Olene did a mock interview with me last night. But I’m still sick with worry. I’m not sure why the owner of the bookstore would want to hire a convict, but she’s giving me a chance. Olene told me that there are some pretty good tax incentives for businesses who hire people like me.
“Does she know what I went to prison for?” I ask Olene before I leave. Bookends is only a few blocks from Gertrude House and if I get the job I’ll be able to easily walk back and forth to work.
“She knows the basics,” Olene explains, “but she wants to help, plus it helps that the government is footing the bill for your paycheck.”
“How do I look,” I ask, holding out my arms and spinning around. I dressed up, borrowing an outfit from Bea. The skirt is a bit too short, the sleeves stop just above my wrists and the shoes pinch my feet, but I look somewhat professional and I hope to make a good impression. I need to go to my parents’ house and retrieve some of my old clothes, but I haven’t been able to get ahold of them just yet. My father travels a lot for work and my mother has all her projects and causes. They’re very busy people.
“You look just fine,” Olene tells me. “You sure you don’t want a ride?”
“No, thanks, I don’t mind walking,” I say. I have a newfound appreciation for being able to step outside whenever I want to, for being able to feel the sun warm my face, the night air on my skin.
I arrive at Bookends just after it opens. I see the woman I assume is Mrs. Kelby through the window. She is smiling at something one of her customers has said as she slides the purchase into a paper bag stamped with the store’s name on the front of it. I study my reflection in the window. Then I take a deep breath and push open the door.
“Hi,” I say with more confidence than I actually feel, while I walk up to her. The woman is tall, but not as tall as I am. She is solid, strong and fit-looking, with olive skin and thick golden-brown hair that hangs loose around her shoulders. She wears a chunky, hip pair of glasses with tortoiseshell frames. “My name is Allison Glenn,” I say, reaching out to shake her hand, just like I practiced. “I’m here to interview for the part-time position.” This was where things got tricky. Do I remind her that my parole officer helped set this up? Do I bring up my past? Olene and I discussed the pros and cons of being the first to mention my conviction. I’m still not sure what to do.
Mrs. Kelby smiles at me. A real, genuine smile. Not the kind that looks like it has been spackled on with a trowel. A good sign. “Allison,” she says. “Thank you for coming in. It’s nice to meet you. Have a seat and we can chat. I’m sorry if we get interrupted, but we’re a little shorthanded around here.”
We sit and I cross my legs, fold my hands in my lap and wait for the first question.
“Why don’t you start by telling me a little bit about yourself?”
“Well, I’m twenty-one years old,” I begin nervously. “When I was in high school, I was a straight-A student and a member of the National Honor Society…” I stop. My voice is high and I must sound ridiculous. Mrs. Kelby is looking at me expectantly. I take a deep breath. “Mrs. Kelby, I would really like to work for you. I’ve made some terrible mistakes in the past, mistakes that won’t ever happen again.” I lean forward and look her straight in the eyes. “I’m starting over and I would be so grateful if you…” My chin begins to wobble and tears fill my eyes. “If you just gave me one chance.”
Mrs. Kelby is quiet for a moment and looks at me, her face impossible to read.
“You know, Allison, I think this might work out well for the both of us. Olene thinks highly of you and I could really use the help.” Mrs. Kelby smiles and there is such kindness in her eyes. A kindness I haven’t seen in a very long time.
I clear my throat and quickly brush away the tears. “Thank you,” I say with relief.
“Great,” she says brightly, and stands. “Can you start the day after tomorrow? Come in at nine and stay until four or so?”
I nod. “That will be great. Thank you, thank you so much!” I reach out to shake her hand again and she takes it with out hesitation.
“You’re welcome. This is a great place to work. You’ll get to meet my little boy tomorrow, too. His name is Joshua.”
“I look forward to it. And, Mrs. Kelby,” I say, emotion threatening to spill over a
gain, “I’m going to do a really good job for you. You won’t be sorry.”
I catch myself practically skipping back to Gertrude House. I want to tell someone about my job interview. Want someone to feel the same excitement I do. But the only person I can imagine calling is Brynn.
For years, I’ve kept having this dream—a nightmare, really—even before I went to jail. The same dream over and over again. It’s not what you’d imagine someone like me would be dreaming about…you’d think babies and rivers. No, you’d be surprised. In my dream I’m at home, studying for the SATs. I’m bent over my books and writing furiously in my notebook when an alarm goes off. This is it. It’s time. I need to go take the tests. I carefully place my books and notebooks in my book bag and I sharpen seven number-two pencils. They have to be number-two pencils; it has to do with the computer being able to read the answer sheets. I calmly walk to my bedroom door. I’m ready, I’m confident that I’m going to ace these tests. My hand reaches for the doorknob. It doesn’t turn.
I try and try to twist it, but nothing. I’m locked in. Panicking, I go to the window and try to lift it open; it’s stuck, too. Air gets locked in my chest—I can’t breathe. I have to get out of my room; I have to go take that test. I pound on the door, calling for my mother, my father, my sister, anyone to let me out. I return to the window and knock on it, trying to get the attention of those down below. No one notices. I beat harder on the window with my hands. My fingers are tingling and cold from lack of oxygen; I see them turning blue. I’m dying. I need to break the window and in desperation I begin to strike my head against the glass. It shivers and cracks. I feel the blood warm and wet on my forehead. It doesn’t matter. Again I smash my head against the window and again it cracks a bit more. It doesn’t hurt and the need to escape takes over everything else. Over and over I pound and pound my head, until I can’t see through the blood and I can feel the little slivers of glass in my skin.
Then I’d wake, in my bedroom or in my cell, drenched in sweat but shivering from cold.
I don’t give up. Ever. I’m going to get Brynn to talk to me, no matter what it takes.
Claire
Joshua’s first day of school starts out hopefully. Since his visit to the classroom and meeting Mrs. Lovelace, Joshua did not balk about going to kindergarten. In fact, he seems excited.
He frets over what he is going to wear and finally settles on a plain red T-shirt and his favorite pair of khaki shorts. “You look very nice, Joshua,” Claire tells him. He smiles and rocks proudly back and forth in his new tennis shoes.
Claire isn’t prepared for the sight of hundreds of children lingering outside its doors, waiting for the bell to ring. “Organized chaos,” she says, and looks back at Joshua, who is staring, mesmerized, at the crowd.
“Wow,” Jonathan mutters. “What do we do? Do we just drop him off and send him into…that?”
“No, we can walk him in,” Claire says. “Let’s wait, though, until the bell rings and most of the kids are in.”
“I’m not going in there,” Joshua calls fearfully from the backseat. “Let’s go home.”
“It’ll be okay,” Jonathan says soothingly. “Let’s do a backpack check.”
“I don’t want to,” Joshua says again, the anxiety building in his voice.
“Come on, buddy, let’s go through your gear, make sure you’ve got enough crayons.” Item by item, Jonathan and Joshua search through his backpack, making sure that he has all the supplies he needs to start school. Claire smiles at the two of them, heads bent over the school supplies. By the time they are finished the bell has rung and all but a few students are still milling outside the building.
“Look now, Josh,” Claire tells him. “See? All the other kids went inside. You can’t be late for your first day of kindergarten. It looks like you’re all set.” Together the three make their way to the front entrance of the building. Joshua walks slowly, dragging his feet. When they stop just in front of Mrs. Lovelace’s classroom, Joshua peeks inside, wistfully watching the mostly happy din of twenty kindergarteners beginning their first day of school. He looks up at his parents, his lips twitching nervously.
“I’m off, then,” he says, like the forty-two-year-old soul in a five-year-old body that he is. “I’ll see you later, after kindergarten.” Sadness tinges his voice and Claire feels her heart breaking. She scoops him up into a tight hug. Grabbing the bulging, heavy book bag from Jonathan, Joshua steps cautiously into the classroom as if meeting an untimely demise. Claire bites her cheeks, trying to keep the tears from coming. Why does everything have to be so hard for Joshua?
Claire hooks her arm through Jonathan’s and they watch Joshua sidle into the classroom where Mrs. Lovelace greets him and helps him find his cubby. “Look at him go,” Claire whispers.
“Yeah, look at him go,” Jonathan agrees.
The two stand in the doorway of Joshua’s classroom until Mrs. Lovelace gives them the thumbs-up and shoos them politely away. As they walk to the car, Claire turns back several times to look at the building, half expecting Joshua to come dashing out, begging her not to leave him. She knows she shouldn’t be, but she is a little sad. Joshua is never going to need her in quite the same way again. Other people, teachers and friends, will fill his life. And that’s a good thing, she tells herself. She wants to be happy that the morning had gone so smoothly, that he had walked into the classroom on his own accord with no major meltdowns, but Claire isn’t exactly happy. Relieved maybe, but definitely not happy. “He’ll be fine,” Jonathan says as he reaches for his wife’s hand.
“I know,” Claire answers stiffly, settling herself into the passenger seat of the car. “I just can’t believe he’s actually in kindergarten. First, I didn’t really think this day would ever come, and second, I didn’t think it would go so well. I guess I tired myself out fretting about it so much.”
“Let’s go get some breakfast,” Jonathan says suddenly.
“Oh, I can’t,” Claire protests. “I’ve got to open the store, I’m running late as it is,” she says, checking the clock on the dashboard. Eight-fifty. Ten minutes until opening time.
“Let’s swing by the house, then,” he whispers suggestively, sliding his hand between her thighs.
“Jonathan!” Claire laughs, pushing his hand away. “I don’t have time.”
“Come on, how often do we get the house to ourselves?” he asks, placing his hand back on her knee.
“Really?” Claire asks, surprised at Jonathan’s impulsiveness.
“Yes, really,” he says, sliding his hand up her shirt.
Claire gently kisses the soft skin below his jaw and turns his face toward her, kissing him and running her tongue along his lower lip. A sense of longing enters her. Sweet and nameless.
“Please,” she whispers in his ear. “Take me home.”
Brynn
When I finally get to school, I see Missy standing with a group of girls at a coffee kiosk. She looks right through me. When I come up to her, she says hello but immediately returns to her conversation with the other girls. It is as if I don’t even exist.
The boy from the party must have told her about me. About Allison.
So this is the way it’s going to be. Just like Linden Falls.
At first I didn’t think anything could be worse than not having Allison at home anymore. The house was so empty, so quiet. In the days just following Allison’s arrest, I made the mistake of going into her bedroom and lying on her bed, wrapping myself in her comforter and pressing her pillow against my face so I could breathe in the imprint of her scent. Allison’s trophies and awards were beginning to gather dust but still gleamed with her lost potential.
My father found me in Allison’s room, sitting on her bed, fingering her blue ribbons. For a moment I thought he might come in and sit down next to me. How I wanted him to pull me close and tell me everything was going to be all right. I wanted him to hold my hand in his and ask me about the night that Allison gave birth. I wanted to tel
l him how I was there, how I wiped her forehead and encouraged her to push and held her baby girl in my arms. But on Allison’s orders, I’d told my parents and the police that I was in my room listening to my iPod, that I never heard a thing. I wanted to talk to my father about these things, but he just stood in the doorway and looked at me, deep disappointment on his face. And I knew then that I would never, ever be the person my parents wanted me to be. The next day, when I tried to go into Allison’s bedroom, I found the door locked. My parents didn’t even find me worthy enough to sit among my sister’s things.
My parents wandered around the house in a daze. My mother cried all the time; my father worked longer hours, sometimes not coming home until late into the night. Dinner was a silent nightmare. Without Allison, there was nothing to talk about. No discussions about volleyball games or college plans. The few friends I had rarely called. I didn’t blame them really. What was there to say? My friend Jessie tried. She called and stopped over, tried to be cheerful, tried to get me to go to football games and movies, but I felt numb and lost. I was a junior at Linden Falls High School. Allison would have been a senior. I learned to ignore the stares and the whispers as I passed in the hallways.
It wasn’t until the first progress report of the school year was sent home that my parents were spurred into action. I was barely passing my classes and was failing gym. The minute the letter hit the mailbox, my parents had me in the principal’s office. Mrs. Buckley was this crazy, energetic principal who prowled the hallways of the high school making sure that students were behaving the way they were supposed to be. She was married to her job, staying at school late into the night and arriving early in the morning. She was strict, could be sarcastic and gruff, but she knew each and every one of the students at Linden Falls High School.
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