Hot Mess (17 page)

The next week, he managed to squeeze his bulky frame into an undersized chair in Mrs. Radcliff's classroom, staring at the mousy woman as she told him of Amanda's lack of focus in class.

"We had a desk cleanout in class last week, and I found all of these papers crammed into the back of her desk. She's doing her work, Mr. Owens, she's just not turning in anything. When I asked her about it, she just shrugged at me." The woman's mouth was pursed when she spoke, and Sam wondered how long she'd been teaching.

"Is it too late to turn them in? I understand that she needs to follow procedures, but is there something we can do here? I'm afraid that if she fails fourth grade, she might suffer a blow in self-confidence or something."

"It's too late, Mr. Owens. I'm sorry about that, but the grading policy is district-wide. She's only in danger of failing this six weeks, and her prior grades are sufficient to keep her from failing for the year, as long as she brings her grades up for the rest of the semester. She's a very bright girl." Mrs. Radcliff offered him a friendly smile, for which Sam was grateful. Maybe it was just the principal that was a bitch.

"I'll talk to her today about all of this. I'm sorry for any problems that she's caused in class."

"She hasn't really caused any problems. She's not participating in anything, and her lack of focus is only hurting herself. All she does is doodle, that I can see. But apparently, she's finding time to do her work when I'm not looking. She's just not turning any of it in."

Sam unfolded himself from the chair, clutching the handful of papers Mrs. Radcliff had given him. "Thank you for talking to me about this. I'll see what I can do." Holding out his hand, they shook, before he walked outside to wait for Amanda to get out of school.

He felt much better about this conference than he had after the first one. He had no idea what was different, other than the principal not being in attendance. Maybe she put everyone on edge? Whatever the cause of it, Sam was grateful that this meeting had seemed to be productive. Now all he had to do was figure out what was going on with Amanda. She seemed to be doing so well with the move and getting over the loss of Marisol. And now this.

When they got home, Sam sat Amanda down at the kitchen table, grabbed a can of coke out of the fridge, split it between the two of them, and then sat across from her.

"You know you're fixing to fail this six weeks, right Punkin?"

She shrugged, looking at her hands, as she picked at a cuticle.

"Mrs. Radcliff gave me all of the papers you haven't turned in, honey. What's up with that?" He was proud of himself for keeping his voice even and soft. He wasn't mad, really. He just wanted to know what was going on.

"Nothing."

"What do you mean, nothing? There's got to be a reason you're not turning in your work. You're doing it, and if you turned it in, the grades would be good. Mrs. Radcliff graded everything to show me. You'd have an A in class if you'd turned everything in, 'Manda. What's going on?" He could feel his neck muscles tense, but he restrained from raising his voice. He knew he had to stay calm.

"Nothing, Dad. Nothing's going on."

"So, what's the problem?"

Her eyes raised, and Sam's breath left him. Amanda's eyes were filled with rage and it was directed towards him. "You, Dad. You're the problem."

"What?"

"You won't let me see Sophie anymore, Dad. You got mad at her mom, and now you're taking it all out on me, and it's not fair!" Her voice was loud and shrill, and Sam winced.

"There's more to it than that. You don't understand."

"Whatever." She stood and started to leave the room. Sam stalked around the table and grabbed her arm.

"Wait a minute, let's talk about this."

"Will you tell me why you hate them?"

He took a deep breath. This was not something he wanted to talk to his ten-year-old about. "No, it's personal. But I'm not letting you go over there for a very important reason, I need you to understand that."

"I hate you." She spat the words, and Sam's heart broke into a million tiny pieces. He let go of her arm, and watched her stomp out of the room, before slamming her bedroom door.

From Remainingrachel.com

Dear Rachel,

I've been told that having AIDS means that I've been touched by Satan. That it is God's punishment upon the human race. What are your thoughts on this?

Sinning in Vegas

Dear Sinning,

This is actually a topic that is close to my heart for reasons I'm choosing not to disclose, but suffice it to say, I've heard the same. In fact, my inbox is filled with hate mail written by people who think that my words of encouragement to you guys is sinful. What I have to say to you is this… (My best snarky voice here) Unless you have personally made a deal with the devil and honestly brought this on yourself, you have not been touched by evil any worse than most of the judgmental idiots out there spouting nonsense. Honestly, just try to ignore it. I know that's easier said than done, especially if it's someone close to you doing the talking. But the truth of the matter is, that's ignorance talking. An educated person wouldn't say something like that.

You can try to educate them, but that's like trying to turn a Republican into a Democrat: damn near impossible. It's probably not worth your time, unless it is someone very close to you.

Rachel had her laptop on her newly screened-in porch, trying to work while absorbing some of the glorious sunshine that the new weather was bringing. She was also trying to ignore the gorgeous bundle of sweat working out in his garage across the street.

She had tried to confine Sam to the recesses of her memory since that night, almost two months ago, but it had been difficult. Everywhere she looked, she saw reminders of their brief, but ill-fated relationship. The variety of condoms she had fretted over in the pharmacy, and then ended up buying an assortment of, because she had no idea that there were so many different types to choose from. She'd ended up burying them all in the garbage. She spent as little time as possible in her living room, because memories of their first encounters there were still fresh in her mind, the same with the foyer and the Bombay chest that he'd so effortlessly set her on top of before sending her to mind-blowing heights. She had yet to bake another cheesecake, because of Sam.

She realized she was being ridiculous, but the downward spiral of depression had threatened to overtake her, and quickly. She had to take care of Sophia, and it was easier to do that, if she didn't think about what might have been with Sam. So she did whatever it took to stop the memories.

But she couldn't stop the present. Father Time kept rolling by, and every day that passed brought forth new memories of Sam. Memories of watching him across the street, in the school parking lot, running through the neighborhood, she couldn't stop those.

Today, she was trying not to watch him, as he lifted weights in his garage. She had started coming out to her porch when he was finished with his morning run, to avoid him. Rachel thought she'd been in the clear. But when his garage door lifted, and she saw him settle himself on the bench to begin lifting the weights, she was helpless to not gaze at the power he emanated.

He was wearing cut off sweats and one of his tank top undershirts. The ensemble showed off the muscles that coated his body like a suit of armor, and the sweat dripping from him sent a little shiver of heat coursing through her body. She could see the shadow of his tattooed bicep and wondered again what it was. Wondered what it would taste like.

Shaking her head to clear the lurid thoughts that she had no business thinking, she tried to get back to work.

As soon as she had focused herself on her laptop, the cordless phone next to her rang.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Rach." It was her brother.

"Hello, Brandon. What's up?"

He sounded funny. "I was calling to talk to you about Mom and Dad's anniversary coming up."

"What are they doing this year? It's gotta be something special. It's the thirtieth." "Yeah, that's why I was calling. They're having a big party, with vow renewal and everything." His voice hesitated, and Rachel felt a certain unease at where the conversation was going.

"That's wonderful. Where is it?"

"Um…That's why I'm calling. Mom wanted me to ask you to please not come."

"They don't want me at their anniversary party?" Rachel's stomach suddenly hurt, as if her mother had just punched her herself.

"No, Rachel, they don't. I'm sorry." He sounded genuine, and Rachel realized that her brother probably didn't have an easy time dealing with her parents' issues with her.

"Well, thanks for letting me know, Brandon." She would collect herself and call her mother. It was time they had this out.

"Do you need anything?"

Besides someone who understands me?
"No, I'm good. Thanks for calling."

"I love you, sis."

"Love you, too."

She hung up the phone, and wiped a tear from her cheek. On top of everything, her parents' lack of understanding and support had definitely been the worst. They honestly believed that her disease was a punishment from God, striking down the unholy with a vengeance. Or the work of Satan, calling his followers home in an early demise. They thought the disease tainted her with evil, and they prayed for her regularly, but they believed that she was lost to them. Dead already.

She took a cleansing breath and dialed the phone number locked in her memory for a lifetime.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Mom."

"Hello, Rachel." Her mother's voice cracked, and Rachel knew she had probably grabbed a Bible, and was holding in front of her for protection, as if Satan would strike her down just for talking to her.

"Brandon called me."

"Well, I asked him to."

"I know, Mom. Why don't you want me at the party?"

"It just wouldn't be right."

"What wouldn't be right about it, Mom? I'm your daughter, I should be celebrating this with you." She was determined not to cry, not to succumb to the devastating feelings of rejection she was feeling right now.

"This is a religious event, Rachel. It wouldn't be appropriate with you being sick, and all."

"Mother, I'm not sick. I don't understand what would be inappropriate about your daughter attending your anniversary party. Thirty years is a huge milestone. I want to help you celebrate."

"You know how your father and I feel about your…illness, and we don't want to expose our friends to that side of our lives. Prayer cures disease. Your father and I have prayed for your cure for years. Since you still have the disease, it must be the work of the devil, Rachel. I will not allow the devil to be a part of your father and mine's celebration."

"Do your friends even know I exist? Or did you tell them I died in a fiery auto crash?" Her voice was rising, and Rachel knew it was a defense mechanism. If she didn't yell, she would cry.

Silence at the other end of the phone line gave Rachel her answer and left her breathless.

"You've told your friends I'm dead?"

"You are, Rachel. The Lord our God had wreaked his vengeance upon you, and we will not taint our friends with your lustful ways."

"Mom…" Rachel didn't know what to say. She shouldn't have been surprised, because they'd been treating her like a contagion for a decade, but it still hurt. A lot. Choking back the tears that threatened to overwhelm her despite her best efforts she croaked, "Happy Anniversary," before hanging up the phone.

The next afternoon, she and Cindy were at the park. It was a beautiful day, and most of the town was there, enjoying the weather. Cindy's daughter Shelley was playing with Sophia on the merry-go-round, and Cindy and Rachel were sitting under a tree watching.

"Everything going okay with you, Rach?" Cindy asked.

"Yeah, of course. T cells are good again, viral load is still undetectable. What more could I ask for?" Rachel was flippant because she knew she didn't answer Cindy's question. Her friend was smarter than she was giving her credit for.

"Um, I wasn't talking about that stuff, although that's really good. But I can see you've lost weight, and you look like shit. What's going on, Rach?" The concern in Cindy's eyes lifted her spirits. At least one person worried about her.

"My parents think I'm a product of Satan and have completely disowned me, for starters."

"How is that different from the last time we talked about them?"

Unable to look at her friend, Rachel's eyes scanned the playground. She watched the kids play, blinking back tears. The tears had been so close to the surface since she and Sam had…well, since she and Sam had broken up. Months ago. She really needed to see Dr. Baine to change her anti-depressants. She needed to go back to her therapist.