“Did you know Benjamin Franklin played a huge part in us winning the Revolutionary War? He was, like, the ambassador to France or something.”
Okay, who is this kid? “What’s with you lately? Every night I come home and you’re doing homework. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled.”
He shrugs. “I like history.”
“And math? And English? And if I’m not mistaken, you were writing a report for science yesterday.”
“Thought that’s what you and Dad wanted.”
“Just makes me a little suspicious is all.” I’m starting to sound like Paul. “Keep up the good work. I’m going to get dinner started.”
After a detour to the bathroom, I head for the kitchen. Dishes from the morning are still piled into the sink. Does no one else know how to load a dishwasher? With a heavy sigh, I squirt dish soap onto the mess and wait for the water to turn hot.
“Hey, Mom.” Michael’s voice from the entrance startles me. “I gotta talk to you about something.”
His furrowed brow and serious demeanor has me turning off the water and facing him, hip resting on the counter. He’s hiding something behind his back—an F paper that needs signing, or a detention notice? I prepare myself. What other reason could he have for this sudden interest in homework?
Take a deep breath and stay calm. “Okay, I’m listening.”
Instead of an official notice or graded assignment, he hands me a brochure. “What’s this?” Black, red, and orange jump out at me—pleasing to the eyes. It’s titled SOCAPA in large black print. Underneath is School of Creative & Performing Arts.
He shrugs. “Mr. McGinty, my history teacher, gave it to me a couple weeks ago. He noticed how much I like photography and thought I could go.”
I flip through the brochure. “Summer camp?”
“I know it’s kinda expensive, but they have financial aid—”
“It’s not just that, Michael.” I trace my finger over the campus cities. “The closest is Los Angeles.”
“Yeah. But New York would be way cooler.”
“And way more expensive,” I say with a sigh. There’s no way Paul’s going to approve this. Not by the way things have been between them. “What about last year? Will they let you in with that on your record?”
“Mr. McGinty’s offered to write a letter of recommendation. If I get my grades up.”
“Ahh.” I nod. “This sudden interest in school.”
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “But I checked with all my teachers, and with extra credit…”
The last time I saw his baby blues light up like Christmas morning was…never. How can I disappoint him? I do an internal cringe when I think of how Paul will react. “Your dad—” That’s all it takes to snuff out the light.
“Yeah, I know.” There’s an edge to his tone. The muscles in his jaw tighten, and he looks like the spitting image of a young, angry Paul. “But you can talk to him, can’t you?”
“Your timing stinks, son.”
“Mr. McGinty said this could open doors for me.”
I tap the brochure on the counter and study my shoes. What I wouldn’t give to assure Michael that he stands a chance. “You want to tell me why you’re so angry with your dad?”
He drops his head, feet shuffling. “I told you before, he doesn’t understand me.”
“To be honest, neither do I.”
“Yeah, but you’re not on me all the time.”
“He’s worried about you.” I wish I believed that was the only reason. “He loves you, you know.”
“He cares more about what people think if I mess up.”
“He’s living in a fishbowl, kiddo. We all are.” And once the truth about Taylor is out, the focus will no longer be on Michael.
“Please, Mom.”
I look up at his pleading eyes.
“Just talk to him for me.”
“What about the restitution you owe?”
“I only have ten more hours of community service, then I’ll get a job.”
“I don’t know, Michael.”
“Craig at the Pit ’n’ Stop’s already told me he’ll hire me as soon as I get my work permit stuff done.”
“It’s not just that, sweetie.” I turn to rest my backside on the counter and fold my arms, the brochure hanging from one hand. “All this stuff with Taylor—”
“It won’t take any of your time. I promise. I’ll even help around the house more.”
I picture Michael with a dust rag, but it’s too bizarre an image to hold onto. “Okay, I’ll talk to your dad.”
He grins, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
“But don’t get your hopes up.”
“Okay.” He turns to leave, and the stale scent of cigarette is unmistakable.
“And Michael?” I wait until I have his attention. “If your dad says no, promise me you won’t go back down that road?”
His brow furrows. “What road?”
“This road of self-destruction you’ve been flirting with over the last year.”
He scowls. “That was, like, a year ago.”
“I don’t mean the vandalism.”
“Then what?”
I hesitate. He doesn’t need two parents on his case, but to ignore it won’t do him any favors. “Cigarette smoke. I’ve smelled it on your clothes off and on lately.”
“What?” He waves a dismissive hand. “I don’t smoke.”
I want to believe him and just leave it at that. My usual M.O. “It’s kind of hard to miss. I’m surprised your dad hasn’t called you on it.”
“Dan smokes. You know, Dan Porter? I hung out with him after school today.”
I choose to believe him. To push further would be tantamount to calling him a liar.
I’m a lot of things, but a hypocrite isn’t one of them.
* * *
Paul
It’s after eight before I pull my car into the driveway. Long day, long night. I got a call earlier that John Pendleton, a long-standing congregant and loyal supporter, suffered a stroke. His wife, Beverly, feared the worst and was inconsolable after sixty-two years of marriage.
“What will I do if he dies?” Her faded-gray eyes had swum with unshed tears as we sat in the hospital waiting room surrounded by their five children.
“Let’s not go there yet,” I said. A month ago, I would have been practical—if he dies, he’ll be in his eternal home. What could be better for him? And that still holds true. But after Taylor’s accident…well, it’s not so easy to think in practical terms. Great for John, but what about Beverly?
It reminds me of Dad raising me and Justine alone. I never thought about how hard it was on him. I just knew it was hard on me.
I’m pondering this as I turn off the car ignition. If Corey were to go before me, how would I handle it? And it’s not the cooking and the cleaning and the laundry—the everyday mundane tasks she accomplishes without a whisper of complaint. It would be like losing a huge chunk of myself.
The house is quiet when I enter through the garage door. Corey told me on the phone that she needed to talk to me, and I half expect her to be waiting for me, along with Rambo. But nothing. The living room is dark, but a dim light shines from the kitchen. The toaster oven hums, and inside, a foil-covered plate. My dinner.
No Corey in the bedroom or my office. I open the basement door to a pitch-black void. The last place I expect to find her is in Taylor’s room, but light’s beaming on the hall carpet past the door that’s ajar. I push it farther open and poke my head through. Corey’s sitting on Taylor’s bed hugging a stuffed animal to her chest, Rambo sleeping along her thigh.
“Hey.” I step inside.
She looks at me and blinks, as if coming awake. “Hey.”
Rambo’s head pops up and he gives a little yip of greeting. I scratch his ear while bending over to give Corey a kiss.
“Are you hungry? I kept your dinner warm.”
“In a minute.” Sitting at Corey’s other side, I slip my
arm around her hip. “What’re you doing in here? Not worrying, I hope.”
She shakes her head and smiles. “Just thinking about Taylor. I thought I might repaint her room before she comes home.”
“When’re you going to squeeze that into your schedule?”
“I don’t know. But we talked about it before…you know. Lavender and mint.”
“Excuse me?”
“The colors she wanted. Lavender and mint.”
“Sounds like potpourri.”
She laughs and pulls away to look at me. “What do you know about potpourri?”
I nuzzle her neck, breathing in the clean shampoo scent of her hair. “I know it smells.” Lavender and mint. I can’t quite picture it. Taylor’s room’s been pink since forever. Pink and white—girlish and innocent. Just the way I like to think of her.
“How’s John?”
“It doesn’t look good. Beverly’s a mess.”
“I’m not surprised. They’ve been together their whole lives.” She reaches out and fingers my wedding ring.
“Sixty-two years.”
“Sixty-two years.” She sighs.
I take a deep breath. “So, is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”
“Hmm?”
“Painting Taylor’s room? Is that why you’re hiding away in here?”
“Oh, no. I came in here to collect a few things to take to the hospital tomorrow.”
“So, what’d you want to talk about?”
Putting a little distance between us, she rubs her hands down her thighs and looks up at me. “Promise you’ll hear me out before jumping in?”
Great. I’m on the defensive before we even begin. “Since you put it so eloquently, how can I resist?”
“Promise?”
I put three fingers up. “Scout’s honor.”
She blows out a breath. “Michael has an opportunity to attend a great summer camp program.”
What? Not at all what I expected. “Summer camp?” I can’t picture our teen sitting around a campfire singing Kumbaya.
“Summer camp with an arts program. His history teacher suggested it. He can learn more about photography—”
“No.”
“You promised to hear me out—”
“I can’t believe you want to support this asinine idea, Corey.” I push up from the bed and stand over her, hands on hips.
“Please, Paul,” she says through gritted teeth. “Hear me out.”
I throw a hand in the air. “After all we’ve been through with him, you want to reward that behavior?”
She jumps up and stands her ground. “He’s been working really hard to get his grades up. Haven’t you noticed?”
“I’ve noticed that he’s taken the initiative to do the work he should have been doing all along. I should have known there was a hidden agenda behind it.” Take, take, take. That’s all that kid knows.
“What difference does it make if it motivates him to do well?”
“Because as soon as he has his way, it’s back to the same crap all over again.”
“You can’t be serious, Paul.” Her voice rises, and Rambo jumps off the bed and hightails it out of the room.
Not a bad idea. I start to follow, and she grabs my arm.
“So, he messed up,” she says. “Once. Are you going to punish him for it forever?” Her voice wobbles and tears swim in her eyes.
I harden myself against her emotions. “He owes us a thousand dollars, Cor, and he hasn’t even made an attempt to pay it back.”
“He has every intention of doing so. He’s got a job all lined up, and—”
“Great. Then when the money’s repaid, we’ll talk.”
“Do you have any idea how long it’ll take on minimum wage?”
“Not my problem. He should have thought about that before he destroyed someone else’s property.”
“Wow. Really?” She looks at me like I’m the bad guy here. “What happened to the forgiveness you preach on Sunday mornings?”
“It has nothing to do with forgiving him.” My words reverberate off Taylor’s cotton candy walls. Seems sacrilegious somehow. I take a deep breath and lower my voice. “I’m trying to teach him about consequences. You want him to think he got away with something?”
Corey stares at me, eyes swimming, face ghost white.
Why do I get the feeling this is about more than Michael?
Chapter 13
Corey
Natural consequences. I was raised on this concept from the time I could walk. There were no shades of gray as far as Dad was concerned—everything was a stark black or white. No equivocating. No negotiating. He had the Old Testament down cold. But grace? That was altogether something different. The fact that redemption came along with Jesus Christ was lost on him.
After my battle with Paul, the old adage that a girl marries someone like her father has never felt truer.
Sleep was sporadic, and I wake dreading the moment I have to face Michael and report back that his father is about as pliable as Mount Rushmore. Although Michael promised no negative repercussions, I’m not hopeful. Being angry enough for both of us makes slinking out of the house while Paul’s in the shower seem almost chivalrous. He doesn’t want to face me in my current mood.
“You’re going with me today, boy,” I tell Rambo, who spins in excited circles. I don’t know if he understands or is just happy that someone’s talking to him. Veronica feels that interaction with a pet will be positive stimulation.
With Rambo’s crate loaded and a collection of Taylor’s favorite things packed, I make a beeline for Starbucks and a Venti mocha. I need the caffeine just to get my eyes to open. Drive thru or fight the line inside? I opt for going inside so I can contemplate the best pastry selection to kick off the caffeine.
Starbucks is the hot spot before seven, the hoard of people suffocating. Young and old crowd the small coffee shop, some in some semblance of a line, others gathered around tables. The noise level rivals any high school classroom, so when I see Tess Holland flagging me down, it feels as natural as if we’d met at school.
She squeezes in next to me. We’re like a before and after photo—and she’s the after. Oh, to be young and vibrant again. “Hey, Corey. It’s so good to see you. How’s Taylor doing?”
“I’m actually on my way to see her now.” I give her the condensed version of Taylor’s recovery thus far.
“It must be so difficult to watch her go through this.”
She doesn’t know the half of it.
Her eyes tear and she presses a hand to her flat stomach. The emotionalism, protective move, youthful glow. She’s pregnant.
Moving to the front of the line, she orders a decaf mocha.
“How far along are you?”
She flashes a beatific smile. “Thirteen weeks.” Her answer floats an octave below the noise level, but I’ve gotten good at lip reading. It’s my secret weapon in the classroom.
“Congratulations. You must be ecstatic.” It seems like forever ago I was expecting Taylor. She nods and moves ahead to await her order.
“What can I get you?” The female barista, no more than twenty, sports piercings and tattoos to rival a metal rock star.
I order my mocha and a bran muffin—when what I want is a chocolate old-fashioned. She hands me a bag with my muffin, and I join Tess.
“We’ve sure missed you at school.” She leans close to be heard. “It’s funny that you’re here. I was going to call you.”
“Well, if it’s about subbing, it’ll be a while.” Has it only been a few weeks since I was in a classroom? “Maybe not until next school year.”
“Next year works for me.” She collects her drink from the coffee bar and fingers the lid. “I want to go part-time next year and was hoping you’d be open to team teaching.”
Team teaching? “I…well…wow.” How perfect would that be?
“You’re credentialed, aren’t you?”
“Venti mocha for Corey,” a faceless voice c
alls as my drink is placed on the bar.
I take the cardboard cup and cock my head toward the door. “Let’s talk outside. It’s too noisy in here.”
The air is cool but refreshing after the stuffiness of the coffee shop. I walk to a patch of sunshine at the edge of the small parking lot and wait for Tess.
“This is much better,” she says. “So, what do you think?”
What do I think? What will Paul think after his frustration with my sub position? But I may be getting ahead of myself. “What makes you think I’d be approved for this position? Aren’t there tenured teachers waiting in line?”
Sipping her coffee, she shakes her head. “You’d think, wouldn’t you? But even if there were others to choose from, you’d be my first choice.”
I find that hard to believe.
She pats her still-flat tummy. “I’d need you to be full-time for the first couple of months while I finish up maternity leave, but after that…”
“I haven’t even taught, Tess.”
“Subbing is way harder, if you ask me. All the work of a teacher without the perks.”
“Or responsibilities.” Planning, grading, parent-teacher conferences. Paul complains about the time involved with subbing. How will he react to an actual teaching assignment?
“You’re the only sub I request, Corey. We teach the same and share the same philosophy. It would be perfect.” Raising her eyebrows, she grins. “Well?”
“May I think about it?”
She raises her hand as if to stop me. “No pressure. Take all the time you need.”
“All the time I need?” She can’t be serious.
“Okay, not all the time you need, but I’ll try to be patient.”
“Give me until Easter break?”
“You got it. And just in case you need a little incentive, come by my classroom any time you want. I’ll show you what we’ve been doing. Maybe you have some ideas for next year.”
* * *
Paul
Gathering up the stack of papers from a chair in my office, I invite Mark to sit, then dump the whole mess onto my desk to join piles from the previous week. Clutter makes me…edgy. Reminds me of how far behind I’m falling. I haven’t even started on Sunday’s message. It’s hard to be motivated when I’d rather head down to the hospital first thing instead of glad-handing congregants, some of whom would like nothing better than to see me removed.
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