“The program uses art as a vehicle for leadership, critical thinking, creativity, public speaking, and teamwork,” Whitmore said. “The changes we see in the kids throughout the six weeks are amazing. It makes young people fearless.”
“Fearless.” She nodded.
“The kids choose a specific piece to work with and become experts on it. The voice of the artist, if you will. On opening night, they introduce themselves, give a brief overview of their piece, and take questions.” He glanced up at the ceiling. “I think our fearless leaders might be ready. Shall we go meet them?”
No. I’d like to go home now, please.
“Lead the way,” she said.
They walked up the concrete ramp, Katie gripping the steel railing. Could he hear her heart pounding? Could he smell her fear?
I control fire; I am strong.
In the space with the wall of glass, a group of kids now sat at the long table, sketchbooks and pencils in front of them. They looked up as one, in silent reverence. Everything around Katie sharpened: a slight antiseptic smell, a chair scraping across the floor, the intensity of the sun beyond the glass. Her ears started to ring, her throat tightened.
Whitmore walked toward the corner, where he leaned against the wall in an effortlessly casual stance, and a middle-aged African-American woman moved forward. She gave Katie a warm smile.
“I’m Lynn, the teacher.”
“I’m Katie, the artist.” Katie shook hands and held on tight.
Lynn leaned in, the bangles on her wrist tinkling. “You’ll be fine,” she whispered. Katie almost believed her.
As Lynn read the official Katie Mack bio to her students, she glanced occasionally at Katie. When Lynn announced, “And now, I’d like to welcome Ms. Katie,” Katie pictured herself running for the door.
Lynn clapped, the kids clapped, Katie’s stomach roiled.
Who can tell me what the verb roil means?
I’m back in a classroom and they have no idea. I could pick up one of these kids and throw him or her through the glass. What if I picked up one of those kids, and—
That’s the voice. A thought is just a thought; it has no power. Besides, I might be a girlie welder, but I don’t have the strength to throw anyone through that glass.
Tell them about my work with Ben.
And she did. As Katie talked about taking her first welding class to prove she was stronger than her fear of fire, and about meeting Ben at an art show and falling under the spell of his sculptures, her pulse began to slow.
The OCD curled up in silence.
She was hitting her stride when a girl joined the group. Her style said, I do it my way, and Katie smiled at the mismatched Keds worn with capri leggings, a striped T-shirt, and a French beret that gave her a beatnik style. Her hair seemed to be pulled back in a ponytail that was caught under a cropped cardigan, and her eyes were hidden behind black-framed glasses too big for her face. Why hadn’t the child’s mother talked her out of such a terrible choice?
“I’m very sorry for the disruption,” the girl said. “My stomach’s been feeling a bit bubbly.”
One of the boys giggled, and Katie grimaced at him until he blushed.
“Should I call your parents?” Lynn said.
“No, thank you.” The girl cleared her throat several times and sat down.
The next two hours, which included a snack break, flew past. Energized, Katie couldn’t wait to report back to Delaney. She had done it. Driven to Raleigh without causing an accident and taught a class of middle schoolers without hurting anyone.
Victory is mine, OCD.
Maybe, when she got back to Durham, she’d ask Ben if he wanted to grab dinner out.
Urged on by Lynn, a chorus of young voices sang, “Thank you, Ms. Katie!” and the kids bounded for their cubbies like caged rabbits set loose. The girl in the beret, however, packed her Star Wars backpack one item at a time. Her friend fidgeted and said, “Hurry up already.”
“Please go on ahead, Ava Grace,” the little girl said. “I need to ask Ms. Katie something.”
Katie smiled, and the little girl in the beret walked over. She was smaller than the other kids. Petite.
“I was super excited to meet you today,” the girl said. “Yours is the piece I’ve chosen to work with. I think it’s awesome that you made it by firing guns.”
“Well, I had help from my sister since I’m terrified of guns. But the idea was to create beauty out of fear. I like how the bullets left clear holes, but in the bottom right-hand corner, the buckshot warped the metal without breaking through. It made an impact, but the metal stayed strong. Refused to shatter.”
“Gosh, yes.” The little girl frowned. “That’s super cool. Can I interview you?”
“Now?”
“Oh, no. I have to go home now. We would need to make a special arrangement, because I have lots of questions.”
“I’m sure you do.” Katie smiled. “You asked great questions in class. Very insightful.”
“Thank you.”
“Simon!” Lynn yelled as one of the boys dashed for the exit. “Wait!”
“How about you take the other kids to the lobby,” Katie called over to Lynn, “and I’ll escort this young lady out in a minute.”
Lynn mouthed her thanks and left.
“Yes,” the girl said, as if they were still mid-conversation. “And I love the blood-red moon. I’m writing a story to go with it.” She smiled and it transformed her face. She had the most adorable freckles.
“By the way, we haven’t been formally introduced. Obviously, you know that I’m Katie, and your name is . . . ?”
“Maisie MacDonald.”
Air whooshed in Katie’s ears, light sparked, pain ripped through her chest. She was going under. No oxygen. Legs buckled. She was sitting. Why was she sitting? Could she still breathe? She had to breathe, just breathe. No, it wasn’t possible.
What are the chances? What are the chances? Maisie, lying in the red metal crib with arms flung over her head, mouth blowing pretend kisses. Maisie.
How could she not have recognized her own daughter?
“Oh my gosh!” Maisie said. “Are you sick? Do you have a headache, a fever? There’s been a nasty virus going around school. I hope we didn’t bring any germs. Do you think it’s the flu?”
I was right to stay away. She grew up to be sweet and kind. Did all that without me ruining her life.
“I know it’s a little early for flu, but I haven’t had my flu shot yet. You look very pale. You’re not going to throw up, are you?” Maisie took a step back and started scratching her arm. “Have you been exposed to anything contagious? What are your symptoms?”
She’s checking. Compulsive checking, the telltale sign of . . .
Katie’s heart raced to shutdown.
She’s so small I could pick her up, carry her to the floor above, and throw her off the walkway.
“I’d better get Mr. Whitmore,” Maisie said.
“No!” Katie grabbed Maisie’s arm and then released it. “I mean, I’m fine. Bit light-headed. Skipped lunch, which was—”
“A very, very bad idea.” Maisie’s huge eyes grew wide in emphasis.
What if I picked up the pen on the table? I could take out her eye with it, I could—
“Pretty name, Maisie. I knew someone called Maisie once. Long time ago. What do your parents do?”
“My dad’s a professor of English and comparative literature at NC State and quite famous in the field of the Scottish Enlightenment. His name is Dr. Callum MacDonald. Do you know him?”
Katie shook her head as another image flashed, but this one real. A memory: “Do you promise to love and honor her until death do you part?”
“I do,” Cal had said. I do until I lock her out.
“And—” Katie swallowed. Acid burned her throat. “Your mother?”
Why did she ask that? Why was she making her daughter say the words “My mom is dead”? Because she was a terrible person, a terribl
e mother.
I could push her through that window. What if I pushed her through the glass?
“Oh, it’s very sad. She died when I was a baby, but I didn’t know her, so I’m not really, really sad. I mean, I’m sad that I never met her, but my dad’s the best and I have Uncle Jake, who’s Dad Point Two, and now I have . . .”
Katie clutched at her heart.
“Are you sure you’re not sick? You look a bit funny. Oh, I didn’t mean that to be rude. I hope you don’t think I was rude. I wasn’t rude, was I?”
“No,” Katie squeaked. She was in a room with Maisie. Her daughter was kind and beautiful, had no dress sense, and was checking.
She has OCD. How? How can that be? From me, must be from me. But how? I had postpartum OCD. Nothing before then and . . . nothing. I ran away for nothing, I failed to keep her safe. Why didn’t I reach out to Cal and warn him? Why did I blindly accept his no-contact rule? Why? I should have questioned where my illness came from, whether I could pass it on. I’m a failure, an aberration of motherhood. I didn’t keep her safe.
“I reeeally think you should eat something,” Maisie said. “I’m sure Ms. Lynn has leftover baguettes and Nutella from snack. I’ll go find some and—”
“S-story, you’re making up a story? Do you often write stories?”
“All the time,” Maisie said. “I’m going to be a writer when I grow up. Well, I’m one already. A writer’s someone who writes. That would be me.” She gave a grin that accentuated her overbite. “I really like the Wings of Fire series. That’s how I became best friends with Ava Grace. She saw me reading it one day, and she lovvves the series, too! We started our own book club. Actually, I’m a bit worried about Ava Grace. She’s—”
“Wordsmith.” It came out as a whisper. “You’re a wordsmith.”
“That’s what my dad says. I love to collect words—especially long words.”
I used to collect poems. For the cadence, for the sound of words.
“H-he must be very proud of you.”
“Oh, yes. He is.”
She hates me. I’ve ruined her life. Does she know, know she has OCD? What if she doesn’t know? Oh, God, what if she doesn’t know?
On the other side of the glass, a Honda Civic pulled up with flashing lights, and Lynn led Ava Grace toward the passenger door. “That’s Lilah. My ride!” Maisie raised her hands. “I better go. She might get upset if I’m late, and I don’t want to upset her. Are you sure you’re not sick? I don’t want to give Lilah any germs. She’s in a very delicate way.”
“No, I mean yes, I’m not sick.”
“I’ll find Mr. Whitmore on the way out and tell him you need food! I would love to come and see your studio. I’m sure my dad would bring me, and that way I could interview you.”
“No.”
Maisie screwed up her face.
“It would be much better, much better to meet here. I work with lots of dangerous power tools that . . . but I could come back. Here. To talk. With you.” No, stay away from me, Maisie. I’m not safe. “Maybe we could meet after class next week. If you wanted. If you could stay late.”
“That would be super awesome. I must go now. Goodbye, Ms. Katie.”
Katie reached for her daughter, but she’d gone.
Slowly, Katie stood and staggered to the window. She stared at the woman in the Honda Civic. A babysitter? She looked too young to be a girlfriend, with those long blond ringlets. China doll ringlets; the opposite of Katie’s black pixie haircut. With Ava Grace in the back, the young woman leaned toward the now-open passenger door. Both of them waited for Maisie to come into view. And there she was, in a flurry of movement.
For nine years—nine years—she had backed herself into a corner of certainty, played right into the hands of OCD. Convinced herself staying away was the right thing to do. The photos Cal mailed were her penance, her hair shirt, but she had made her decision. Stayed dead to both of them.
Did I do the wrong thing? All these years I thought she was better off without me, but what if I’d never left? If I’d stayed, I would be there for her, guiding her through. Helping her. Instead, I abandoned her. Abandoned her to fear and shame. Abandoned her to OCD.
Heat rushed to her face, burned from the inside out. Maisie wasn’t living an idyllic childhood in a wooded subdivision of Raleigh. She was a child whose mind was about to eat her alive.
Katie grabbed her stomach. She was going to throw up. Maisie paused, glanced toward Katie, and waved.
She waved.
Get away from me, Maisie. I’m not your mother, I’m a monster. Stay away, stay away.
Come back, please come back. I love you. Don’t leave, please.
Grief hooked Katie in the gut, threatened to knock her to the ground, kick her senseless. She pressed her forehead and palms against the glass while Maisie hauled her stuff inside the car. There was no kiss from the driver. Must be a babysitter, or Ava Grace’s mom. Standing up straight, Katie turned her back on the future that should have been hers.
She walked toward a chair and collapsed onto it. New worries piled up like a highway wreck as Katie twisted her fingers through her hair. Over and over; over and over.
I want to yank it out by the roots. I want, I need, pain. This is all my fault. Why did I run away? Why did I stay away? What if I’d gone back?
“Maisie insists you need a snack,” a male voice said. “Is everything okay?”
Katie stared at the table. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare her. Did I?” She glanced up at Whitmore. “Scare her?”
“Heavens, no. Maisie was concerned you might be sick. Can I get you something? You’re awfully pale.”
“No, thank you. I have, I have anxiety issues. And today’s been difficult. A difficult day. But I’m fine.” She tried to smile. “I’m fine.”
“Panic disorder or obsessive-compulsive disorder?”
She blew out a long breath. “How did you know?”
“Firsthand experience. My ex struggles with both. I think that’s the reason I’m drawn to your piece. I’m well acquainted with the toll anxiety takes.”
Ex made sense because anxiety annihilated families. Destroyed love.
“How can I help?” Whitmore said.
“Would you mind if I sat here for a while?”
“Stay as long as you need. Can I call someone for you?”
Katie shook her head. “I prefer to be alone. But, I would like to ask”—Don’t, Katie, don’t—“about Maisie. I gather she’s going to be my docent?”
“Yes, she quickly became a favorite in the program. Not that we have them, you understand, but Maisie’s quite special. Whip-smart, with an intellect beyond her years, and yet refreshingly innocent. Her fashion choices are a staff talking point.”
Katie groaned, then covered it up with a cough.
Choking on leftovers of motherhood stolen from a stranger.
“And she’s in sixth grade?” Had Maisie skipped a grade?
“Fifth. Apparently she’s having trouble transitioning to the concept of that big life change called middle school, so her art teacher petitioned for Maisie and her best friend, Ava Grace, to join the program. We do often accept younger kids.”
Maisie had been checking; she hated change. Her daughter definitely had OCD. Why? Why did OCD have to claim Maisie, too?
“She was very kind to me. Maisie. Very kind.” Katie grabbed the pen one of the kids had left on the table, pushed the top up with her thumb, pushed it back down. Up, down; up, down.
“That’s Maisie—fiercely compassionate. Last week she insisted we help a wounded squirrel the kids saw get run over. When one of the sixth-grade boys tried to tease her for helping a rodent, she gave him a talking-to. Lynn can’t wait to get Maisie over at the middle school.”
“Will you thank her, for helping me?”
“With pleasure, and I’ll be in my office if you need me. The door’s always open.” He smiled and left.
Her phone announced a text from Ben.
/> You about to leave? Everything okay?
She put her phone down on the table, pushed it away, and stared at nothing. Five minutes later it rang. When she didn’t pick up, it rang again, echoing around the space. Bouncing off the walls to the tune of memories. Echoes of her family. She reached out to put the phone on mute, but it rang again. Two buttons: one green, the other blood red. She hit the green circle.
“You do know I can tell when you’ve read a text,” Ben said.
She didn’t reply.
“Want to tell me why you’re not answering?”
Holding the phone to her cheek, she closed her eyes and rested her head on the table. “I don’t think I can drive home. Would you come get me? I know it’s a pain, and it’s rush hour and the traffic will be—”
“Katie. This is why I offered to take you.”
I’m asking him to do something he hates: load his motorbike on my truck. I don’t deserve his friendship. I’m a bad mother, a bad friend, a bad human being.
“It’s fine. Forget I asked.”
“No.” He sighed. “Of course I’ll come. Do you still have that heavy board from the last time so I can ride the bike up into the bed of your truck?”
“Yes.”
“Give me half an hour to clean up and find my tie-down straps.”
She nodded.
“Katie? Does that sound like a plan?”
“Okay,” she whispered.
Ben hung up, and she stared through the wall of glass. Hell rose on the horizon as surely as if a tsunami were building and she could do nothing but watch.
One thought kept playing, and she refused to boss it back:
When can I see my daughter again?
FIVE
MAISIE
Maisie clicked her seat belt into place and twisted around to see if Ms. Katie was still watching, but she’d gone.
I really, really hope she isn’t sick. I really, really hope I don’t get it.
Gosh. What a selfish thought. Am I a bad person?
She should be worrying about Ms. Katie, not herself. Did Ms. Katie have Zika? Not many people in America did, but Ava Grace’s dad, a doctor at Raleigh Regional, had explained Zika in great detail. Lilah should be especially worried since she was pregnant. Would Lilah get Zika? Get Zika because of her, because she’d been in contact with Ms. Katie and now she’d contaminated Lilah? But hold on there a cotton-picking second. What exactly had Ms. Katie said? Had she said she did or didn’t feel sick? She was or she wasn’t sick?
The Promise Between Us Page 5
