Indisputable (8 page)

We take up residence on my bed, and I fill Emerson in
on my day, including a detailed description of my panic attack.  She
listens deeply and effortlessly, like I knew she would, and offers lovely bouts
of profanity at all the appropriate places.  Feeling like I bared my soul
and I’m emotionally empty, I tell her about Mrs. Marsden, and how I’m going to
visit her tonight.

“Do you want me to go with you?”

“Thanks, but it’s okay.  Kelsey and Finn are both
working tonight so I’ll be fine.  She may not even die tonight. 
There’s no way to estimate something like this. She could hang on for a couple
more weeks easily.”

Emerson glances at her cell, typing out a rapid-fire
text.  “Well, I should go then, so you can head over.  It’s nearing
six and I have some homework to do.  Another fricken English
assignment.  Mrs. Bergson will be the death of me this semester.”

“You’ll make it,” I console her.  “Thanks for
coming by.  I needed this after my day today.”

“It’s no problem.  I love spending time with my
best friend, but maybe you should think about laying off Mr. Ryan.  If all
you accomplish is getting yourself worked up, it’s not worth it,” she offers,
giving me a long, hard hug.  “See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah.  See you first period.”

***

Monica’s room is quiet when I walk in, only a small
bedside lamp casting a comforting glow over the room.  Kelsey told me her
son, David, stepped out for a bite to eat when he heard I was coming by. 
I’ve gotten to know David over the past year as he likes to visit his mom
frequently, especially in the evenings.  He’s in his mid-forties, married
with two kids, and lives right across town.  I’ve even bumped into him out
and about while picking up groceries or getting a bite to eat, and we’ve
chatted about his mom before going on our separate ways.  I feel sorry for
him; losing a loved one that I didn’t have a connection with was hard, but
losing a loved one you shared your entire life with?  I can’t even imagine
the pain he is beginning to feel, knowing her time is imminent. 

Sinking down to kneel beside her bed, I take her cold
hand between both of mine. 

“Hi, Monica,” I tell her gently, trying not to rouse
her but wanting her to know I’m here.  “It’s Tatum.  I came to visit
you for a bit.”  She doesn’t stir, and I didn’t expect her to, so I sit
quietly and trace small circles around her hand with my thumb.  I thought
it might be strange or eerie, to sit in a room with a dying person, knowing
they aren’t really with you, waiting for them to pass, but I actually feel a
calm sense of acceptance.  She looks peaceful. 

I begin talking about my day, telling Monica about my
calculus teacher and how he seems to push every button I have.  I talk to
her about Emerson, and how I’m trying to not let my jealousy get the best of me
when I feel I’m just as pretty, just as deserving as Emerson to have someone
like me.  How I’m almost eighteen years old and yet, I’ve never been on a
date or been given flowers or had someone dote on me.  I’ve never even
been given a love note of any kind, even the little stupid ones from third
grade that say ‘check yes or no.’ And I don’t stop to wipe the tears running
from the corners of my eyes as I tell her how I wish I had a mother as caring
and kind, as full of wisdom as she always was before the last few months when
her mind started to slip. 

I reach over to her bookshelf and pull out the dark
brown, cloth covered journal she used to spend her life writing about different
events, words her children spoke, or thought provoking questions she had. 
This book, written by hand, is filled with her life’s history, and even though
I’ve read it to her a hundred times, I sit back and begin reading it aloud
again.

“If she were awake right now, she’d love to listen to
that.”  David startles me after about five pages in, and comes to take a
seat on the foot of her bed, rubbing his mother’s leg, looking down at her with
such an intense admiration, I almost look away.  But I don’t.  I want
to witness this, something I will probably never have in my own life. 
It’s a masochistic action, but what can I say?  I’m used to inflicting
pain. 

“How long were you listening?” I ask, wondering if he
overheard my blubbering rant.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude, but I didn’t
want to interrupt.  I think you needed to get that out,” he says without
looking at me. 

I feel he’s giving me as much privacy as he can to
absorb the fact that I wasn’t alone with Monica.  All I can manage is a
slight nod of my head, not wanting to meet his eyes. 

“How long are you staying?” he asks softly. 

“I’m not sure, but I can go if you’d like to be
alone.”

“I just need a minute.  I need to get home to my
kids so my wife can work tonight.  I think my mother and I have spent a
lot of time together today, and if tonight is the night, I feel I’m at
peace.” 

Without another word, I walk into the hall, closing the
door to give David some privacy.  He opens the door a few minutes later,
and stops in front of me on his way down the hall.  He places a gentle
hand on my shoulder, and I meet his steady gaze head on.

“Have someone call me if…you know.  I’ll come
right over,” he says and I nod my head in affirmation.  “It’s been
wonderful getting to know you over the past year Tatum, and I can’t even
express how touched my mother would be to know you felt comfortable enough to
share your emotions with her the way you just did.  Thank you for all
you’ve done for my family.  I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around,
kiddo.”  He squeezes my shoulder once more, before continuing his way down
the hall. 

My feet are cemented to the floor, and after a few
minutes of soaking in his gratitude, I find my way back into Monica’s room,
sinking back down onto the floor where I cry.

I’m interrupted a few times throughout the night, as
the nurse comes in to check on Monica every couple of hours.  Around
midnight, I had dozed off, and woke up to this awful choking sound coming from
the bed.  Mrs. Marsden was still asleep, but when she breathed, her chest
made this dreadful gurgling sound, like the sound of a child blowing bubbles
through a straw into a thick milkshake.  After calling the nurse down, she
informed me Monica was experiencing what is termed ‘the death rattle.” 
The name gives me all sorts of comfort.  She told me it doesn’t hurt, and
Monica’s body is slowly beginning to shut down.  She gave me some sponges
to help keep Monica’s mouth moist with water, and told me to call if I need
anything. 

Kelsey also pokes her head in every so often, making
sure I’m alright, and helping me to change Monica’s soiled briefs. 

We both take a break for some fresh air, and for the
first time in a year, I bum a smoke from her.  It’d be nice to feel the
warm comfort of a blade, but I can’t even consider doing that here. 
Smoking a cigarette is my only option that won’t make my coworkers look at me
as though I belong in an insane asylum. 

Igniting the first puff, I can feel the nicotine
coursing through my veins, down to the tips of my fingers and swirling around
my head.  I close my eyes against the rush of poison, reminding myself
with each exhale I’m releasing some of the tension from the night.  I revel
in the familiar scent of burning tobacco, thankful I have something to use as a
reprieve.  We don’t speak, Kelsey and me.  I love her for that. 
She saw my red rimmed eyes and knows this is hard for me. 

Returning to Monica’s room feels different.  The
clock on her nightstand shows 5:43 in bright green glowing numbers. 
Scooting up to sit beside her on the bed, I’m overcome with this feeling that
it’s time.  I don’t know how I know that, but I do.  I can feel it in
the room, in my skin, in my freaking soul.  If I believed in this sort of
thing, I’d swear the Grim Reaper was standing in this very room. 

I grab her hand, listening to the slowing of her
rattling, shallow breathes, and I begin to comb my fingers through her
hair. 

“It’s okay, Monica,” I whisper quietly, my eyes
fixated on her motionless face.  “Everyone is okay here.  David and
the kids are doing just fine.  He told me he’s feeling very
peaceful.”  I feel her hand move softly within mine.  I know she can
hear me, so I keep talking.  “I’m sure you’re afraid, but you don’t need
to be.  I’m here with you, and I’m not leaving.” 

So suddenly it frightens me, her eyes snap open,
fixating on something just beyond my shoulder.  She’s holding my hand
tightly, her eyes wide, round with fear, and she takes in a deep rattling
breath. 

“Monica, I’m here.  It’s okay.  You can let
go now…it’s okay,” I tell her, although I’m terrified at what I’m
witnessing.  My own heart rate kicks up as I try to put myself in her
place and imagine what she’s experiencing. 

And just as suddenly as she awoke, her face
changes.  Her eyes soften, almost as if the fear is melting away, and her
grip loosens on my hand.  She takes one last deep breath and just before
her eyes close, she smiles.

Holy shit.

She’s gone.

Mr. Ryan

Four missed calls, two missed voicemails.  Now
that he’s made contact, Brent has been trying to reach me all day, and I’m
thankful my phone was turned to silent in my brief case. 

It’s been two years since I had to lose the best thing
that ever happened to me, and I’ve spent two years running.  The wounds
haven’t healed; they tear open with even the slightest thought of
her.   Any mention of her name sends my skin prickling into goose
bumps, even now.  I know I should call them back, deal with what’s bound
to come, but I just can’t.  I’m not ready yet, not prepared to revisit a
pain so harsh it’s tucked down into the deepest corners of my being. 
Resonates within my soul each time her face crosses my mind. 

So I delete the messages without listening and erase
the calls.  I hit the gym for the second time today and for now, pretend
they don’t exist.

When I do get home after a rough cardio session, I
revisit the email Melissa sent earlier.  Snatching a cold brew from my
fridge, I load the message on my laptop and sink into the leather
recliner.  Rereading the email, it’s not hard to see between the
lines.  Never before has she reached out in such a personal way, and I know
she wants more.  She makes it so obvious that she wants more. 

I could be a dick about it.  Looking at the full
body image of her in a provocative pose, scantily clad in a thin lace bra and
matching panties, makes it so easy to be a dick.  Here she is throwing
herself at me, when she should know it’s not necessary.  Desperate women
don’t do it for me.  I could make an exception, keep using her the way
she’s using me.  Instead, I dig deep for my integrity and dial her number
on my cell.

“Hey there, Jack,” she purrs, using her nickname for
me.  I bite down on the callous remark and try to handle this as nicely as
possible.

“Hi, Melissa, look we need to talk.”

“Do you want me to come over?  I could be there
in five,” she says, and I know that’s a horrible idea. 

“No, I don’t want you to come over.”  I’m certain
I can hear her pout through the phone.  Make it quick, dumbass. 
“Look, that email you sent?  It was too much.  I promised myself I
wouldn’t keep doing this with you if I thought you wanted more from me, and
it’s been made pretty clear that you do.”

“It’s not that,” she whines, desperately trying to
sink her claws into me.  “I don’t want more.  I’m happy with what we
have.”

“I don’t think you are.  This is over,
Melissa.  I don’t want to hurt you,” I sigh, because I really
didn’t.  I thought we had been on the same page with our
arrangement.  Apparently, I was wrong.

“And you don’t think that this hurts me, Jacoby?” Her
breath shudders on my name, and I’m certain she’s crying now.  Damnit.

“I’m sorry if this hurts you, but it’s going to hurt a
lot more if we keep up the charades.  This is over, Mel.  I’m
sorry.”  I disconnect the call before she can say anything else. 

Taking a long slow pull of my beer, I groan when my
cell immediately starts buzzing in my hand.  Preparing to unleash my
frustrations on Melissa, I’m surprised to see Brent’s number flash on my
screen.  “God damnit!” I call out to no one, chucking my phone into the
opposite wall.  It shatters it into several pieces.  I need to get
out of here.  Chugging my beer first, I grab my coat and car keys, and
head out to find a distraction.

After driving around town for an hour, somehow I wind
up at a pub called Old Willow roughly 10 miles south of town.  The
building is worn and squat looking with several heavily frosted windows lining
the front.  Inside, the pub smells of cigarettes, both new and old, even
though smoking is illegal indoors in Minnesota.  The air is dark and dusty
inside. 

Spotting a vacant stool on the far left corner of the
bar, I take a seat, ordering a whiskey neat to start off my night. 
Mindful of the fact I have school tomorrow, I promise myself not to have more
than a few drinks to unwind before calling it a night. 

A television above the bar is running recaps of last
night’s baseball game, and it serves as enough distraction until the whiskey
starts to mix with the beer and I find myself in more of a funk than when I
arrived.  For the first time in over two years, I’m lonely.  I don’t
want to think about my own life.  Instead of wallowing in self-pity, I
wish I could think about someone else’s problems, offer support or
reprieve.  And suddenly, for some reason unknown to me, I find myself
thinking of Tatum.

It became clear to me this afternoon that Tatum has
issues.  Something dark lives inside that girl, and damn, I can’t help but
want to know what it is.  Normal people don’t have a panic attack out of
the blue.  Her whole body shook and tears filled her eyes in a way I
wouldn’t have thought possible by her usual demeanor.  She comes off as
hard as stone.  Strong and sarcastic.  I had to fight back the urge
to comfort her, and surprisingly, it was a strong urge. 

Even after the night we shared, and her overly rude
behavior since, I feel a strong pull towards her.  I want to figure her out. 
I want to help.  Even if she doesn’t want it.  As a teacher, part of
my job is to help and mentor students, and I’d bet money that she needs my
help, even if she won’t admit or accept that fact. 

I toss back the remnants of the burning liquid, relishing
in the feel of it as it glides down my throat before calling over the bartender
for another. 

Tatum.  What can I do about her?  She won’t
speak to me with hardly any respect; every conversation we’ve had has been
fueled by frustrations and annoyance.  She can be immature, and yet,
there’s a light that shines within her.  Most girls with a bad rep
wouldn’t be taking college level calculus the last semester of their senior
year.  She’s driven, but relaxed.  Her personalities clash with one
another.  She’s like fire and ice.  Which serves to explain why one
minute she’s warm and open, and the next she’s the damn ice queen.  

It’s well after midnight when I finish my fourth
drink, and I decide it’s best to go home before I set myself up for a killer
hangover.  Tomorrow will be a new day, and I resolve to get to the bottom
of Tatum’s behavior issues.  Maybe I’ll consult Mr. Stephenson to see what
he knows of her history. 

Before turning out the light, I piece together my
broken phone, knowing I’ll regret not having the extra alarm in the morning if
I don’t.  And as I’m drifting off to sleep in a buzzed haze, images of
tear filled hazel eyes flash before my mind.

***

“What do you know about Miss Krause,” I ask the
principal first thing in the morning.  I drove in before first period so I
could dig a little background on Tatum before I see her today.  I’m
sitting in his dimly lit office, and he’s staring at me curiously. 

“Why are you asking about Miss Krause?  Is she
giving you more problems?”

“Oh, no.  We resolved our issues yesterday. 
She made an apology to me privately, and we discussed moving forward.”

“She was supposed to apologize in front of your sixth
period class.  I had planned on being there, but I had an unexpected
meeting.  What happened?” he asks, looking at me like he thinks Tatum
pulled a fast one. 

“I was unaware, I’m sorry.  We ran into each
other before sixth period yesterday, and she apologized to me, very sincerely
might I add.  That’s sort of why I’m here.”  I shift slightly in the
hard plastic blue chair, feeling slightly uncomfortable with where I’m turning
this conversation. 

“What is it?”

“Does she have some history I should be aware
of?  Most students don’t have an outburst in the middle of class, and I
was given the impression yesterday that something was amiss.  I'd like to
help her, if at all possible.  I thought if there was a situation she was
dealing with that you know about, it might make it easier for me to reach
out.” 

He stares at me, studying me with one hand clasped
beneath his chin.  Jesus, this guy is supposed to be my colleague and
superior, but I feel like I’m the one in trouble in the principal’s
office.  He leans forward, laying his forearms on the desk as he addresses
me. 

“Miss Krause went through some home trouble last year
and wound up missing a lot of class.  She has been working very hard to
catch up, even going as far as to enroll in our post-secondary program.  Let me
assure you, her behavior is very uncharacteristic.  I, too, have wondered
if she has been struggling with some outside stressors lately.  However, I
do not want to feel like I am gossiping about her behind her back, as she has
used me as a confidant in the past.”  He settles himself back in his chair
once again, and I know this conversation is coming to a close.  “My
suggestion?” he offers.  “Now that you have identified she is having some
issues, use that to get her to open up to you.  Maybe you can get her to
open up a bit more, because lately, she hasn’t had much to say to me.”

I spend the rest of first period correcting pretests
for my Algebra II class.  When the students begin filtering in for second
period, I’m surprised to find Tatum is not among them. 

Promptly at 9:20, I begin my prepared lesson on
expressions.  At 9:28 I find myself glancing up from the projector to
check the door every thirty seconds, and by 9:34, I find my mood souring now
that she’s failed to show.  After her blatant display of intolerance for
tardiness, I’m almost sure she isn’t running late.  She’s just not
coming.  Maybe her apology yesterday wasn’t as sincere as I thought, and
her display of tears was no more than a show for sympathy.

By 9:45, I’m as frustrated as ever, feeling duped by
this teenaged girl.          

“Okay, class, for the remainder of the hour, you will
begin your homework assignment on page 13.  I want you to complete
problems 1-80, only the even numbered problems.  Please use this time
wisely, as you’ll have less work to complete tonight if you do.  Feel free
to ask questions.” 

Once I’m satisfied everyone is working quietly, I turn
on my desktop and log into the school’s website.  From here, I can search
the attendance of any student, and I can’t stop myself from looking up Tatum’s
status for first period.  I search by name, and sit back in my seat when I
see she was marked absent for French V, another college level class.  I
wonder if something is wrong with her. 
Knock it off,
Ryan
.  
Scolding myself, I log off the computer and finish correcting papers. 
Stop being so interested in what mischief one teenaged girl is up to.

On my lunch break, I decide to check my phone that I
stashed in my briefcase.  I was amazed this morning when the damn thing
still worked, blaring the alarm bright and early.  Turning it back on, I
shouldn’t be surprised to see a voicemail waiting for me again.  I can’t
avoid this forever, so I listen to the message, jotting down the phone number
he left for me. 

I type the number into my phone, then delete it. 
I type it again, checking and rechecking the digits with the sheet of paper to
make sure it’s correct, then I delete it again.  Curling the phone in my
fist, I bring my hand to my mouth, biting my knuckle to relieve some of the
frustration and nervousness I’m feeling.  Just call.  I can always
back away if it’s too much to handle. 

Unwanted and unbidden, the very last image I ever had
of Harper flashes in my mind.  Her body, pale and cold, bruised and
scratched, covered by a typical stark white hospital sheet. 
Unmoving.  I blink back the tears and swallow against the pain in my chest
as I find my resolve. 

Call for Harper.  Do it for Harper. 

“Hello, this is Nurse Greta, how can I help
you?”  A kind woman’s voice sounds from the other end of the line, low
toned with a slight southern drawl.  I swallow thickly, trying to clear my
throat from the lump blocking my airway.  I open my mouth several times
but nothing comes out.  

I hear her breathe heavily into the line. 
“Hello?”

“Who is it?” someone croaks in the background. 
God, she sounds so weak and frail, the sound makes my heart constrict.

“Must be a wrong number, Carol, there’s nobody there,”
she replies, before the line goes dead. 

Everything I once thought was neatly tucked away is
beginning to explode around me.  That was a bad fucking idea to
call.  I’m useless.  I was useless in saving Harper and I’m useless
in putting her to rest.  I just know whatever Carol needs to say to me is
going to make my life a hundred times worse. 

Checking the time before tucking my phone back into my
briefcase, I realize my lunch hour is almost over.  Pulling myself back
together and banishing the unwanted images of that night so long ago, I make my
way back to my classroom for the final classes of the day. 

As I suspected, Tatum fails to show for my sixth hour
class as well.  She must be out sick, because my gut tells me she isn’t
the type to skip school for no apparent reason.  It’s too bad that little
blonde friend of hers isn’t in my class.  She looked like a talker, and I
may have been able to prod some information out of her about Tatum’s
whereabouts.