I didn’t take her to Erin Brown’s party that night, like we’d planned. I was afraid my new friends would discover the truth. And if they did, they might think I was gay, too. Instead I feigned a headache and we stayed home and watched videos. But rather than sitting side by side sharing Doritos and a blanket, like we usually did, I sat in my dad’s old recliner. Later, when my mom came in and saw Carrie asleep on the sofa, I put my finger to my lips. “Don’t wake her. She’s comfortable.” My mother laid a blanket over Carrie and quietly left the room. I tiptoed to my bedroom, and lay awake the rest of the night.
The next morning while I was showering, Carrie called the bus station. She left at noon, a day ahead of schedule. I’m ashamed to admit the relief that swept over me when that Greyhound bus rounded the corner of the station and headed north.
The following week a letter arrived from Carrie, apologizing for springing her “freaky nature” on me without warning. She hoped our friendship would never change. She ended the letter with, “Please write back soon, Bretel! I need to know what you’re thinking.”
I hid the letter beneath a stack of Seventeen magazines while I thought about how to respond. But weeks turned into months, and then years. By the time I finally had the heart to deal with her sexual orientation, I didn’t have the backbone. I was too much of a coward to resurrect the memory of that awkward weekend or, more accurately, my disloyalty. My insensitivity burns me with shame.
It’s Monday and I’ve just hung up from a call with the Chicago Public Schools when Brad texts me. His meeting on the North Side was canceled, and he wonders if I can meet him for lunch at P. J. Clarke’s. Just as he promised my mother, he’s keeping close tabs on me, making sure I’m inching closer to my goals.
I dab some gloss on my lips, pour my freshly brewed coffee into a to-go cup, and head down the stairs. As I waltz out of the building, I nearly collide with a tall, dark-haired man. Coffee sloshes onto my coat.
“Shit!” I say without thinking.
“Oh, Jesus. I’m so sorry.” His contrite voice suddenly turns chipper. “Hey! We meet again!”
I break from dabbing my coat and look up, into the gorgeous eyes of the Burberry man.
“Well hello,” I say, grinning like a silly teenager who’s just been noticed by the football star.
“Hello.” He points back to the building. “You live here?”
“Uh-huh. Do you?” Phony! You know damn well he does!
“Not anymore. I rented here for a couple of months while my condo was being renovated. I’m just stopping by to get my security deposit.” His eyes land on the coffee stain. “God, I ruined your coat. C’mon, let me buy you another cup. There’s a Starbucks right around the corner. It’s the least I can do.”
He introduces himself, but I don’t hear a word he says. My mind is still languishing on the invitation for coffee. Oh, hell yes! But wait … I’m supposed to meet Brad. Just my luck.
“Thanks, maybe another time. I have a lunch date.”
His smile fades. “Okay then, have a nice lunch. Again, I apologize for the coffee stain.”
I want to call after him, to explain that my date is just a friend, that I’m free for coffee later. But that’s despicable. Brad is just a friend … but Andrew’s not.
“How’s everything in your world?” I ask Brad after we’ve ordered our BLTs. “Planning your next trip to San Francisco?”
“I’m hoping to go Thanksgiving weekend,” he says. “Nate will be with his dad. But Jenna hasn’t decided what she’s doing.”
I nod, but inside I worry that Brad’s being jerked around.
“How about you?” he asks. “Made any headway on the list?”
I scoot to the edge of the booth and prop my head high. “As a matter of fact, I have. Remember Mrs. Bailey, that principal I told you about from Douglas Keyes? Well, she recommended me for this homebound job—that’s where you teach sick kids at their houses or in the hospital.”
“Cool. Like one-on-one teaching?”
“Exactly. I have an interview tomorrow morning.”
He lifts his hand for a high-five. “Awesome!”
I wave him away. “Don’t get too excited. I’ll never get the job. But for some reason, Mrs. Bailey thinks it might be a good fit for me.”
“Well, I’m rooting for you.”
“Thanks. And that’s not all.” Our sandwiches arrive and I tell him about my dinner date on the fourteenth with Carrie. “She lives in Madison. She is a social worker now, and she’s in a relationship. I can’t believe she has three kids.”
“It’ll be good to catch up with her, huh?”
I feel my face heat. “Yes, but I was a rotten friend. I have a lot of making up to do.”
“Hey,” he says, and covers my hand with his. “You’re making headway. I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks. And guess what else? I finally told Andrew about the list. He’s on board!”
Instead of cheering, Brad gives me a sidelong glance. “Really?”
I wipe my mouth on my napkin. “Yes, really. Why is that so surprising?”
He shakes his head as if he’s trying to clear it. “I’m sorry. No, that’s great.”
“Have you heard anything more from that detective? Steve what’s-his-name?”
“Pohlonski,” he says, downing his sandwich with a shot of Diet Coke. “Not yet. But I’ll let you know the minute he has something.”
“It’s been over a week. I’m thinking it’s time to cut him loose, hire someone else.”
He wipes his mouth. “I know you’re anxious about this, Brett, but he’s working on it. Like I said, he found ninety-six Manns born in North Dakota between 1940 and 1955. He’s whittled it down to six who might be possibilities. In the next week he’s going to call each one.”
“That’s what you told me three days ago! How long does it take to make a phone call? Give me the list. I’ll call them this afternoon.”
“No. Pohlonski says it’s best to have a third party make the initial contact.”
I sigh. “Well, he better have news for me by Friday or he’s off the case.”
Brad laughs. “Off the case? Someone’s been watching too much CSI.”
I try to maintain my pout, but inside I’m thinking how much I like this guy. “You’re annoying as hell, Midar.”
The sky is the color of a newborn’s eyes, and the surf foamy white atop smoky gray breakers. Meg, Shelley, and I power-walk past Grant Park, taking turns pushing baby Emma in her stroller.
“My IQ has dipped twenty points since I quit my job,” Shelley says, a bit breathlessly. “It’s been weeks since I’ve read a newspaper. And the mom cliques in the neighborhood—it’s worse than middle school!”
“Maybe staying home isn’t for you,” I say, striding beside her.
“I’m telling you, I’ve never seen such competitive women. The other day at the park, I happened to mention that Trevor can count to thirty. Not bad for a three-year-old, right? Wrong. Melinda immediately piped in, ‘Sammy counts to fifty.’ And Lauren, the blond bitch, pursed her lips and gestured to little Kaitlyn. ‘One hundred,’ she whispered. ‘In Mandarin.’ ”
Megan and I burst out laughing. “Speaking of competition,” Megan says, swinging her fists in front of her. “Any luck finding that teaching job, Brett? The one where you don’t step foot in the classroom?” She erupts in giggles.
“Actually, I have.”
Shelley and Megan turn to me.
“I was offered a job this morning.”
“That’s great!” Shelley says. “See, and you didn’t think you’d be competitive.”
I bite my lip. “I was the only applicant.”
“In this job market?” Megan asks, tugging her arm as she strides.
“Uh-huh. It seems that two ninety-nine’s a difficult zone in the Chicago Public School District—that’s what the personnel director told me. He said you have to be a bit of a risk taker.” I tell them about the homebound position, teaching sick kids
in their homes or at the hospital, one-on-one.
“Wait.” Megan pulls me to a stop. “You’ll be going into houses? On the South Side?”
My stomach aches and I start walking again. “That’s right.”
Megan keeps pace beside me, her eyes huge. “No fucking way! Girl, we’re talking housing projects … tenement buildings. Nothing but roach-infested shitshacks.”
“Megan has a point,” Shelley says. “You sure it’s safe?”
“Of course,” I say, wishing I felt as sure as I sounded.
“Listen,” Megan says. “Take the fucking job if you must, but then quit the minute it looks legit for Brad.”
“Can you believe it? I might actually accomplish goal number twenty.” I turn a circle and walk backward, facing them. “And guess what else, Shelley? Andrew hired Megan. We’re going to buy a house.”
“Get this,” Megan says, flipping Shelley’s arm with the back of her hand. “They’re buying a house on the lake. Cha-ching!”
“No,” I say. “Discourage the McMansions, Meg. Those houses are obnoxious.”
“If you say so. Of course, that kind of commission would be nice.” She bites her bottom lip, as if mentally computing her 6 percent cut.
“Forget it. We can’t afford it.”
“Andrew told me you’re going to get a fucking fortune. He also told me about your profit sharing. Trust me, you won’t have any problem getting a loan.”
I shake my head. “Any profit sharing goes straight into my retirement account. I’d get killed on taxes if I touched it. And he’s forgetting, we’ll have a child’s future to think about. Try to find something cute, something with a little backyard, maybe near a park.”
She looks at me as if I’m insane, but eventually she nods. “Absolutely. I’m on it.”
“It’s amazing how far Andrew’s come,” I continue. “Everything’s falling into place. I bought a book the other day, What to Expect When You’re Expecting. It’s so fun to think that I could be pregnant soon, and—”
“When’s the wedding?” Shelley interrupts.
I move faster, keeping my eyes on the sidewalk. Shelley’s the one person who would know that in a perfect world, I’d like to be married when I have a baby. “Marriage wasn’t on the life list.”
“I wasn’t asking about the list.”
Finally, I come to a halt and wipe the perspiration from my brow. “Truth is, Shel, I don’t know.”
“You need to tell Andrew he—”
I shake my head. “Look, life isn’t perfect. We’re all just getting through this journey as best we can. Admit it, Meg, you’re with Jimmy because you’re afraid of being poor.”
She scowls, but then shrugs. “You’re right. I’m basically a prostitute. But I can’t help it. I just hate working.”
“And face it, Shel, you’re miserable since you quit your job.” I sling an arm around her. “Honestly, I don’t know if Andrew’s going to marry me. But he is willing to do other things for me, important things, like have a baby. For now, maybe that’s enough.”
Shelley sniffs. “It’s that obvious I’m miserable?”
I smile. “Remember when I fell down the stairs at Mom’s funeral? Yes, I was wasted, but I was also trying to stuff my feet into shoes that didn’t fit. I worry that you’re trying to squeeze yourself into being a stay-at-home mom, when that’s clearly not the right fit for you.”
She looks up at me. “Yeah? Well I worry that you’re trying to squeeze yourself into a size Andrew, when he’s clearly not the right fit for you.”
Touché. If I had the guts, I’d admit that I worry, too. I’d confess that sometimes, when Andrew’s distant and I’m lonely, I wonder if there’s still enough time to meet someone else before next September, someone I could fall in love and have babies with. But of course, there’s not. I wonder what my mother would think if she knew that her little plan has made me more dependent on Andrew than ever.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
My first days on the job pass in a blurry haze. Since Wednesday I’ve been tagging along with Eve Seibold, the sixty-something who’ll be vacating the position as soon as she thinks I’m the least bit competent. So far, she hasn’t mentioned a date. We sit in the homebound office on the third floor of the administration building Friday afternoon. Compared with the spacious suite I had at Bohlinger Cosmetics, this cement-block room feels like a custodian’s closet. But a nice window overlooks East 35th Street, and after I fill the ledge with my mother’s potted geraniums, the place looks almost cheery.
I sit at the computer table perusing student files while Eve cleans out her desk. “Ashley Dickson sounds pretty straightforward,” I say. “Two more weeks of maternity leave and she’ll go back to school.”
Eve chuckles. “Trust me, they’re never straightforward.”
I set aside Ashley’s file and open another, this one for a sixth-grader. “Mental illness at age eleven?”
“Ah, Peter Madison.” Eve pulls two notebooks from her desk and crams them into a cardboard box. “Crazy as a bedbug. His shrink wants to talk to you. Dr. Garrett Taylor. He’s got a signed release from Peter’s mom.” She points to a phone number scrawled on the top of the folder. “The doc’s number’s right there.”
I flip through the file and land on Peter’s psychiatric report. Acts of aggression in the classroom … expulsion for the remainder of the semester. And I was worried about shabby houses? “What’s wrong with him?”
“LSS,” she tells me. “Little Shit Syndrome.” She pulls a smashed Twinkie from the back of her drawer, contemplates it for a moment, and then chucks it into the metal waste can. “Dr. Taylor calls it conduct disorder, but I’m no fool. The kid’s just like hundreds of others from these parts of Chicago. No dad, family history of substance abuse, not enough attention, yada, yada, yada.”
“But he’s just a kid. He should be in school. They can’t deny him his education.”
“That’s where you come in. Give him homebound services twice a week and he’s considered educated. Illinois Public Act Ninety-something-or-other. Make sure you call Dr. Taylor before you leave tonight. He’ll fill you in.”
By the time I’ve finished reading all seven student files, it’s almost six o’clock. Eve left an hour ago, taking with her two large boxes crammed with everything from candy dishes to framed photos of her grandchildren. I gather my notes and my purse, suddenly anxious to start my weekend, too. Just as I’m about to turn out the lights, I remember I’m supposed to call Peter’s psychiatrist. Damn. I trudge back to my desk. At this hour on a Friday, he’ll be gone, but I’ll feel better if I leave a quick voice mail. I punch in his number and mentally rehearse the message I’ll leave.
“Garrett Taylor,” a melodious baritone answers.
“Oh … hello. I, um, I wasn’t expecting you to answer. I was planning to leave you a message.”
“Another ten minutes and you would have. How can I help you?”
“My name is Brett Bohlinger. I’m the new homebound teacher. I’ll be working with Peter Madison.”
“Ah, yes, Brett. Thank you for calling.” He chuckles. “You were expecting my voice mail; I was expecting a male voice.”
I smile. “Good one. Just one of the pitfalls of having a man’s name.”
“I like it. Isn’t there a Hemingway character named Brett?”
I lean back in my chair, impressed that he’s made the connection. “Yes, Lady Brett Ashley from The Sun Also Rises. My mother—” I realize I’m rambling. Do psychiatrists have this effect on everyone? “I’m sorry. You’re about to leave. Let me get to the point.”
“Take your time. I’m in no rush.”
His voice has a friendly, familiar tone, and I feel like I’m talking to an old chum rather than a medical doctor. I grab a piece of paper and lift my pen. “I’m calling about this student, Peter Madison. What can you tell me about him?”
I hear what sounds like Dr. Taylor settling back in his chair. “Peter is a very unusual boy. He’s ex
tremely bright, but very manipulative. From what I understand, he was wreaking havoc in his classroom. The school district wanted a complete psychiatric workup, which is why they enlisted my help. I’ve only been working with him since September, so you and I will both be learning about Peter as we go.”
He tells me of Peter’s escapades in the classroom, everything from bullying a student with cerebral palsy, to tormenting the classroom hamster, to cutting a student’s hair.
“He gets pleasure from the reaction he receives from others. He enjoys inflicting emotional pain. In fact, he’s highly stimulated by it.”
Outside the wind howls and I wrap my sweater across my chest. “What caused him to be this way? Was he abused or something?”
“His mother is somewhat limited, but seems to be concerned. Dad’s not in the picture, so there could be some emotional trauma associated with that. Or it’s possible Peter’s psychological disturbances are simply the result of an unfortunate genetic endowment.”
“You mean he was just born this way?”
“It’s possible.”
Nothing I’ve read in What to Expect When You’re Expecting has touched on this. I imagine a chapter titled “Unfortunate Genetic Endowments.”
“But you’ll find that Peter can be quite charming when he wants to be.”
“Really? Like when he’s putting scissors to my hair?”
He chuckles. “I’m afraid I’ve frightened you. You’ll do fine. You sound very capable.”
Uh-huh. So capable my mother fired me.
“You’ll be the eyes and ears of the house, which will be extremely helpful. I’d like you to call me after each visit. Is that possible?”
“Yes, I can do that. Eve and I are supposed to see him Monday.” Unless I can come up with an excuse.
“My last session ends at five on Monday. Would you be able to call me sometime after that?”
“Sure,” I say, but his words barely register. Every cell in my brain is consumed with the fact that in three days, I’m going to be teaching the future Hannibal Lecter.
The Life List Page 10
