by Erica Kiefer
I attended Mr. Nordell’s funeral, doing my best to merely observe respectfully and keep my emotions at bay. I tried to find comfort in the belief that he must be with his beloved Cynthia now. But even though I believed that, a selfish part of me didn’t care. I wanted him here. I needed him, too.
As the weeks passed, a protective casing slid over me, sealing Maddie’s and Mr. Nordell’s deaths inside—and keeping everyone else out. I took again to the outdoors, though my rhythm changed. I ran fast, and I ran hard—so that when my body would tremble inside and out, and my lungs and throat burned, I could chalk it up to physical exhaustion alone and nothing more. Even when I became aware of Maddie’s death tapping incessantly from inside me, seeking a way out, I’d seal the cracks and keep moving.
The call that summoned me to the counselor’s office didn’t surprise me. The school had to follow protocol. With a calm expression, I seated myself in the cushioned chair in front of her desk. Composure—it was all about keeping composure, so that Ms. Carol, with her pleated, blue skirt and high-buttoned yellow blouse, would have no reason to take notes.
She did anyway.
Smiling pleasantly, she asked, “Allie, how are you doing?”
“I’m fine.” I tried to slouch in my seat a little to appear less tense.
“And how are you doing with school these days?” she asked, choosing to sit in an identical cushioned chair beside me, rather than behind her desk.
What a clever, calculated choice in seating, I thought. Like we’re buddies, so I might confide in you.
“I’m sure you’ve looked at my records,” I said, eying the computer on her desk. She wouldn’t have called me in without checking my academic status. “I’m maintaining decent grades.”
“Oh, well, that’s wonderful!” She clasped her hands together in her lap, one manicured hand on top of the other. “It probably helps that you’ve had extra time on your hands without basketball this semester, am I right?” Ms. Carol appeared innocent with her question—but I knew she was fishing for a discussion.
I offered a noncommittal shrug.
She waited… and when it appeared that I had nothing more to say, she excused me to return to class.
Every week, Ms. Carol pulled me into her office for a few minutes, probing for something, anything, emotionally significant from me. I wouldn’t budge. It was comical to see her own smooth exterior begin to fray with what I imagined was frustration. Her questions became more direct, and her hints more blatant. Her smile began to crack, along with the high pitch of her voice. It became somewhat of a game to me, and I found spiteful satisfaction in not letting her win.
Mr. Nordell would not be proud of my behavior. Sometimes, I could hear his voice in my head, a mumble of advice trapped inside a box. “Don’t bury your growth beside me,” he would say. “Yosemite wasn’t built on sunshine alone. Storms are nourishment in disguise, and I promise they will pass.” He would want me to talk to Ms. Carol, or somebody else that I could trust.
But I couldn’t do it.
It had taken me far too long to trust in Mr. Nordell, and life—with its cruel tricks—had stolen him away from me just as I was about to reach the summit. I felt like I was tumbling down a mountain, ready to land on my face in a pile of discouragement.
Finally, a few weeks into the subtle interrogation, Ms. Carol asked me flat out if Mr. Nordell’s death re-triggered the trauma from Maddie’s drowning.
Her unexpectedly straightforward question knocked me off guard, and she almost had me for a moment. I felt the smallest fracture from within, aware of the tapping from Maddie’s death drumming harder, louder. Ms. Carol seemed pleased, as if she could sense the slight change in my demeanor.
“Allie,” Ms. Carol said, her voice softening. “You don’t have to fight me on this. I’m just trying to help.” When I said nothing, she continued. “You are about to graduate high school and enter the adult world on your own. You appear to be faring well enough—on the outside.” She paused with her scrutinizing gaze. “But you will be by yourself, with no support. No one will know about Maddie, or Mr. Nordell, or your near drowning. You have a support system now. Please, won’t you talk to me about what you’re feeling?”
After a few moments, I interrupted the usual quiet that took place in between Ms. Carol’s efforts to break me. “That’s what I want.”
Ms. Carol appeared hopeful. “What do you want? To talk about it?”
“For no one to know about Maddie, or any of it.” At my contradictory words, Ms. Carol’s expression dropped. I lowered my gaze. “I just—I don’t want to be assessed anymore. I don’t want to talk about what happened!” For the first time with Ms. Carol, my voice raised.
I was done. I wanted to be done.
Ms. Carol’s hands returned to her lap as she quieted a sigh of defeat. “All right, Allie. If that’s what you want, you can be done. I will trouble you no more.” She stood up and rifled through a drawer in her desk. She pulled out a cheap, spiral-bound notebook that would surely unravel itself with time. “Just one last request,” she said as I accepted the notebook. “You don’t have to talk about it today, or tomorrow, or maybe ever. But all I ask is that you write about it. I’m not going to read it,” she hurriedly added, waving her hand at me. “This notebook is for you. Just take some time this week to write down what happened last summer—every detail.”
“What’s the point?” I asked, flipping through the blank pages grudgingly.
“The point, Allie, is to get it out of your head.” Ms. Carol opened the door, releasing me from her office one last time. “You are free to go.”
