by Anne Dayton
“Bag, please?” A bored-looking cop gestures at my purse when it reaches the other side.
I lift my purse off the conveyor belt and put it on the counter. The cop digs through my bag and then nods, and finally I’m free. I think I remember where to go. I walk toward a bank of elevators and push the button, then jam my finger into it again, willing the ancient elevator to come faster.
I look behind me to make sure he’s not there and let my eyes travel up, up, up to the stunning golden interior of the dome. At the very center of it is a circular window. It lets in light that fills the giant, ornate building. I look down to trace the light and notice I am standing on a mosaic tile reproduction of our state seal. It’s a rendering of the Roman goddess Minerva sitting with a bear, and above her head is the state motto: Eureka. I have found it.
I set my jaw, and finally the elevator doors open. I step in with a bunch of tourists and push the button for four. After stopping on floors two and three, we make it to the fourth, and I step out into a formal stone-floored hallway lined with portraits of old dudes. It’s starting to come back to me. I recognize this.
I make my way down a long hallway, then take a right and a quick left onto a smaller, carpeted hallway. The burgundy carpet is so deep that my footsteps are nearly silent. I pass door after identical door until finally I see it. “Assemblyman James Lee” is etched on the door. I take a deep breath and walk inside.
“Hi, may I help—Christine Lee? Is that you?”
Darla. I had forgotten about my dad’s tried-and-true secretary. “Hi,” I say and freeze in the doorway. I can’t talk to her now or I might back out. “Is my dad in? It’s kind of an emergency.” I start walking to his door. It doesn’t matter what she says. I’m going in there no matter what.
“Sure, honey. I think . . .”
I hear her voice trail off as I turn the knob and close the door to my dad’s office behind me. He’s on the phone, staring at a stack of papers on his desk, but when he sees me, his eyes go wide.
“George? George? Sorry to interrupt. Can I call you back later today? Something just came up.”
Something? I’m hardly something. My daughter just appeared would have been nice. I cross my arms over my chest. The person in Dad’s ear won’t shut up.
“Uh-huh.” Dad holds up a finger to me. “Ha ha ha. Well that’s right.”
I consider walking over to his phone and hanging up for him, but I stay planted where I am. It’s a better distance for what I’m about to do. I concentrate on pumping him full of poison daggers. How could he? How could he?
“Okay, well, we’ll talk about it later. Uh-huh. Okay . . . good-bye.” He hangs up the phone and stands, a smile spreading across his face. “Well, hey there. This is a nice surprise.”
“Tell me you’re not having her fired.” I try to keep my voice steady and even, but I can feel my eyes filling with tears.
Dad freezes. “What?”
I walk up to his hand-carved, giant mahogany desk and grab a paperweight. As I raise it, it occurs to me that it’s a wooden carving of an artichoke, the pride of our city.
“Don’t you see that she was only trying to tell you the truth?” The sharp corners of the artichoke’s leaves feel good in my hand, and Dad ducks like I might throw it at him. I fight the tears that spring to my eyes. I have to get this out. “Please, please, please tell me you didn’t have her fired because of that. I need her. And I need to believe you wouldn’t do that, but I don’t really know anymore.”
I back up and nearly trip over one of the high-backed upholstered visitor chairs.
“Christine. What on earth are you talking about?” Dad looks genuinely confused.
I fall back into the chair and begin to cry, pressing the sharp edges of the artichoke into my fingers. The pain feels good.
“Christine,” he says quietly, lowering himself into his chair. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” He holds his palms up in the air to show his innocence.
“Everyone at school is talking about how Ms. Moore is getting fired because she made some well-connected dad angry.” I steal a look at him and see what I’m saying dawning on him. “I heard her that day at the grocery store.”
“Oh.” His face reddens as he pulls at his tie.
“She’s the only who cared, and now she’s gone.” My voice cracks. I can’t face next year without her. I can’t face living in that town without her.
Dad gets up and comes around his desk. I try to wipe my eyes with my sleeves.
“Here, use this.” Dad grabs a box of tissues and holds it out to me. “Darla makes me keep them on hand.”
I take one quickly and wipe the tissue across my eyes, then look back down.
“Christine, in this line of work, I don’t hear a lot of truth.” He sits down in the other chair and puts his hand on my knee.
I take the artichoke from my lap and put it back on his desk, noticing that everything on it is freakishly neat and tidy. His pens are just so in a little cup, his papers stacked exactly on top of each other.
“What Ms. Moore did for me that day was really special. She, I . . .” His voice fails as he shakes his head. “You have to forgive me. Your mom was always so good at parenting that when she . . .” He takes a deep, raspy breath. “I didn’t know how.” He grips my knee so hard it almost hurts. “And I was messing it up horribly. Ms. Moore was right.”
I try to fight it, but a tear leaks down my cheek. I stare at the floor.
“I don’t want to lose you, Christine.” His voice is low. “You’re the most important thing in the world to me.”
I’ve been in this office dozens of times, but I never noticed the gray flecks in the maroon carpet before.
“Do you understand that?”
They’re very subtle, really, and tone it down just enough.
“Okay. You don’t have to respond.” He swallows and reaches out his hand to put the artichoke back into its exact spot. “That’s fine.”
I might have gone for a more bluish color, personally.
“Christine, what were you saying about Ms. Moore getting fired?”
I bite my lip. He sounds genuine. Is it possible he really doesn’t know? I look up slowly.
“It really wasn’t you?” My voice is high and squeaky.
“I don’t know what it is, but no. I promise you I didn’t do anything to Ms. Moore. I know how important she is to you.”
I blot the sides of my eyes carefully. “You do?”
“Christine . . .” Dad sighs. “I see things that you don’t think I see. We’re the same that way.” He smiles a little. “I know you feel a little protective of Zoe.” He clears his throat, then continues. “I know you look up to Riley, and there’s a lot more going on in her life than I hear about. I know Ana can drive you crazy, but she’s who you would call in a crisis.”
I laugh a little and blow my nose.
“And I know that Ms. Moore has been there for you in a way I couldn’t be.”
I nod.
“And she’s getting fired?”
“Maybe. No one knows for sure.”
Dad stands up and walks around his desk again. He sits down in front of his computer. “I wonder if I can help.” He moves his mouse and clicks furiously at his screen. “There it is. I’ve got the home number of the head of the school board.”
“Really?” I stand up and walk around the desk so I can see his screen.
“I can’t make any promises. Howard is a powerful person and a bit of a grump. But I will try to help Ms. Moore any way I can.”
My eyes start to well up with tears again, but I fight them back, and that’s when I see it. It must have been taken when I was in fifth grade. I reach out slowly and lift it off the desk.
We were at the Monterey Bay Aquarium. I remember that I was scared of the sharks, and Dad had to tap on the thick glass over and over to convince me they couldn’t get to me.
“I love that picture.” Dad smiles a little. I
squint at the faded photograph. Mom is gorgeous as always, even in her outdated clothes. It’s Dad and me who look different. He has his arm around her waist casually, and I’m hanging onto his hand like I never want to let go. We’re both beaming at the camera like we don’t have a care in the world.
I look back at him now and notice the crow’s feet around his eyes and the gray streaking his hair. I shake my head. It’s been a tough two years without her, but we’re still here.
“But you got rid of all the other pictures.”
Dad bites his lip. “I thought that was what you wanted.” He lets out his breath. “I thought that would make it easier for you.”
I shake my head. “No,” I say simply. “That’s not what I wanted.”
“I’m sorry.” He nods. “They’re all in the attic. I’ll get them down for you when I get home.”
I set the frame back in its spot carefully and notice the one next to it. It’s a snapshot of Dad and Candace from their cruise last summer. She’s sitting on his lap, and they’re laughing.
“Dad?” He glances up at me, and I force myself to ask the question, even though I don’t think I want to hear the answer. “Are you really going to marry Candace?”
43
It’s kind of scary how easy it is to find out where someone lives. I typed “Natalie Moore” and “Half Moon Bay” into Google, and five minutes later I’m on my way to her apartment. They even drew me a little map. I probably could have found out her blood type with a few more minutes of searching.
I check my directions again, then make a right turn into the entrance of an apartment complex on the north side of town. It’s one of the older complexes in town, with low buildings of graying wood surrounded by evergreens. I follow a sign to number 402, then pull into an empty space in front. I walk up the covered stairs to the little porch and knock on the door before I can change my mind.
Her eyes widen when she opens the door. She’s wearing jeans, a long-sleeve Brown University T-shirt, and red socks, and her hair is pulled back into a messy tuft of a ponytail. She looks thin, and there are dark circles under her eyes.
“Christine. You’re not supposed to be here.” I ignore her and step inside the apartment, then walk across the gray carpet into the living room and take a seat on the couch. I sink in a little. Most of the furniture looks secondhand, but it feels warm and comfortable in here. My eyes scan over the huge bookcases that take up most of the plain white living room walls.
“Who was it?”
“I can’t tell you that.” She pushes a lock of hair out of her eye and leans against the doorway to the kitchen.
“When are you coming back?” I gesture to the empty armchair next to the couch to indicate that she should sit.
“I don’t know.” She looks at me and lets out a sigh. “I was making dinner.” She points to a package of pasta and a pot on the stove behind her. “Would you like some?”
“No thanks.”
She shakes her head, goes to the stove to turn off the burner, then walks into the living room and takes a seat on the armchair.
“Your being here could get me in a lot of trouble.” She crosses her arms over her chest, but I see the hint of a smile on her lips. “But I was sort of hoping you’d stop by.”
“I don’t feel like getting my head shrunk today. I just needed to get out of my house. Candace has morphed into bridezilla, and I couldn’t take it anymore.” I try to affect an air of calm, but I’m panicking. I didn’t expect it to be so weird to be in a teacher’s house.
“Listen, Christine. We need to talk.”
“I can’t talk today. I’m only here to hang out.” I stand up, like maybe I’m about to leave.
“Sit down.” She rolls her eyes. “Not about that. I need to tell you something.”
I sink back into the couch cushions, but I can’t bring myself to look her in the eyes.
She pulls the sleeves of her shirt over her small hands. She looks like a college student when she’s not dressed up for work. “I wanted to tell you that there is a very real possibility that I won’t be back next year.”
“But—” My nose begins to prick. My dad’s going to stop this. It’s not going to happen. It can’t happen. A lump forms in my throat.
“Christine.” I never noticed before, but Ms. Moore’s hands are so tiny. “Just listen.”
I swallow hard, but the lump only inches forward. I can’t lose her. I think that might even be what I’m here to say. I’m not sure.
“I already talked to Mrs. Lovchuck.” A deep crease divides her forehead in half. “I’m afraid, against my protests, you’ll be reassigned to Mrs. Canning.”
“Uh-uh. No way.” In my first session with Mrs. Canning, she made me look at ink blots. For an hour straight I told her that every single one looked like Frank Sinatra, and she didn’t crack a smile even once. She just kept writing stuff down. The second session I had her in tears when I told her my mom was haunting me. She actually left the room and never came back.
“I know.” Ms. Moore gets off the chair, slides onto the couch next to me, and puts her arm around me. At first I want to shirk it off because I don’t like it when adults hug me, but as tears begin to sting my eyes I decide to let her arm stay. It makes it worse and better somehow. “I wish there was something I could do.”
I can’t look at her. It would be too strange. But I can’t move away. I can’t lose her.
“It was raining,” I say. I slowly lean back and stare at the carpet. She lets out a long breath. I wait, but she doesn’t say anything.
“I wanted to go to San Francisco to this cool thrift store in the Mission that I’d heard about, but she didn’t want to go. She thought I had enough clothes, but they were all . . . I don’t know. Too much like what everyone else was wearing.”
I see her nodding out of the corner of my eye.
“I wanted high school to be different. I was sick of being nerdy little Christine, the cello player. I was ready to be somebody. So I whined about it for weeks, and she finally took me.”
Ms. Moore pulls her legs under her on the couch, and I relax a little.
“But when we got there, she wouldn’t let me buy this shirt I wanted. It was too tight. And the pants I wanted had holes in the knees. So I got mad. And we were going to go out to lunch and stuff, but then I said let’s just go home because I was so sick of having her tell me what to do.” I pull at a thread on my T-shirt. “She was, you know, one of those involved parents, always telling me where to go, what to wear, who to hang out with.”
Ms. Moore waits while I take a deep breath.
“And she kept trying to talk about it on the way home, to explain why she was so determined to be involved in my life, how it was her job to protect me and stuff like that, but it just made me mad. I . . . wouldn’t answer her. I refused to wear my seat belt because I knew it would make her mad. I pretended she wasn’t there, and it’s horrible, but I kind of wished she wasn’t.”
I turn my head to look out the sliding door to Ms. Moore’s balcony, but the lights are on in the kitchen and all I can see is their reflection in the glass.
“So we were driving back home along Highway 1, hating life. She . . . she always drove old cars, boxy ones. She liked the shape better. We were on Devil’s Slide. She usually took it because of the view. And a car in the other lane, going the other way, started skidding. I guess it hit a puddle or something.” My breath catches, and I take a long inhale. “It started coming into our lane. She swerved to avoid it, and the brakes locked up, and we started to go over the edge.”
Ms. Moore sits perfectly still, as if she’s afraid moving will make me stop.
“We tumbled down the hill a little ways. I remember the car flipping over, but I don’t remember anything after that. Until I was standing there, outside the car.” I try to keep my voice even and steady, like I’m talking about someone else’s life. “I could see that the tree we hit stopped the car from going down the cliff into the ocean. I saw the glas
s all over the place. I figured out I went through the windshield, but nothing really made sense. I didn’t even have a scratch.” I hold out my arms. No scars.
“I was really confused and disoriented. I didn’t really understand how I got there, or what I was supposed to do. I tried to get her to wake up, but she wouldn’t move.” The image of Mother slumped over the steering wheel comes back to me. “The only thing I could think to do was go back up to the road and get help.”
Ms. Moore’s phone starts to ring, but she seems not to hear it.
“It took a while to climb back up to the road, and it wasn’t until I flagged down a car that I remembered her cell phone. Why didn’t I think to dig out her cell phone?”
Ms. Moore waits.
“The ambulance could have been there a lot sooner. I always wondered if it would have made a difference.”
“Christine, no. That’s not what—”
“I know. They say she died on impact. But how much can you really believe?” I shrug. “As we were sitting there, waiting for the ambulance, Dreamy didn’t ask any questions.”
Ms. Moore’s eyes go wide at the mention of Zoe’s mom, but I don’t stop to explain. “And she didn’t try to tell me everything would be okay. I remember that. I knew everything wasn’t going to be okay, and she didn’t try to pretend it would. But she did say something I’ll never forget. She said it was a miracle I survived, and God must have saved me for something special.”
Ms. Moore smiles. I wait, but she doesn’t say anything. Now that I’ve finally spilled my guts to her, she has nothing to say to me?
I scan the titles on her shelves so I won’t have to look at her. Wow. How many books did Steinbeck write exactly? I glance over at her, and she’s staring straight back at me.
“It doesn’t matter if I don’t come back next year,” she finally says. Her voice is low, and I have to strain to hear her. “You don’t need me anymore.”