Magnolia's Violet

by Rachael K Hannah

  Madison Linney was the kind of girl we had all looked up to—even though none of us was exactly sure why. Looking back, I can still remember the way Madison positioned her head whenever she was about to let someone have it. Tilted upward, slightly to the left. An ever-so-slight flare of a nostril punctuating each word as it caustically dripped from her mouth. I often wondered if Madison had practiced that face in front of the mirror, perfecting its every nuanced detail until even she quivered after seeing it.

  We were only twelve years old then, playing together, alone, in my family’s backyard. Trapped in day three of an unrelenting summer heat wave that seemed to grow more oppressive as each second passed. My skinny, adolescent girl legs were like two sweaty limp and lopsided twigs tethered haphazardly with twine—someone’s afterthought. Knees knocked together, always dotted some bruised shade of violet, scratched and scared from one accident-prone mishap or another.

  Because I had two left feet, Candace always said.

  “You don’t even have a housekeeper.” Madison accusatorily sneered, twirling a few honey-colored strands of hair around and around her middle finger. “Do you? My mom says that people who don’t have housekeepers are poor.”

  “We have a housekeeper,” I retorted, a little too defensively. Back then, I didn’t know much about what it meant to be poor; just that it was bad. Another fault of mine—my father always said I was too often playing defense, instead of offense. For the exception of my mother’s sister, Grace, who had moved to Wisconsin in favor of what she called middle class, midwestern values, everyone I knew from school and around town was rich. “Her name is Blanca,” I continued, “and she’s here every Wednesday. Blanca even helps Parker with his homework. He’s doing very well. Blanca says that one day, he’s going to be at our town’s school, just like us. She says Parker will be mainstreamed or included. She says they keep changing the term—”

  “Whatever you say, Katie. None of us have ever actually seen Bianca.”

  “Blanca. And yes, you have! She was here—”

  “Riiiight. Blanca.”

  None of us. In our school, hell, in our town, if Madison and her family didn’t claim to see it, then it did not exist. So much exponential power, we had allowed, to be wielded by a twelve-year-old girl.

  There was no point in responding, because no matter what I said—it would be wrong. I wasn’t even sure why Madison was at my house that day. Maybe she had gotten into a fight with her real friends—Ashley and Evangeline—and this visit was, in some way, her teaching them a lesson. That they had done her an unforgivable wrong, and now their punishment was abandonment while she wasted the afternoon with me. I wasn’t a kid who was bullied or outright ignored; I was normal. Normal, however, didn’t cut it when it came to Madison, Ashley, and Evangeline—in that order.

  Giving up, I looked away from Madison, my eye caught by a lone, rotting branch that rested beside the magnolia tree. Parker’s favorite tree. Pretending for a few moments that Madison was no longer there, I knelt beside the branch, and studied it, every decrepit ridge and crevice, with focused intensity. A lone robin fluttered down to perch onto one of the magnolia tree’s intact branches and peered down at me.

  “Don’t you have something to say to me?” Madison snarled, kicking a fresh clump of mulch to the side. Angered by my refusal to buy into her games any longer.

  “No,” I murmured, my eyes never leaving the bird. For whatever reason, an overwhelming sense of calm had taken over me, and I wasn’t about to clamor for Madison’s approval as she had come to expect. “You can believe me or not,” I said, matter-of-factly. “It’s up to you. So, when you think about it, it’s a stupid argument, to begin with. Whether someone has a housekeeper or a nanny or whatever. It’s not important, not to me.” I straightened up, proudly. “Please don’t kick the mulch around the rose bush.” I executed a flawless pirouette as if to punctuate my little demonstration in self-confidence. “This isn’t your home.”

  I must have struck a chord, because somewhere from within Madison’s twelve-year-old body, a guttural, piercing cry bellowed from her insides, escaped through cruel, twisted lips, and sliced through the humid air. At first, I thought she was going to charge right for me. Instead, to my utter horror, Madison grabbed onto a smooth stone randomly set in her path and viciously hurled it directly at that robin, causing the little bird to fall to the ground below.

  Instinctively, I threw out my arms, reaching as I cried in terror; by some miracle. I caught its small body, round like a little dumpling, with my own boney hands. I breathed a sigh of relief. Madison’s aim had been off, just enough, and seemed to have only clipped the tip of the robin’s wing. The robin chirped softly as I held her, tenderly, in my hands. From the looks of it, her wing hadn’t been damaged. More importantly, she was still alive.

  Letting out a cruel and vindictive laugh, Madison spat at me. “You are pathetic; you know that? It’s just a dumb bird. Your home is stupid, anyway. You don’t even have a pool. I’m leaving.” And with that, Madison spun on her heels and shot up our long driveway, like a frenzied hurricane. Thankfully, not once looking back.

  The robin sat still, allowing herself to trust me.

  “Don’t worry,” I whispered to the robin, cradling her gently in my hands. “I’m going to find a place for you if you don’t feel better. You can stay with me. I’ll take care of you,” I promised the little bird. “No one will hurt you now.”

  She then fluttered her little wings and flew off confidently into the summer sky.

  *

  “She’s supposed to take me, Katie. I don’t take the bus. I NEVER take the bus. The other kids never want me to sit next to them. They always laugh around me. I’m not sure why they’re laughing, but it’s always around me. Mom’s supposed to be up by now—”

  “Parker!” I snapped, my hand dangling precariously close to a hot skillet. Scrambling to flip pancakes while downing a mug of coffee, there seemed to be no respite from the balancing act. I’d have to race down to the train station, or risk being late for class. “I have to be at the station by nine. I wasn’t even supposed to stay in Connecticut all weekend—it never ends, here! Isn’t there a school bus you can take? Or a car service? Just this once?” What was it about food and this kitchen that always set my little brother off?

  “THAT’S NOT FAIR!” Parker howled as he paced up and down the kitchen floor, hands shoved deep inside his trouser pockets. “Mom takes me. She always takes me to school now. The bus is a DISASTER! She should be up by now. She was supposed to have made the pancakes by now. When Blanca’s not here, Mom makes pancakes.”

  I tossed four pancakes onto a plate and slid them down the counter in Parker’s direction. The thought of our mother doing anything domestic was utterly lost on me. I had never seen Candace crack open an egg, let alone whip up a bowl of batter. “Here! Just eat them! I need to catch the train. I’m not even dressed.”

  Parker froze in mid-pace and glanced down at the plate skeptically as if the pancakes were little ticking time bombs, ready to jump up and explode in his face at any second. Then he looked at me, almost as if he were trying to figure out what the “catch” was.

  “They’re good,” I insisted. “I make them all the time. Just trust me.” I dug into the fifth one, that was still on the skillet, and shoved half of it into my mouth. I overemphasized the action of chewing, while at the same time cursing myself silently as it burned the roof of my mouth. They were good, just hot. Thankfully Parker was too focused on the plate itself, to notice my eyes water, and was convinced.

  “Mom’s supposed to be up,” he repeated, now calm, reaching for the syrup and a fork. “She’s supposed to take me,” he stuffed his mouth, still talking between mouthfuls, “Mom is always up by now.”

  “Parker, I hear you, but—”

  “You’re not listening to me. Mom is supposed to be up by now.” Parker slathered the last remaining two pancakes with butter before cramming them down as well.

  “Park
er!” I leaned against the counter and poured myself a second cup of coffee. “I am listening to you. But what do you expect me to do about it? I have school, too. If you can give me a—DAMMIT! OWWW!” I cried out as my hand brushed the side of the skillet, burning my thumb instantly. The cup flew out of my hand and came crashing down to the floor, shattering to pieces.

  Parker gasped, earnestly surprised. He then ran over to assist me, but I promptly shooed him away. The very thought of him getting glass lodged into his hands, and another trip to the ER, was more than I could handle at that moment.

  “I got this, just… just eat your breakfast.” I swatted at him. “It’s my probl—” I winced as a shard of glass cleanly sliced my index finger.

  “You’re bleeding. You need to do something,” Parker insisted. “Here,” he threw me a dish towel. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I kept complaining. You need to put pressure on it, Katie. Press it. Really, really hard. I’m sorry, Katie. Is this my fault? Do you think you’ll need stitches?” He flopped to the ground beside me and wrapped the towel tightly around my injured finger, squeezing my finger with exceptional force.

  “Don’t worry, buddy,” I said. “I’ll get you to school. It’s not the end of the world if I miss one class. I’m getting Candace out of bed, regardless. I mean, this isn’t exactly what I’d call sleeping in, but if you say she’s usually up by now—”

  “No don’t; leave her alone. She does this sometimes. I was lying. Sometimes I do end up taking the bus. She oversleeps and doesn’t want to deal with me. I can take the bus. I don’t like to. No one wants me to sit next to them. They never do. It makes me feel like there’s something wrong with me. They make comments or ask me all sorts of questions, but I can’t tell if they’re nice because they’ll start laughing. But the laughter doesn’t sound funny. It sounds mean.”

  I had heard enough. I could afford to miss a class or two, making up the work was no trouble for me. However, things were different with Parker. There was no excuse. Candace didn’t work, or do anything that could be considered remotely productive for that matter. I needed to wake her up and get her out of that bed. Gripping the towel, I shot up and charged straight for the living room. “Parker, turn off the skillet for me. Will you?”

  “Got it. Hey, what are you doing, Katie? You’re still bleeding.”

  I was on a mission. Candace could fat shame me. Make all the disparaging comments she wanted to, at this point. Yes, they hurt. Deeply. But at least I was an adult. I could set boundaries. I could walk away. But Parker? No, Parker was still a kid. He needed his mother more than she needed time to lounge around the house, treating her so-called migraines. I stormed past the family room and marched right up the staircase, my feet pounding against each step harder as I ascended towards the second floor.

  “MOM!” I screamed on the top of my lungs, almost hoping that it was loud enough for the neighbors to hear. “GET UP, NOW!”

  Parker was quickly on my tail, scuttling nervously behind me. “Katie, you don’t have to yell. I’ll take the bus,” he insisted.

  I spun around wildly, the second I reached the top of the staircase, a little too quickly, nearly losing my footing. I clutched onto the rail to keep myself from falling over. “No. No, Parker, you will not take the bus if you don’t feel comfortable. I’m going to drive you… but Candace is going to get up. This has gone on long enough, and I’m about to do something about it. MOM!” I raged once again, stomping the full length of the hallway to her bedroom like an embittered, red-faced and angry child who was simply tired of always being alone and forgotten.

  Her door was shut.

  “Katie, are you sure?” Parker asked, apprehensively. He began to pace up and down the hallway

  I nodded, stubbornly set on my mission. “WAKE UP, MOM!” I latched onto the doorknob, shaking and twisting it forcefully, blood smearing the handle as I swung the door wide open. “MO—”

  She lay in her bed. Peaceful and calm. Unmoving.

  I stood frozen in the doorway.

  Parker timidly inched up quietly behind me, peering over my shoulder. “Is she… is she asleep?”

  “Mom?” I whispered. The dish towel slipped to the floor as I instinctively grasped onto my bleeding finger with my other hand—which had begun to tremble. My heart tapped more and more fervently against my chest, until the taps transformed into a frantic pounding, its chaotic rhythm washed over my entire body, too fast for my breath to catch up with it. My breath. My breath felt as if sealed shut within a deep, dark cavern with no exit. Its walls were closing in. Everything inside of me screamed to go forward, to walk right up to that bed, but I couldn’t.

  My legs remained locked. Frozen.

  Chapter Eight

  Sage

  “Kat—Katie, please! You need to calm down. Start from the beginning. What happened?” I shouted into the phone as I kept it pinned between my ear and shoulder. Charging up the subway staircase, holding coffee in one hand and a hefty, half-eaten sesame seed bagel in the other, I could feel a sticky wad of cream cheese smushed against the corner of my mouth, like a big chunk of glue stick. I was already running late to my first day as a substitute teacher, but once above ground, I’d seen that I had missed a total of seven calls from Kat—not even counting a barrage of texts.

  “We’re at the hospital now… it’s Candace… my mom… we just found her… an overdose… she’s going to make it, but the doctors have her on suicide watch, Sage. Suicide watch! And they might not even release her, even though I know it’s accidental. Sage, Candace—my mom—she’s a lot of things. But she didn’t do this on purpose. I know she didn’t.”

  I wanted to say, “Of course she didn’t mean it—your mother is a stone-cold narcissist and wouldn’t actually hurt herself unless it was some sort of selfish ploy.” But I figured that was the last thing Kat needed to hear, despite their less-than-Norman Rockwell-esque relationship.

  Standing at the edge of the sidewalk, I looked back and forth between the street signs, quickly determining which way was east.

  Unfortunately, I had finally relented to Mom’s nonstop bickering about finding a real job, and had booked a substitute teaching gig with that Tinsley Prep school she wouldn’t stop talking about. The thought of landing a math leave replacement teacher position was far less appealing than, say, every possible thing currently going on in my life—including the sesame seed bagel.

  Just hearing the unmistakable fear in Kat’s voice made me want to turn around that very instant and hop back on the subway to 42nd street, so I could catch the next northbound New Haven line.

  “Kat, I am so sorry this is happening—”

  “Oh wait. You’re on your way to the school, aren’t you? It’s your first day! Crap, I can hear all the traffic in the background. I don’t want to keep you.”

  “Well, yeah. Though to be frank, Kat, I’m not interested in this position at all. I’d rather see you and Parker—especially if it’ll help.”

  Poor Parker. I could only imagine what he was going through. How much did he understand?

  “You better get there on time. Believe me, Parker and I are going to be at the hospital, whether we want to or not. You’ll catch up with us eventually. Sage, this can’t be happening. It just can’t.”

  I could hear the sound of hesitation in her voice, and I was stumped. Should I call Farrah, Dane, and some of Kat’s friends from school? But what about this job? To say that I was less than enthusiastic about being a teacher would be a gross understatement. Not only did I have next to zero interest in the job, but there were most definitely other candidates who were actually qualified that could run circles around my sorry poser self. What was the point of following through with any of this if it was just another waste of everyone’s time?

  “Are you sure?” I asked, my own voice quivering with concern. Whether Kat’s mom had intended to hurt herself or not, the next few weeks were going to be nothing short of an emotional rollercoaster for Kat and Parker. I knew too well from my own
unfortunate experiences with the mental health sector.

  “I am sure. You have to it make there, Sage. You can’t call out on the first day. We’ll be at the hospital when you’re done.”

  “As long as you’re certain. If you want, I can text anyone you want. Make sure someone gets up there to help you.” Farrah could most definitely sneak away from the art gallery if she made up some excuse related to the parents. As for Dane—not so much. Jorie wouldn’t be so reasonable.

  “I am certain, and I’ll get the word out once we’re settled here. Don’t worry about me—worry about your first day. Good luck, girl.”

  “Thanks, Kat. Same to you.”

  I dropped the phone into the pocket of my handbag and continued east.

  *

  Tinsley Preparatory was, if you could believe it, a renovated building whose roots dated back to the 17th century. A sister school to one of the city’s oldest preparatory schools, Holden, Tinsley must have had a graduating class of no more than sixty students consisting of some of the city’s wealthiest socialites-to-be. It had a reputation that was nearly impossible to contend with, and I couldn’t help but feel like a complete fraud as I stood outside the building, gathering the chutzpah to actually go inside and pose as a competent woman who had a full handle on adulting.

  It had only been a week ago when I first timidly walked up the stairs and rang the doorbell, and was surprised by how quickly I was let in. As I signed my name in the guest registry that morning, I found my eyes wandering over toward a bench where four young women, all about the same age as me, if not perhaps a year or two older, were waiting, backs fully erect, for their chances to interview for the private school position of a lifetime.

  It wasn’t even a tenure-track position, I had thought to myself as I sheepishly joined them on the bench. The head teacher would return to her post from maternity leave by the end of the school year, and yet each woman sat there, anxiously hoping this job could be that foot-in-the-door opportunity that could edge her just a little bit closer to the coveted full-time career she so craved. These were women who—when asked as children—what they wanted to be when they grew up, confidently answered: a teacher. That wasn’t me.