“I can find my way, thank you.”
“Well, we can at least walk together.” They entered the elevator side by side, and Sarah’s heart began to race as the door closed. They rode downward in silence—a ride that Sarah feared would never end. As the door opened, Cassie threw her a triumphant glance and gestured for her to exit first. Sarah walked as fast as she could, the girl matching her every step. Neither of them attempted a conversation. When they reached the door of the administration building, Cassie spoke one last time. “I’ll leave you here, but I’m sure we’ll meet again . . . soon.”
Was it a wish? A prophesy? A threat? Sarah couldn’t be sure.
Chapter Four
Adjustments
Friday–Saturday, August 15–16, 2008
Sarah sighed with relief when she saw that Martha Wright was standing just on the other side of the door. Martha pushed the door open for her and smiled in welcome. “I was just coming to see if you had gotten lost,” she explained. “But now I understand why you were late. You’ve met our Cassie.”
“Who is she?”
“Our perpetual—no, our revolving-door—student. She comes and goes—gets in over her head and runs away, then comes back and tries again. Did she waylay you?”
"I wouldn't call it that.” Sarah described the office visit, hoping she didn’t sound too paranoid and frightened. “I don’t know what she wanted. But what do you mean by her comings and goings? She gave me the impression she was a regular student here.”
“Oh, she is—at least for the moment. Let me give you the short version of her story. She came to us from a very isolated and dysfunctional family living off the beaten path deep in the mountains. In her freshman year, she did well for a few weeks—charmed everyone with her eagerness and enthusiasm. Then came her first exam, and we learned that she couldn’t read. There were a few words she recognized—enough to fill out a form—but she had never been to school. She taught herself the alphabet basics from an old McGuffey’s Reader she found in someone’s trash. She relied on a phenomenal memory, and if someone had read her the exam questions, she could have answered them. But she couldn’t read the questions for herself or write the answers even though she knew them. We refunded her tuition and sent her on her way.
“A year later she was back. She had gone to night school for English as a Second Language, and with the help of the ESL teachers, she had become a skilled reader. She passed three semesters and then fell in love with a fanatical street-corner preacher. They married in a ceremony he conducted himself, and she quit school to become a full-time wife. When she got bored with passing out sandwiches to homeless people to bribe them into listening to one of her husband’s interminable sermons about the evils of the world, she came back to us. Then she got pregnant and quit school again to be a full-time mother. That didn’t last long, either. She tired of dirty diapers and pablum, and back she came. This past May, she graduated with a rather non-focused B.A. in Liberal Arts. But she went straight from graduation to the registrar to apply for grad school. I think she’s terrified of the outside world. We’ve become her shelter from a drunken father, a zealot husband, and a whiny kid. We’re all she has, and she depends on us—demands much of our attention and clings to her student role—because she has nowhere else to go from here.”
“What a tragic story! It sounds like she needs more individual attention than higher education can offer her. Could a mental health facility, a psychologist, a career counselor be helpful?”
“They could be—and have been—but she won’t go anywhere else. She seems to think she can make herself indispensable here.”
“That throws a different light on what happened in my office, but I don’t know how to act from here on. Do I encourage her, push her away, try to redirect her focus onto someone else—what?”
“I think you must treat her as you would any other student, offering no more or no less than general instruction and encouragement. If she succeeds in grad school—and she just may surprise us all—that will be a satisfactory conclusion. If she fails, well, the revolving door will wait again. That may not be the answer you were looking for, but it’s all I can offer.”
“It sounds to me like one of those Greek tragedies, where you can see a disastrous ending coming, but there’s no way to stop it.”
“Perhaps so, but don’t make Cassie the focus of your own career. She’s not your problem. She’s our responsibility, all of us who have encouraged her and abetted her so far—and that includes your department chair who seems to favor her—at least as much as he ever does.”
“That complicates things, doesn’t it?”
“It doesn’t need to. If she causes you a problem, take it to him. He’ll be willing to help. Now, go home. You’ve had a busy day. Go cuddle your little cat and get a good night’s sleep. And tomorrow, enjoy getting to know your new apartment.”
The thought of a little cat who needed a cuddle appealed to Sarah, but only until she unlocked the door to her motel room. From floor to the tops of furniture, toilet paper dangled from every surface. The trail led back to the bathroom where Sarah soon spotted the problem. The maid had inserted the paper roll so that it unrolled from the top down, which made it possible for the cat to spin it and unravel it into irresistible heaps of paper streamers. First things first. She put down the pizza box she had been carrying and reinserted the roll to unwind from the bottom. Now, if Elijah pawed at it, it would wind itself back up.
She tried to look stern as she confronted the cat, but giggles got the best of her. “Oh, you’ve been a bad cat, but I needed the laugh. I guess you were just bored, being left in here all day by yourself. Or did you break open that stuffed mouse and have yourself a little catnip party? No, no. Don’t help. The room may look like fun to you, but I need to pick this up and trash it. You can wait for your supper until I’ve finished. And quit eyeing that pizza box. That’s my dinner.”
Sarah slept little despite being tired. She tossed and turned so often that Elijah left the bed to sleep on the floor. When she closed her eyes, dreams assailed her. She was wandering the campus, lost and unable to find her office. Sometimes the elevator stopped between floors. At other times, a strange woman followed her everywhere. Even the football players made an occasional appearance, shifting her books around so she couldn’t find the one she was looking for. By the time the first rays of sunlight pushed through the crack in the drapes, she got up. It was time to check out her new apartment.
At the Riverside Gardens apartment complex, she located a parking slot on the street and headed for the gated entry. A sleepy-looking guard came out to ask her business, checked his list, nodded as if she had just won a prize, and then held the iron gate open for her to pass through. “Maude Davis is the apartment complex manager, first door on your right. She’ll show you around. And welcome to Riverside Gardens, Miss Chomsky.”
Maude turned out to be another motherly looking woman. She shook Sarah’s hand, pulled a key off the board above her desk, and picked up a brown paper bag. “This is your welcome gift. I’ll explain it when we get to your door. You’re in 6A, which puts you just about in the middle of the garden. Come this way.”
“The building is in the shape of a quad, isn’t it? It reminds me of the college—an open space with buildings on all four sides. Except, this isn’t an open space. Your flower beds are beautiful. Do you keep them up yourself?”
“Ah, no, love. We have a gardener for that. He’s talented and possessive of his plants. And that reminds me. You have a cat, if I remember?”
“Yes, ma’am, but he’s well-behaved.”
“I’m sure he is, but never allow him out on his own. Nothing enrages our gardener more than discovering that a cat has been digging in one of his beds.
“And here we are. 6A. I’ll let you unlock the door, but first, here’s your welcome gift. We’re a little superstitious around here. At least, I am. My mother always told me that when you move into a new place, three things need to cross the
threshold before you do. First comes a broom. That represents a promise that your house will always be clean. Then we have a loaf of bread. This one is a French baguette because there’s a fantastic bakery around the corner. The bread guarantees you’ll always have enough to eat. And a salt shaker makes sure your life has lots of flavor. You hold them out in front of you as you go through the door. Take them straight back to the kitchen, and their good vibes will cover the whole apartment.”
Sarah found the custom charming. She had some difficulty holding the broom and the long baguette while she turned the key, but she got the door open. She held the gifts in front of her as instructed and marched down the hall toward a back door. Only then did she look around.
Maude was already talking and pointing out the apartment’s amenities. “I assume the college explained our policy. We provide all appliances and keep them in good working order. You have a four-burner stove with microwave above, a garbage disposal in the sink, dishwasher under the counter, and a side-by-side refrigerator-freezer. A stacked washer and drier are in the bathroom. The kitchen island is a convenient catch-all, although if you want to sit at it to eat sometimes, you must provide your own stools.
“As for furniture, we provide the basics—the heavy pieces—a table and four chairs, a couch, loveseat, and wall-mounted television in the living area, and a queen-sized bed, frame, and headboard. The mattress is new. Along the wall in the bedroom and dining areas, you’ll find built-in countertops with storage drawers below. Again, you can add whatever you like. Small end tables, lamps, rugs, chairs—those things are up to you. The windows have Venetian blinds, and you can add curtains. Oh, and as for the kitchen, the cupboards are empty. You’ll provide your own glasses, silverware, china, cooking utensils, and such. Clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Then I just need you to sign this form acknowledging that all our promised pieces were in place when you accepted the keys to the apartment. Now I’ll get out of your hair and let you explore on your own. The movers come Monday, right? Let them use the back door. Everyone uses the same company, so they’ll know where to go and where to park. Enjoy your new home.”
Sarah poked around a bit, peering behind doors and locating cable and telephone connections, but the newness overwhelmed her. She sat on the loveseat and leaned back to rest her head. She was still staring at the ceiling when she heard a soft tap at the front door. Assuming it was Maude again, coming to mention something she had forgotten, she called out, “It’s open. Come on in.” Too late, she realized the danger in doing that here in a strange town.
A tall, thin woman of about her own age hesitated in the doorway. “Hello? We haven’t met, but I’m Ginny from next door. I saw you arrive all alone and thought you might need a helping hand.”
“How kind of you. I’m Sarah, the new tenant. Ginny, you said?”
“Yes. Virginia Davidson, girl lawyer, depending upon my next go-round with passing the bar.”
“And I’m Doctor Sarah Chomsky, girl assistant professor at the college, at least through a third-year review. It sounds like we may have much in common. And you’re right. I need help!”
“Starting with a word of advice not to leave your door unlocked or invite people inside, sight unseen. I’ve never been in danger here, but one never knows.”
“Oh, I realized that the moment I spoke. Thanks for reminding me.”
“Now, what can I help you handle?”
“Life?” Sarah laughed at herself. “I was just sitting here thinking I’m thirty years old, and I’ve never moved. I lived in the same house my entire life. Oh, except for my undergraduate years, but even that wasn’t a real move. All I needed to take to Boston were my clothes and a few supplies. Everything else came with the dorm, and my mother ran that show. And when I got into Columbia for grad school, I knew I couldn’t afford a New York apartment, so back I went to my parents’ house in Brooklyn. A move? I don’t know where to start.”
“I can help there,” Ginny said. “I was a military brat. We moved every couple of years, sometimes more often than that. My mother used to say she didn’t know how to clean a house because by the time our quarters got dirty we were on our way somewhere else. We had a regular system going, and I’ve used it ever since. The details will swamp you for the first few days, but I’ll give you some lists to simplify matters. Are your movers coming this afternoon?”
“No, not until Monday.”
“And you have nothing with you except a suitcase, right?”
“Well that and Elijah. I think I packed more stuff for him than for myself.”
“Elijah? Who . . .?”
“Elijah the Cat.”
“You brought a cat with you? Oh, we will be such good friends. I love cats. Where is he now?”
“Back at the Hampton, with a ‘Beware of Cat’ sign on the door to keep the maids out.”
“Well, he must be easy enough to handle. You got him this far, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, he’s a good little traveling companion.”
“You present some bigger problems. But we’ll start with the basics—what you need so you can get out of the motel tomorrow and into the apartment. You need the ability to wash, eat, and sleep. So, for less than it will cost you to spend another night in the motel, you can take care of those needs. Here’s what I recommend. Go to the local superstore that carries everything. And keep in mind that you don’t want to buy something tomorrow that will arrive on your moving truck on Monday.”
“That sounds like a reasonable statement—if I knew what was on that truck.”
“How can you not know?”
“Because I didn’t do the packing. My mother did.”
“Oh.” Ginny gaped at that statement.
“I know how that sounds, but I’m not that incompetent. Here’s what happened. A year ago, I committed to giving a major speech at an academic conference in Paris. The problem was, the dates for my travel included the two weeks before I needed to be here in Birch Falls. My first thought was that I would have to cancel going to the conference, but both my doctoral advisor and my family urged me to go. I had already made all my reservations, and Columbia was financing my whole trip because I would represent them. My parents argued that they could take care of doing my packing and sending the moving truck on its way.
“I went to Paris, and my mother took over the rest of my life, which she loves to do. She even invited all her friends and family to an apartment-warming shower for me while I was away. Then she packed up everything, labeled all the gifts so I would know who to thank, and told me not to worry. I would have what I needed when I got here. I flew back to New York, had one jet-lagged day to get my car ready and pack the cat’s things, and then I was on my way here. I don’t have a clue what’s on that truck.”
“Oh, but you must. The moving company will have provided a complete list of what they loaded, so you can check everything off as it arrives on Monday. You have the inventory, don’t you?”
“I—I don’t know. Maybe. Mother gave me an envelope of moving stuff but I never looked into it.”
“OMG! Where’s that envelope?”
“In my suitcase back at the motel.”
“Well, that’s where you’d better go first. Find the inventory and read it. If you don’t have it, you must get it somehow—maybe call your mother and have her FedEx it to you overnight.”
“The best I can do is try. But you were about to tell me what to buy first.”
“You’re looking for cheap stuff, just enough to carry you through the chaos. For the bathroom, pick up a roll of toilet paper, a bar of soap, a towel, and a washcloth. Then head for bedding. You will need a queen-size mattress pad, a set of sheets, a blanket, and two soft pillows—one for you and one for the cat. If you can wash your face and crawl into bed here tomorrow night, you’ll feel better. For the kitchen, look for disposables and cold foods. You don’t want to be washing dishes or trying to cook before you have your own things in order. Buy a packag
e of paper plates, some hot and cold paper cups, a few plastic eating utensils, and a roll of paper towels that can do everything from heating food in your microwave to wiping your chin.
“At the grocery, indulge your inner child. You have the perfect excuse for eating junk food. Pick up breakfast—maybe a carton of milk and a jug of orange juice, along with a box of cereal. If you’re a coffee-drinker, try a small jar of instant—or easier yet, a few of those bottled Starbucks coffee drinks. And doughnuts—don’t forget the doughnuts. Lunch can be a loaf of sliced bread—Maude’s baguette won’t do you much good without a bread knife—along with some cold cuts and the condiment of your choice, with chips and maybe some pickles. Or peanut butter and jelly as a second variety. A box of cookies would be nice, too. And for dinner, try some of those small frozen entrees that you just heat in the microwave—lasagna, meatloaf, chicken casserole, whatever. If you feel guilty about not eating healthy, toss in an apple and a banana, and you’re all set.”
“That all sounds delicious.”
“And when you’re hot and tired and hungry, it will be as good as gourmet cooking. In a day or so, I’ll bring you the basic list for stocking your kitchen, but you won't need that until you’ve finished unpacking. And that will be my last suggestion of the day, except for this one. Do the unpacking on Monday. Leave nothing in the moving boxes, because you’ll end up leaving it there forever. Believe me. I speak from experience.”
“Got it! And thank you, Ginny. I think maybe I can handle this after all!”
Chapter Five
Moving Day
Saturday–Monday, August 16–18, 2008
Sarah spent Saturday afternoon exploring the local superstore. She had shopped in other big box stores but this time, instead of looking at earrings and cute tee shirts, she was looking at housewares and feeling overwhelmed again. A passing clerk noticed her standing in the middle of an aisle and stopped to help.
What Grows in Your Garden Page 4