Drenched in Light (21 page)

B
y the time Barry completed the press release and left, it was already one o’clock, and my desk remained crowded with more attendance sheets, substitute teacher requests, and a packet of sample testing materials from the textbook rep who’d come by earlier. The modern dance instructor, Mrs. Newberg, showed up at my door with a seventh-grade girl who was having an emotional collapse because she hadn’t made soloist for the upcoming Spring Fling performances.

“Ashlee doesn’t really want to talk about it,” Mrs. Newberg explained, depositing the girl in my doorway. “She just needs somewhere quiet to sit until she can get her emotions together.” Grimacing apologetically, she mouthed,
Sorry,
then turned around and hurried back to her class.

“Come on in and have a seat, Ashlee,” I said, handing her a Kleenex as she slumped into one of my chairs. “Do you need anything?”

Ashlee shook her head, curling her legs into the chair and burying her head between her arms.

“Sure you don’t want to talk about how you feel?”

Another head shake.

“OK. That’s fine. Let me know if I can do anything. We don’t have to talk.”

Drawing in a long, shuddering breath, she reached blindly for another Kleenex, and I held out the box so she could grab one. “Oh, God,” she wailed, her voice coming from somewhere behind a wall of thick blond curls. “My mom’s going to
kill
me. She’s got a whole section booked for all her friends, and I don’t have a solo. She’s
chairman
of the Spring Fling committee. My
grandparents
are supposed to fly in, and I don’t have a solo. Oh, God . . .”

For a girl who didn’t want to talk, Ashlee ended up having a lot to say about Harrington, Spring Fling, family expectations, performance pressure from her mother, the Spring Fling guest director, the teachers at Harrington and their inability to spot real talent like hers.

We talked until after two o’clock. Ashlee finally wandered off to her next class, feeling slightly better after having vented her complaints. Watching her disappear down the hall, I saw my seventh-grade self, stressed out over things that seemed all-important at the time but wouldn’t make a bit of difference in six months. I hoped in the long run Ashlee would handle the demands of Harrington better than I did.

The bell rang, testifying to the fact that, on top of everything else, she was about to rack up a tardy. Poor kid. I should have sent an admit slip so the teacher would excuse her.

Shaking my head, I turned back to my desk, still piled with things that needed to be done. No choice but to dig in, try to bring some order to the chaos, and hope there were no more Spring Fling audition meltdowns this afternoon. I wouldn’t be zipping out of here at four thirty today, that was for sure. I couldn’t help wondering if Mrs. Kazinski had been given so many tasks that were outside the normal scope of counseling, or if Stafford was just taking advantage of me because I was new and the school secretary was perpetually overwhelmed. Each day, it felt more like I was trying to bail out a sinking ship with a shot glass.

By the time I’d finished everything and scoured the phone list for substitute teachers, it was nearly five thirty, and the school was empty, except for the janitorial staff. Dad had called twice to check on me and warn that I’d be fighting the worst of the rush-hour traffic on the way home, and I shouldn’t stay in the neighborhood after dark. He insisted I remain on the phone until I was safely in my car, even though I’d assured him that one of the maintenance men was in the parking lot, picking up trash.

The maintenance man waved to me and said, “
¿Hla, cómo estás
?” as I opened my trunk and set a box of grant-writing materials inside.

“
¿Muy bien, y tú?
” I replied, and he laughed at my Spanish.

Dad was finally satisfied that I wasn’t alone, and said good-bye.

The scent of flowers swirled around me as I climbed into my car. The roses, forgotten on the passenger seat in my rush that morning, still looked amazingly fresh. They also reminded me that it was probably too late to go by the cleaner’s and pick up the estimate for Bett’s dress. Their sign said they closed at five thirty. A trip down the street confirmed it. The door was locked, the parking lot silent. Nearby, the taco stands were doing a brisk business, the curbside crowded with cars.

Across the street from the cleaner’s, two men in a black lowrider pickup watched me as I peered through the burglar bars into the dry cleaner’s lobby, just in case there was someone inside. I dreaded the idea of telling Mom I’d forgotten to pick up the restoration estimate, and that work on the dress hadn’t been started yet. It would only confirm the assertion that I couldn’t handle even the simplest task.

The two men watched me as I stood at the door, alternately knocking and peering through the glass. Finally, their interest and the growing twilight became uncomfortable, and I got back in my car. Pausing with my hand on the keys, I briefly considered joining what was left of the Jumpkids session, but even as I thought about it, my cell phone rang and Mom was on the other end, talking about the pasta carbonara she’d cooked for supper. She wasn’t at all pleased that I was still downtown. By the time we hung up, we were almost in a snit again, and my nerves were on edge all the way home.

When I arrived, Mom was pacing the kitchen, trying to keep food warm and swatting my poor, starving father out of the way as he tried to sneak bites. The table was decked out in more than it’s usual finery, three places set with the good china, silver, and wineglasses.

“Oh, you’re home!” Smoothing her apron as if I were the guest of honor, Mom took my box of school materials and ushered me in the door. I waited for her to ask about the dress, whereby I would have to admit that I’d failed to fully accomplish my mission for the day.

“Special occasion?” I asked.

“Oh, no.” Mom’s voice jingled like birdsong. “I just wanted us all to have a nice, quiet dinner tonight. There’s been so much stress lately. . . .” The sentence trailed off into a bright smile, and she stood motionless, waiting for my reaction.

Making one more sweep of Mom’s hopeful face, the table, and my father’s bewildered expression as his gaze darted back and forth between us, I had a dawning understanding. This was Mom’s attempt at repairing the rift we’d opened this morning.

I instantly felt guilty. “Sorry I’m late,” I said, and instead of adding the usual admonishments about how there was no need for her and Dad to wait dinner for me every night, I added, “This looks beautiful. Thanks, Mom. What a treat after sitting in traffic.”

Her lips lifted into a warm smile. “Oh, pfff.” She waved a dismissive hand. “It’s nothing. Just a little pasta.”

Dad, who had probably been watching her fuss over the meal all evening, gave her a double take.

Catching his gaze, I winked and he shrugged, as in,
There is no figuring this woman out. I’ve tried for years, and she still confuses me.

“I have the perfect finishing touch for that table.” Tossing my coat onto the hook, I ducked back into the garage for my purse, briefcase, and Mim’s roses. “Just right for wine and pasta,” I pronounced, handing Mom the impromptu gift. “These are for you. A peace offering. I’m sorry about this morning.”

Mom’s eyes teared up as she took the three roses. “Oh, my. Oh, goodness, I just don’t . . . You shouldn’t have done . . . Where did . . . Well, they’re absolutely beautiful. Thank you. I can’t remember the last time someone brought me flowers.” She glanced pointedly at Dad, who’d just picked a crouton out of the salad. He blanched, swallowing the lump guiltily, and gave me the thumbs up as Mom went to the cabinet for a vase.

Suddenly, all was right with the world. We sat down to eat, passing around the pasta and making polite chitchat about the on-again-off-again winter weather, and the food. Mom seemed determined to keep mealtime light and happy, avoiding all the taboo subjects, but eventually Dad commented on how perfect the roses were, and that led to a discussion of where I’d gotten them, the cleaner, and the wedding dress.

“I’ll pick up the estimate tomorrow,” I said vaguely. “She thinks she can come up with the antique lace and seed pearls she’ll need. They do a lot of restorations. People send them dresses from everywhere.”

“Oh, that’s good.” Pushing the pasta bowl my way, Mom gave my plate a concerned frown. “Have some more, sweetheart. You must be famished.”

“Not really. I had a big lunch.” I took a conciliatory second helping, which I would mostly stir around on my plate.

“Oh?” Raised brows indicated the need for more details on the day’s intake.

“Yes. I’m tutoring a student during noon hour. We shared her sack lunch.”

Lowered brow, look of mild panic. “That couldn’t have been much.”

Shift to defensive posture. “Oh, no, it was plenty. Her mother packs double so that she can have a snack after school.”

“You ate a child’s after-school snack for lunch?”

The conversation slid downward from there, proof that the food police were on active duty, even tonight. Finally, Dad hopped up from the table and offered to do the dishes. I didn’t argue with him, because I couldn’t stand to look at food anymore. My stomach was a tight knot around the pasta, and acid gurgled in my throat. What I really wanted to do was run to the bathroom and be done with it. I couldn’t, of course. Mom listened carefully for bathroom sounds and toilet flushes after each meal.

Getting up from the table, I scraped my plate and put it in the dishwasher. “Where’s Joujou?” It was unusual to be by the trash can without Joujou hanging around waiting for scraps.

“Oh, I put her outside.” Mom glanced casually toward the sliding glass door, where Joujou was huddled in her playhouse, looking wistfully toward us. “I didn’t want her bothering us at supper. She can come in now.” Walking to the door, she called Joujou in, picking her up and cuddling her, commenting on how chilled her fur was.

I realized again how important the dinner had been to my mother. She’d left Joujou at the mercy of the elements, ostracized to the doggy penthouse so that we could have quiet time as a family without anyone begging for handouts or licking our toes.

Joujou’s feelings were hurt. Snorting unhappily, she nestled her head under Mom’s chin, and Mom cooed to her like a baby, promising her Italian sausage.

“The dinner was great, Mom, thanks,” I said, and started helping Dad with the dishes.

He shooed me away, glancing toward my box of grant-writing materials. “Go on; I’ll handle this. Looks like you’ve got work to do.”

“Grant application for a new performing arts center,” I said. “It’s amazing how much detail they want in these things—everything from blueprints to median income levels of students’ families.”

“Sounds challenging,” Dad replied blandly, more focused on finding the right Tupperware container than on the conversation.

“A little, but I’ll get it together eventually.” Picking up the box, I turned to leave. “Thanks for doing the dishes, Dad.”

“Sure, honey.”

Before he could empty the pasta pan, Mom took away his Tupperware bowl and replaced it with a smaller one. “Use this. It’s the right size,” she said, then started digging through the drawer for the lid. “I can’t imagine what’s happened to the top. I usually . . .”

Lifting her hands from the drawer, Dad closed it. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll find something. Why don’t you go put your feet up?” he suggested, and she laid her head wearily on his shoulder.

I tiptoed from the room, realizing again how much stress they were under. As hard as my illness was for me, it was harder for them. They had no control over it. Now, there was also Bett’s situation, and the fact that our family was changing, whether we were ready for it or not.

Upstairs, I put on sweats, spread the papers on the bed, and worked on the grant application for a couple of hours, until my eyes kept falling shut. Finally, I unearthed Dell’s spiral notebook papers tucked in my briefcase with my DayMinder.

Stuffing the grant materials back into the box, I lay back against the pillows and began to read.