I drop my pencil and stare at the phone. Dr. Taylor genuinely cares about me. I’m not just the teacher of his patient. I listen a second time, just to hear his voice, and I catch myself smiling for the first time in days. I dial his number, hoping he’s an early bird, too.
He is.
“Happy New Year, Garrett. It’s Brett. I just got your message.”
“Hey! Well, I just … I wasn’t sure if …”
He sounds embarrassed, and I smile. “Thank you. I really appreciate it. How were your holidays?”
He tells me he spent Christmas with his sisters and their families. “We had dinner at my niece’s house in Pennsylvania.”
“Your niece’s house?” I’m thrown off for a moment. But of course, unlike baby Emma, his niece is an adult, maybe even my age. “How nice.”
“Melissa’s my oldest sister’s daughter. Hard to imagine she has two kids in high school now.” He pauses for a moment. “How were your holidays?”
“Lucky for you I didn’t get your message until today. If I’d had your number, it would have been programmed to speed dial.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Yeah. That bad.”
“My first patient doesn’t arrive until nine. Do you want to talk about it?”
I spare him the details about starting my period on Christmas Day and the humiliating episode with Brad, but I give him a snapshot of my holidays—the mourning of my mother, my futile search for an apartment, and Sanquita’s doctor’s appointment. It goes without saying he’s an excellent listener. He is, after all, a shrink. But this doctor who specializes in mental illness makes me feel like I’m normal, not like some psycho-freak bordering on dysfunction, the way I sometimes feel. He even has me laughing … until he asks if I’ve heard anything from my father.
“As a matter of fact, he called Christmas Day. He has another daughter,” I blurt out. “Someone he knows and adores. He’s not nearly as anxious to meet me as I am to meet him.” The minute I’ve uttered the words, I regret it. I shouldn’t be jealous of my sister. She’s not feeling well. I should be more understanding.
“You haven’t made plans to meet?”
“No.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Zoë’s got a cold. He doesn’t want her to travel, and he doesn’t want to expose her to any germs I might carry.”
“And that feels like rejection to you.” His voice is soft and kind.
“Yes,” I whisper. “I thought he’d catch the first flight to Chicago. Maybe he doesn’t want to upset Zoë by bringing me into the fold. Who knows? I feel so selfish, but I’ve waited so long. I just want to know him—and Zoë, too. She’s my sister.”
“Of course you do.”
“I feel like … like I’m some gift I gave my father, but it’s a gift he didn’t need after all. I gave him a duplicate, and he’s crazy about the original.” I squeeze shut my eyes. “The simple fact is, I’m jealous of Zoë. I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but I do.”
“There are no shoulds when it comes to our feelings. They are what they are.” His voice is a cool washcloth on my fevered forehead. “It must feel as if your father is protecting your sister, but not you.”
I start to choke up and fan my face. “Um-hmm.” I glance at the clock. “Oh, my gosh. It’s eight thirty. I need to let you go.”
“Brett, your feelings are normal. Like every healthy person, you crave a relationship where you feel nurtured, protected, cared for. And you had great expectations that your father would fill those needs. And maybe he will. But those needs can be met in other ways, too.”
“Is this where you prescribe Xanax or Valium or something?”
He chuckles. “No. You don’t need meds. You just need more love in your life—be it from your father, or from a lover, or from another source, perhaps yourself even. What’s lacking is a basic human need. Believe it or not, you’re one of the lucky ones—you admit you need it. There are a whole lot of unhappy folks out there who’ve stuffed away their needs. Seeking love creates vulnerability. Only healthy people can allow themselves to be vulnerable.”
“I don’t feel so healthy at the moment, but since you’re the expert, I’ll take your word for it.” I glance at my calendar and see that I have a nine fifteen appointment with Amina. “I really have to go, and so do you. But thank you for the session. Am I going to get some big fat bill at the end of my treatments?”
He laughs. “Maybe. Or maybe I’ll just make you treat me to lunch one day.”
I’m caught off-guard. Is Dr. Taylor hitting on me? Hmm. I’ve never dated an older man. But I must admit, I’m not exactly a dating tour de force with men in my age bracket. Could Garrett be the Michael Douglas to my Catherine Zeta-Jones? The Spencer Tracy to my Katharine Hepburn? My mind races for something clever to say, something light but substantial that will imply the door is open—even if only a crack.
But I’ve waited too long.
“Get to work,” he says, more business-like than usual. “Please, call me after your next session with Peter, will you?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
I want to get back to the topic of lunch, but he’s already saying good-bye, and next thing I know we’re disconnected.
Literally and figuratively.
All day long, a fine mist sprinkles the city like holy water, and now the temperatures are falling, creating havoc with traffic. As usual, I’ve scheduled Peter’s session last, knowing he has the power to ruin even my best day.
Today’s session is no different from the others. As usual, he refuses eye contact and grunts his answers through clenched teeth. Still, I can’t help but feel sorry for him, a bright child cooped up all day long in this smoke-filled house. As we finish our session, I pull a stack of books from my satchel.
“I was at the bookstore the other day, Peter. I thought you might like something to read, you know, to keep your mind busy.” I look up at him, hoping to see a flash of anticipation or excitement on his face. But he simply stares down at the table in front of him.
I pull my favorite from the stack. “I know you like history. This book is about children of the Dust Bowl.” I reach for another. “And this one tells all about Lewis and Clark’s expedition.”
I’m about to choose another when he yanks the books from my grasp.
I smile. “That’s right. Take them. They’re yours.”
He lifts the entire stack and holds them protectively to his chest.
My heart sings. It’s the first time our session has ended positively.
It’s still drizzling when I creep down the porch steps. I grip the iron rail, noting the coat of slush on the cement steps. My feet have reached the driveway when I hear the door open behind me.
I turn around. Peter stands on the porch in the rain, cradling his new books in his arms. He stares at me, and I wonder if he wants to thank me. I wait a moment, but he doesn’t say anything. He probably feels embarrassed. I wave and turn back toward my car. “Enjoy your books, Peter.”
A loud smacking sound startles me, and I spin around. Peter stands watching me with an evil grin on his face. The brand new books are splayed on the porch, soaking up the sloppy wet puddles.
I unlock the door to my office, toss my wet bag on the floor, and rush to the telephone. It rings four times before he picks up.
“Garrett, it’s Brett. Do you have a minute?”
My voice is still shaking when I describe Peter’s cruel reaction to the books.
I hear him sigh. “I’m so sorry about this. I’ll make some phone calls tomorrow. His behavior at home is escalating. It’s time we found another placement for Peter.”
“Another placement?”
“Homebound isn’t the answer for this kid. Cook County has a first-rate program for mentally ill teens. New Pathways. The student-to-staff ratio is two-to-one, and students receive intensive therapy twice daily. Peter’s a tad young, but I’m hoping they’ll make an exception.”
I’m at once relieved and disappointed. Peter may
soon be off my caseload. But it feels like I’m abandoning a mission, like I’m walking out on a play just before the ending. And who knows? Perhaps the ending would have been redeeming.
“Maybe he just thought those books were silly, or insulting,” I say. “Maybe he was offended that I’d bought him presents, like he was a charity case.”
“This has nothing to do with you, Brett. He’s not your typical kid. I’m afraid you’re not going to win him over, no matter how hard you try. He wants to hurt you. So far it’s just emotional pain, but it concerns me that it could get worse.”
I remember Peter’s grin, cold and heartless. A shiver goes through me.
“I’ve frightened you, haven’t I?”
“I’m fine.” I gaze out at the dreary street below. I’d planned to stay here all evening, until my nine o’clock shift at Joshua House. But my cozy office suddenly feels isolated and ominous.
“Remember that lunch you mentioned earlier?”
Garrett hesitates. “Yes.”
I take a deep breath and squeeze shut my eyes. “Would you want to meet for coffee, now? Or maybe a drink?”
I hold my breath while I wait for his answer. When he speaks, I think I hear a smile in his voice. “I’d love to meet for a drink.”
Traffic is horrendous, as I knew it would be. Rather than the trendy places Andrew and I used to frequent, I choose Petterino’s, a forties-style bar and restaurant near the Loop, where I think Garrett will feel comfortable. But it’s five forty and I’m still on the South Side, miles from the theater district. I’ll never make it by six. Why did I delete his message this morning before jotting down his cell phone number?
When my phone rings, I assume it’s him, telling me he’s stuck in traffic, too. But it can’t be. He doesn’t have my cell phone number, either.
“This is Jean Anderson from Joshua House. You’re expected to be here at nine, but I need you to come early.”
My hackles rise. What is it with this woman, thinking she can order me around? “Sorry, I’ve got plans. I could probably be there around eight, but I can’t promise.”
“It’s Sanquita. She’s bleeding.”
I toss my phone onto the passenger seat and whip a U-turn. Two cars blast their horns at me, but I ignore them. All I can think of is that girl with the hazelnut eyes and the baby she’s willing to die for.
“Don’t let the baby die,” I pray aloud, over and over until I reach the center.
Jean jumps from her white Chevrolet when I pull up to the curb. She trots over to meet me as I race up the driveway.
“I’m taking her to Cook County Memorial,” she says. “I’ve left a note with all the instructions for tonight.”
I reach the car and open the back door. Sanquita lies in the backseat, massaging her belly. Her bloated face glistens with sweat, but she smiles when she sees me. I squeeze her hand.
“Hang in there, sweetie.”
“You coming back tomorrow? I gotta take those exams.”
Despite all she’s going through, she’s still determined to finish school. I swallow the lump in my throat. “Whenever you’re ready. Don’t you worry. Your teachers will understand.”
Her eyes implore mine. “Pray for my baby, Miss Brett.”
I nod and close the car door. As the car pulls away, I say another prayer.
I find Jean’s note in the office, along with details of a feud that’s brewing between two of the guests. She’s hoping I can mediate, if time allows. But before I do anything, I need to call Petterino’s and page Garrett. I’m searching the desk for a phone directory when I hear shouting from the TV room. I leap from my chair, throw open the office door, and step into a battlefield.
“You got no business gettin’ in my shit!” Julonia screams, her face crimson. She’s inches from Tanya’s face, but Tanya’s not backing down.
“I told you, I ain’t been in your drawer. Get a life.”
“Calm down, ladies,” I say, but my voice is shaking. “Just stop right now.”
Like my students at Douglas Keyes, they pay no heed. Guests scurry in from other rooms to watch the spectacle.
“I got me a life!” Julonia says, her hands on her hips. “I don’t gotta steal other people’s money! I got me a job, unlike you, who do nothing ’cept sit on yo fat ass all day.”
A collective “Oooh” goes out from the spectators. In the background Judge Judy gives someone a severe reprimand on television. I try to channel her authority.
“Ladies, stop!”
Tanya starts to walk away, then backs up a step. With the agility of an acrobat, she pivots and drives her fist into Julonia’s jaw. Momentarily stunned, Julonia dabs at her mouth. When she lowers her hand, she sees blood on her fingers.
“Bitch!” She grabs a fistful of Tanya’s hair and yanks. A chunk of Tanya’s weave falls to the carpet.
Tanya screams obscenities and lunges for her. Lucky for me, Mercedes grabs Tanya from behind. I seize Julonia’s arm and, with a strength that stuns me, pull her into the office. I kick shut the door and lock it behind us with trembling hands. Julonia curses and the veins in her forehead bulge, but at least she’s contained. From beyond the door I hear Tanya, still hollering, but her voice is losing its fire. I drop onto the desktop and point to the bed.
“Sit down,” I say, and draw in a ragged breath.
Julonia perches on the edge of the bed, raking her teeth over her bottom lip and clenching her fists. “She stole my money, Ms. Brett. I know she did.”
“How much are we talking?”
“Seven dollars.”
“Seven dollars?” I’d assumed it was hundreds, judging by the fury. Once again, I’m humbled. To someone who has nothing, seven dollars is their fortune. “What makes you think Tanya took it?”
“She the only one who know where I keep my cheddar.”
I look at her blankly.
“My bills. My money.”
“Oh. Well, maybe you spent it and forgot. That happens to me all the time. I open my wallet and think money’s missing, but when I really stop and backtrack, I realize I just spent it.”
She cocks her head at me and scowls. “Uh-uh. That don’t happen with me.” She lifts her face to the ceiling and blinks quickly. “I was gon’ buy Myanna a new book bag. Hers be all tore up. They got one at the Walmart cost fourteen dollar. I be halfway there ’fore that lazy ho stole it from me.”
My heart breaks for her. I want to open my wallet and give her all I have, but that’s against the rules. “I tell you what. I’m going to find you a little safe. I’ll drop it off tomorrow. That way nobody can take your cheddar.”
She smiles at me. “That’d be straight. But that still don’t bring me back my money. You got any idea how long it took me to save up seven bills?”
No, I don’t. For reasons I cannot explain or possibly justify, I was dealt a lucky hand, a hand that included love and money and education. I’m flooded with guilt and gratitude, humility and heartbreak.
“This book bag you’re looking at, what color is it?”
“She want the purple one.”
“And it’s from Walmart, in the kids’ department?”
“That right.”
“Julonia, I think I’ve got that very book bag. I bought it for my niece, but she already had one. It’s never been used. Would you like it?”
She studies me, as if deciding whether I’m telling the truth. “The purple one?”
“Uh-huh.”
Her face blooms. “That’d be real nice. Right now Myanna be carrying her books in a plastic bag. She need her a book bag.”
“Okay then, I’ll bring it tomorrow.”
“The safe-bank, too?”
“Yes, the safe-bank, too.”
I sit at the desk and massage my temples. Finally, I find the strength to retrieve an incident report and begin to fill it out. Date: January 5. Time: I look at the clock and start to write seven fifteen. Then I drop my pencil. “No!” I fling open the desk drawer and yank out the tel
ephone book, scanning it as quickly as I can. Finally, I find the number to Petterino’s.
“Hello,” I say to the maître d’. “I was supposed to meet a friend tonight. I’m hoping he’s still there. Dr. Garrett Taylor. He’s a gentleman …” It occurs to me, I have no way to identify Garrett. “He’s alone.”
“Might you be Ms. Bohlinger?”
I laugh, relief pouring over me. “Yes. Yes, I am. Could I please speak with him?”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Bohlinger. Dr. Taylor left five minutes ago.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I call the hospital nearly every hour. By three A.M., Miss Jean assures me that Sanquita will be fine. The next morning, I’m loading breakfast bowls into the dishwasher when I hear her car pull into the drive. I dash from the kitchen. Before the ignition’s off, I throw open the car door. Sanquita lies slumped in the backseat, her head propped against the window.
“Hello, sweet pea. How are you feeling this morning?”
Dark circles shadow her glassy eyes. “They give me some medicine to stop the contractions.”
With her arms draped around our necks, Jean and I hoist Sanquita up the porch steps and into the house. When we reach the stairs, I lift Sanquita into my arms. She feels lighter than Rudy. I take her to her room and lay her on her bed.
“I gotta take my exams,” she mumbles.
“We’ll worry about those later. Get some sleep now.” I kiss her forehead and turn out the lamp. “I’ll be back later to check on you.”
When we reach the bottom of the stairs, Jean pulls off her head scarf, setting free a bonnet of black curls.
“I’ve tried to reach her mother all night, but her phone’s out of service,” she says. “That poor girl’s all alone.”
“I can stay with her.”
She removes her boots and slips into a pair of practical black pumps. “Don’t you have other students?”
The Life List Page 19