The Good Teacher

by Petronella McGovern

  ‘Just checking how Gracie is going,’ Allison said. ‘Sending her my love.’

  Another twenty minutes of waiting and her phone finally rang.

  ‘They’ve given her adrenaline.’ Luke’s voice was even deeper than usual, and gravelly. ‘She’s doing okay.’

  Allison felt she could breathe normally for the first time since dinner. But would Luke forgive her tomorrow? Or would they move out?

  At breakfast, Luke could barely look at her and Gracie was lethargic, dragging herself onto the stool and dribbling milk on her uniform.

  ‘I’m so sorry about last night, sweetheart,’ Allison said. ‘How’re you feeling?’

  ‘Tired. But I got ice-cream at the hop-i-tal.’

  ‘Lucky you!’

  Allison turned away to pour a cup of coffee for Luke, chiding herself for her ridiculous response. She moved around Luke gingerly, apologising again, wondering if he would explode with anger.

  ‘Can she go to school?’ Allison asked. What she really meant was: Do you still trust me?

  ‘The doctor said if she feels okay, she can go.’

  ‘I’ll take good care of her today. I’m so sorry. I’ll do anything to make it up to you.’

  Instead of the anger that Allison had expected, Luke began to cry.

  ‘She has so much going on, and now this …’

  Sitting on the couch last night, Allison had decided how she could make amends. She’d discussed the fundraising campaign with Luke before, but he seemed overwhelmed by the amount required—and instead he’d been focusing on getting Gracie through this last round of chemo. Meanwhile, Dr Rawson had started making arrangements for Gracie to fly to the States at the end of April. That was only six weeks away. Luke couldn’t cover the costs and Gracie didn’t qualify for Australia’s medical overseas treatment program.

  ‘Please let me set up a fundraising campaign for Gracie,’ Allison said now. ‘I’ll start by donating a thousand dollars. How much do we need?’

  Luke plucked a tissue from the box, blew his nose and walked over to the bin.

  ‘Too much,’ he muttered softly so that Gracie wouldn’t hear. ‘We don’t have to pay for the trial drug but we have to pay for everything else.’

  ‘Do you know how much exactly?’

  Sighing, Luke took his laptop from his backpack and placed it on the kitchen bench. He brought up a spreadsheet that listed the cost of the flights, the doctors and the hospital time.

  ‘Dr Rawson sent me through these figures. He reckons he can get some funding from the hospital, and I’ve talked to the bank about borrowing twenty thousand. So, I think we’re short a hundred and forty thousand dollars.’ His shoulders sagged. ‘Do you really think we can do it?’

  A hundred and forty thousand dollars—a huge amount but Allison was relieved Luke had finally accepted that fundraising was Gracie’s best hope. Relieved, too, they weren’t talking about Gracie’s allergic reaction anymore.

  ‘Yes.’ Allison spoke more confidently than she felt. ‘We live in such a supportive community.’

  ‘Well, if you think it might work, we could try.’ Luke glanced in Gracie’s direction. ‘Maz at the gym is good with online stuff. I could ask her to help too.’

  When the little girl disappeared off to the bathroom, Luke opened a website showing researchers at Chicago North Hospital. He pointed to a photo of a dark-haired man wearing a purple tie.

  ‘This is Dr Mercado—he’s doing amazing work. Apparently, he has a daughter a few years older than Gracie who loves Frozen as much as she does. I think that’s why he finally accepted her on the trial.’

  Luke clicked through to another page of detailed medical information.

  ‘The drug is called a checkpoint inhibitor and it’ll stop the immune system from attacking healthy cells. There are some side effects but the worst ones are rare. It’ll be a slow infusion, every third day. They’ve had some great results so far.’

  Thank God, Luke seemed positive again and willing to let her help. Last night, she’d feared the worst—for Gracie and for herself.

  That afternoon, Allison brought Gracie straight home after school. The girl refused to rest; she wanted a snack of Weet-Bix topped with Milo. Probably not on Luke’s approved list but Gracie needed it for strength. Hopefully, the allergic reaction wouldn’t stop her from having chemo tomorrow.

  ‘Someone’s here,’ Gracie said as she spooned the chocolate sprinkles over her bowl.

  Allison hadn’t heard the knock. She darted down the hallway to the front door. She’d texted Nadia and Shona that morning about the fundraising campaign—perhaps they were coming to help. They all had to swing into action fast if they were to have any chance of achieving the goal.

  Two police officers stood on the doormat, their black shoes obscuring the words Welcome to our Home. The man surveyed the second-floor windows, the woman stared directly at Allison. Her first thought was that Luke had reported her for child abuse.

  In the lounge room, the officers perched on the edge of the couch.

  ‘Mrs Walsh,’ the policewoman began, ‘your ex-husband has made a complaint about your behaviour. He claims that you’ve been harassing him and his family with phone calls and letters. Your car has been seen parked near their house. These incidents are considered stalking. It’s a criminal offence and you could be charged under section thirteen of the Crimes Act, which covers domestic and personal violence.’

  Tony. She hadn’t believed he’d do it. He worked part-time at a women’s shelter, he knew what dangerous people looked like, and now he was implying that she was dangerous. But Allison was nothing like them!

  Stalking. Criminal offence. Crimes Act. She dropped her head into her hands, praying that Gracie couldn’t hear from the kitchen, wishing the words—and the officers—away. She’d lose her job.

  ‘If you do not stop harassing your ex-husband and his family,’ the policeman added, ‘you’ll be served with an apprehended violence order.’

  His family? I’m his family.

  It was hardly harassment. She’d just watched their house sometimes; she’d never even seen anything. As for the phone calls and hang-ups—well, she was angry with Tony. But I didn’t write that letter.

  Was Tony doing it himself? To force her to sell the house? Surely he wouldn’t stoop that low. Then again, she no longer recognised the man who had been her husband; she didn’t know how low he would go.

  On Friday afternoon, she came home to a group of five teenagers slouched on the stools in her kitchen. Burger wrappers from McDonald’s and soft-drink cups littered the benchtop. She greeted Darcy and his older sister. Felix introduced her to the two girls, friends of Darcy’s sister. While Allison was pleased that Felix had come over, this was Gracie’s chemo day. The little girl needed to rest.

  As if her son could read her thoughts, he said, ‘I told everyone about setting up the fundraising, Mum. What can we do to help?’

  Allison hadn’t expected assistance from the teenagers—well, not at this early stage. She’d told everyone in the staffroom today and they were supportive, especially Declan of course. And she kept remembering her promise: the first donation of one thousand dollars. The amount filled her with dread—she couldn’t afford it—but it assuaged her guilt over the sesame oil.

  ‘Maybe you could come up with a list of local shops and businesses that might want to donate products or sponsor Gracie?’ Allison suggested.

  Strange that they were all suddenly in her kitchen. Was Felix dating one of these older girls?

  ‘Cool,’ Darcy’s sister said. ‘We can do that.’

  The girls picked up their phones and started tapping away. They all had the same white nail polish; Allison didn’t know how they could type with those long fingernails. Teenage girls were a different breed. Would Gracie make it to this age, paint her nails and hang out with boys?

  ‘I’ll just go and say hi to Gracie and Luke. Have you seen them, Felix?’

  ‘Nope. I haven’t been upstai
rs.’

  Gracie had set up her soft toys in groups on her bedroom floor. Luke lay on her bed, reading his laptop. When Allison walked in, Gracie jumped up for a cuddle.

  ‘I got a red frog at the hop-i-tal today!’

  Thankfully, the allergic reaction hadn’t interrupted her chemo routine.

  ‘How’re you feeling, sweetheart?’

  ‘Good! My toys are going to school and I’m the teacher. My name’s Mrs Walsh.’

  Playing school was one of Gracie’s favourite games. The toys had to sit to attention while she pretended to read a story or write on the blackboard. This was the first time she’d called herself Mrs Walsh. Allison took it as a sign that she’d been forgiven.

  When she went back down to the kitchen, the teenagers, including Felix, had disappeared. They’d left a list of Wirriga businesses with lovehearts and flowers scrawled around the edges.

  Luke prepared a vegetable bake for dinner. Her determination to start the fundraiser seemed to have helped in the aftermath of the allergic reaction; they had a shared goal now.

  Allison pushed the green bits around her dinner plate and forked up the potato.

  ‘Not keen on veggies, Ally?’

  He said it with a smile. Luke was the only person who called her Ally. I haven’t been called Ally since I was eleven years old, she’d said when he first used the nickname. I reinvented myself as Allison when I started high school. But he insisted she looked like an Ally. She liked it. Another makeover, like her haircut.

  ‘Mashed potato and peas are nice,’ she said.

  She’d managed to hide her dislike of vegetables for the past two weeks. Allison taught the food groups to her class, encouraged the kids to have their daily serve, and then avoided green veggies as much as possible.

  After dinner, as she was packing the dishwasher, Luke hovered near the fridge. He’d already set Gracie up with a movie—not Frozen, for a change—and was about to join her in the lounge room.

  ‘Ally, I don’t know how to say this …’

  Oh God, were they going to move out after all? He hadn’t really forgiven her. Last week, he’d shown her an apartment on the edge of Wirriga and she’d told him to stop searching for a place. To stay until after the clinical trial. To save his rent money for Gracie’s treatment.

  Would she be rejected—and alone—again? She deserved it after what she’d done.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I think Felix is taking money from my wallet.’ Luke looked directly at her and his eyes seemed sadder than ever. ‘I didn’t tell you on Wednesday, but it happened again tonight.’

  Allison had been pleased to see Felix and his friends in the kitchen this afternoon. Just like old times. She’d thought her son wanted to be home. Had he simply come to steal?

  ‘How much is missing?’ she asked.

  ‘Fifty dollars on Wednesday, fifty today.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. Let me repay you and I’ll speak to Felix.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to upset you, Ally. I’m only telling you in case he’s in trouble.’

  Allison kept her handbag in a nook by the home phone. Oh, the irony—here she was trying to raise money for Luke while her son was stealing from him. Opening her purse, she expected to see two hundred dollars that she’d taken out of the ATM yesterday. Only a hundred remained. She was sure she hadn’t spent any.

  Holding out the notes for Luke, she waved away his refusal.

  Felix had never taken money before. But now she had to track down her son and find out what the hell was going on.

  10

  MAZ

  In the gym car park as the sun was nudging Wirriga awake on Friday morning, Maz handed a small blue carrier bag to a client. Laurel was immaculate in a pin-striped skirt and jacket, her straight hair perfectly clipped, not a single bead of sweat on her face despite coming out of Maz’s class twenty minutes before. Dropping the paper bag into her leather briefcase, she gave Maz eighty dollars in return. Eighty dollars! For one container of pills.

  ‘Thanks, Maz. I’d better get going, otherwise I’ll hit peak hour on the bridge.’ Laurel straightened her lapel. ‘This is our secret, right? I don’t want the rest of the gym knowing.’

  The woman smiled and placed the briefcase on the back seat of her gold BMW. Revved the engine a few times, grinned at Maz, and shot out of the car park. Laurel was slim and toned and tanned. They’d been talking after class last week and Maz had mentioned her Bio-Antidotes. Laurel was keen to try the appetite suppressant: ‘I’d love a little extra assistance to keep off the weight. If I so much as look at a hamburger, I swear it jumps onto my thighs.’ Maz told her the research online had been extremely positive.

  Be brave. Live your best life. Just do it. Maz was living up to the tagline on her own website.

  Seven other clients had bought supplements too; Maz had made six hundred and twenty dollars so far. Well, not exactly ‘made’—that was turnover. After costs, she had a hundred and thirty dollars in profit. A good margin for simply ordering stuff online. Profit, margin, costs, turnover—she’d be an entrepreneur yet. And she was doing good, helping her clients to become their best selves!

  And she was helping Gracie too.

  After Luke had told her about the plan for Gracie’s fundraising yesterday, she’d researched marketing techniques and copied ideas from a few other campaigns before setting up a website. Desperate to show him, Maz asked Luke to drop by on the way home from the hospital.

  When he texted to say he was in the car park, she rushed out. Gracie, half asleep after her chemo, smiled at Maz then closed her eyes again.

  ‘Here it is!’ Maz said, passing her laptop in through the window of the Jeep. Luke balanced it against the steering wheel. He started reading out loud. An emotional plea. They’d agreed on the wording late last night by email.

  Gracie Branson is fun and bubbly and four years old. She loves to tell dinosaur jokes, dress up as Princess Elsa, sing at the top of her voice, and play fairytale games.

  We need to create a fairytale for Gracie.

  She has a very rare cancer, thymic carcinoma. While Gracie has had wonderful treatment in Australia, she now needs a drug that is only available in America.

  Please join Gracie’s Gang and help us raise $140,000 to fly her to America for an immunotherapy trial in April.

  By going through all the design options on the website builder, Maz had figured out how to create a countdown graphic, just like they had on the professional fundraising sites. They’d discussed whether to use a fundraising page, like GoFundMe or MyCause, or whether to set up their own website. Maz had pushed for their own website so they could add photos, blogs and videos and as much info as they wanted.

  ‘It looks awesome,’ Luke said. ‘I can’t believe you created it so fast.’

  A warm glow enveloped her whole body. She pointed at the online calendar so he wouldn’t stare at her flushed face.

  ‘Well, we don’t have long. We have to get moving.’

  The calendar showed the time to target—40 DAYS!

  ‘What did we decide about joining Gracie’s Gang?’ he asked.

  ‘Everyone can be part of Gracie’s Gang, but if you donate over two hundred dollars, you get a purple bracelet. I’ll start making them with Gracie on the weekend.’

  They’d discussed this issue for too long last night—the schoolteacher had been in the background of Luke’s call and she kept disagreeing that two hundred was too much. But they needed to make a hundred and forty thousand dollars; that was a lot of donations.

  ‘And for kids?’

  ‘We agreed they just had to donate ten dollars.’

  Luke looked from the website back to Maz. He had tears in his eyes.

  ‘You’re amazing, Maz.’

  When she finished her next class, Nico was waiting at the studio door with a high school boy. They’d had a big group of teenage mates join up at the end of last year. Nico was pleased to get some new blood in the door.

  ‘Maz, can
you talk to this young fella for a minute?’ he asked. ‘He wants to know about courses.’

  Only a few years ago, Maz had been the person asking for advice.

  She explained the different paths and gushed about the college she’d attended. ‘It’s a fantastic career,’ she told the teenager. ‘And there’s always work. You’ll never be out of a job.’

  Not like Dad. She’d seen what eighteen months of unemployment had done to him back when Maz was in year nine. Worn away his self-belief. Made him ashamed. That was when Mum had got him to join the choir—singing to keep his spirits up. They’d survived on Mum’s salary for a bit and Dad had finally got a job night-stacking at Woolworths. But the cash didn’t stretch very far. Maz and Kelli’s tiny pay packets from Maccas only covered a few essentials. When notes were sent home for year nine camp, Mum offered to talk to the teacher but Maz wouldn’t let her. ‘I don’t want the whole school knowing our business.’ Some classmates would be kind, others would not. She made Mum write a letter saying that Maz couldn’t go due to health reasons.

  Then, in the months leading up to the year ten formal, her group went dress shopping, arranged hairstyles and spray tans and fake eyelashes. Maz played along, even trying on a gold dress that sparkled when she moved. None of them knew she hadn’t paid for a ticket. Couldn’t. On the morning of the formal, she said she had gastro—a bad prawn was making her throw up (as if they were eating prawns on their budget). That night, she lay in her bed, her eyes glued to Insta—the outfits, the limo, a boat on Sydney Harbour, the dance moves. Who kissed who in the corner. The after-party. The sneaky drinks. The fun. She hadn’t told her parents—they’d have insisted she use her Maccas money on a ticket instead of tampons and toiletries. That would just create extra strain. The weekly mortgage repayments loomed over their heads like the French guillotine, which she’d been studying in history.

  When Dad got a new job, their money worries eventually settled down. But they didn’t emerge unscathed. Dad had stacked on the weight and drank more than ever. Mum’s snapping point came much faster than before. Kelli left school and went straight into a full-time job. Maz found the gym, vowed never to eat another bite of McDonald’s and never to be in that position again.