by Kate Flora
According to his license and press credentials, the intruder’s name was Damien Black and he worked for Boston’s most incendiary paper. Black was still struggling to escape and loudly protesting that this was a false arrest and they had no right to detain him as Gareth got out his phone and called the police.
I rubbed my leg, bruised from where he’d slammed into me. Bruises and an interrupted lunch. It was the story of my life. Suzanne says I need to take it easy. She says she never gets bruised or put in danger. But I’m the trouble shooter who gets called when schools want their troubles shot. Trouble shooting is often not a very genteel business. And honestly, what would she have me do? Let the stinker get away with stealing Heidi’s property?
I could feel time slipping away as we waited for the police to arrive, the cell phone in my pocket wiggling anxiously with calls I couldn’t take. The whole time—it probably wasn’t much more than ten minutes—Black never stopped complaining and demanding that we return his phone. That made me concerned about what was on it. Had he taken pictures of her room? Her dresser drawers? Her photos? Her notebook? Let that phone get back in his hands, and those pictures would fly away to his computer. With an inward sigh, I realized most likely they already had.
We shared those concerns with the officers when they arrived, or rather, I did, because Gareth was already on the phone to the school’s lawyers, putting measures in place to block the publication of any photos Black might have taken. I gave the officers the items he had taken from Heidi’s room, along with his phone and his notebook. “We’re very concerned about this student’s privacy,” I said. “As well as the theft of her property.” A uniform who looked young enough to be my son took notes, and after what seemed like an endless give and take, Black was led away.
Gareth was still on the phone when the man from security put a cautious hand on my forearm. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Because you don’t look all right. And what that man did was so wrong, running at a pregnant lady because he thought you were vulnerable.” There was what might have been a smile behind the beard when he added, “He does not understand. American ladies are tough. Simmons girls are tough.”
“I’m okay, thank you,” I said, realizing that I sort of wasn’t. That I was pretty shaken by the man’s behavior. So many ways MOC was changing things.
Gareth finished his call, then took a moment to introduce me to Ruthie Martin, the dorm mother and a reading coach, her husband Joel, who taught biology and coached field hockey and wrestling, and the man who was seeing what I had missed about myself, Amad, from security.
Then we headed back to his office at a frighteningly brisk pace. “Well, we surely didn’t need that,” Gareth said, on his phone to the security chief about beefing up their system.
Soon enough, it would be time for him to meet with his student body, which sent us through another round of “I don’t know what to tell them.”
I reminded him of what we’d discussed earlier, and this time, he was calm enough to listen. Still, I was a little worried as we walked toward the auditorium. Speaking of worries, I also needed time to check my phone and see if there was news about my mother’s emergency, but there was no time.
I shouldn’t have worried about Gareth.
He was shaky for about three sentences. Then he settled back into being a headmaster who respected his student body. Because of who they were—a self-selected group of students who felt deeply invested in their community—and because of who he was, the meeting went well. He explained that Heidi was still in the infirmary, that she was in a troubled state and seemed unsure of what had happened, and that they were bringing in experts to help her. He told them that it appeared that she hadn’t been aware of her pregnancy, that the birth had been a surprise.
He was stunningly frank with them, and it looked like the majority of his students appreciated his candor and were willing to keep open minds until they had more information. He assured them that information was being developed and promised to keep them informed as he knew more. He told them that there would be counselors available if any of them felt a need to talk to someone. He urged any of them in whom Heidi might have confided to come and speak with him. Then he invited their questions.
The first question was the one that would occur to anyone—how could she have failed to know she was pregnant? He offered what he knew, and also offered to bring in an expert to explain it further if they wanted. There was concern about Heidi abandoning her baby. How could she do that? Again, he was forthright. He told them pretty much everything we knew. That she hadn’t known she was abandoning a baby because she didn’t believe she’d had one, and some of the reasons why that might be true.
I was watching their faces. I could see there was puzzlement, and some disbelief, but I could also see that they were considering it. How someone might be traumatized into repressing any memories of an event. They didn’t need to be told about date rape, and memory erasing drugs, and young girls who were exploited after drinking. The media was full of such cases. Some of them, at least, had known girls who’d been victimized.
He reminded them of the school’s procedure for investigating infractions and urged them not to make judgments until they had more information.
I beamed like a proud mother. Goodness knew they could use some clear thinking, open communication, and honesty. What a radical concept—don’t leap to judgment until you’ve gathered all the information and considered it. Keep an open mind and consider other people’s circumstances. I wanted to put him on the nightly news. Send him to Capitol Hill as a role model. The whole meeting was an incredible lesson in civics, in community, in citizenship. These kids made me hopeful about the future.
There were doubters, of course, and cynics. I could see those faces, too. I didn’t know if they would rush back to their dorms and spew their opinions on twitter or Facebook or snapchat or whatever current medium they were using. But for the most part, it appeared his students were willing to wait for more information.
The questions went on, and he came right back at them with questions of his own. What did they know about Heidi? Had any of them any reason to doubt what she was saying? Did they have reasons to believe she was a liar? To their knowledge, had she lied about other things? Had she been secretive? Did she appear to have been hiding a pregnancy? Had she confided about the baby to anyone?
He took all the time they needed. More than an hour, with a solid give and take. He slipped in a warning about reporters on campus, and urged them to be vigilant and call security immediately if they saw strangers on campus or in the dorms. He was concluding it with a reiteration of his request that they keep what they knew within the community until more facts were developed, when the door to the assembly room burst open. A tall, elegant woman with thick, perfectly cut, multi-processed mahogany hair strode in. She planted herself in the middle of the room, pointed at the headmaster, and yelled, “Gareth Wilson, I went to the infirmary and they told me I couldn’t see my daughter Heidi because she was sleeping. That’s totally unacceptable and you know it. I will not be treated this way!”
She had a big voice. It bounced off the walls and hurt my head. I could see that it had the same effect on Gareth. She wasn’t dressed or coiffed like someone who yelled in public places, but she did look like someone used to getting her own way.
She was followed by an even taller man who stood sideways in the door, half with her, half not. His brush cut and wide-footed stance gave him a military look. His deeply lined face wore the expression of someone who rarely saw anything that met his standards and expected life to keep dishing up disappointments. The stepfather, I presumed.
In even louder tones, she said, “I insist that you to take me to my daughter this instant.”
Sometimes, to understand why a child or an adolescent behaves in a particular way, all you need to do is meet the parents. In those few sentences, and with such a public display of self-centered arrogance, indifference to her daughter’s condition, and the
inappropriateness of interrupting a school assembly, Heidi Basham’s mother had told everyone that she was not a person to whom a troubled or abused child could go for advice or comfort or rescue. All around me, I could see students exchanging glances and nods, and murmuring quietly. Sometimes a picture absolutely is worth a thousand words.
Gareth did not leave the podium. He inclined his head politely. “Mrs. Norris. General Norris. As you see, we are in the middle of a meeting. I will be with you in a few minutes. You’re welcome to stay and listen, or wait for me in my office.”
Whether they knew it or not, they had been dismissed. The General knew, and in the rigid lines of his body and his lifted chin, I read that he was not accustomed to being dismissed. Mrs. Norris opened her mouth wide, like an opera singer about to hold forth. Then she looked around at the sea of staring faces and seemed to realize where she was.
“Five minutes,” she said, and swept from the room. She was wearing a flowing, asymmetrical black silk appliquéd jacket that screamed expensive over slim black pants, but she made it seem like full court dress and train.
There was an audible sigh when the door had closed behind them.
“Of course, Heidi’s mother is upset,” he said. The English—the Welsh—are so good at understatement.
The meeting finished with a reminder that their advisors and counselors were available, and that while cookies and fruit would be in their dorms and in the lounge, it would be nice to leave some for others even though Mrs. Willoughby, in the kitchen, made the world’s best cookies. It was a nice, homey touch that reminded them they were in a community.
Then we both beat feet back to his office. Our original plan had been for me to take a break to catch up on some office work, then he and I were going to meet with Heidi’s roommate and some of her friends, then move on to craft the school’s public statement. I also wanted a moment to check my messages and see if there was any news about my mother’s emergency.
Obviously, that schedule was now changed.
He paused in the hall for a moment, preparing himself. I was already starting a mental to-do list and bracing myself for what might be waiting among the calls stacking up on my phone, when he said, “I hope you’ll come in with me, Thea. The presence of an outside expert might have a calming effect on the Norrises.”
By hope, he meant he wanted me there. And he was the client.
“Perhaps not so much calming as reminding them of their manners?” I patted his shoulder. “Cast me in whatever light you want.” He grinned, and I added, “And I’ll try to have your back.”
I was tempted to say, “I’ve got your six,” like the cops do, but I exercised restraint. The truth was that I didn’t want to have his back just then—there was little more unpleasant than an upset and entitled parent berating a headmaster—but he was right that my presence might remind them of the judgment of the wider world and encourage them to act more civilized. Often, parents waded in without listening, ready to go on the attack before gaining full knowledge of the situation. Often, also, the parents’ behavior revealed how little they actually knew about their children. This meeting looked like it was going to involve both of those things, and I really, really needed to find a few moments to check my messages.
“Grateful,” he said, and swung into motion again. He had an amazing way of going from utterly still to fully engaged and moving.
I followed after him, my phone relentlessly vibrating. One day soon, I was sure, I would yield to the impulse to throw it on the ground and run over it. Probably not on a day when my mother had an unknown emergency, though.
Five
Lorena Norris was sitting on one of Gareth’s couches. Occupying might be a better word, since although it could have seated four, she had planted herself dead center and spread out her draperies in a way that left room for no one else. There was a tray on the coffee table in front of her with a silver coffee urn and a plate of Mrs. Willoughby’s cookies. Both coffee and cookies seemed untouched. The General paced behind her, pausing to draw himself up to his full height when we entered. I expected him to speak, but despite his posture of someone about to spring, he let her go first.
“Mr. Wilson, I cannot believe that you were not at the airport to meet us and that, having finally made my way here, I was forbidden access to my daughter,” she began. “It took us ages to rent a decent car.”
Ah, how quickly the “us” had morphed into “I.” If I’d been Gareth, I might have said, “Lady, what’s this ‘finally made my way bullshit,’ I sent a car. Don’t you know I’m dealing with a campus crisis?” but Gareth had more tact.
As I wondered how they’d missed the car he sent, he shook his head like one might do with a fractious child and began to explain. “Lorena, we’ve only had a few minutes of conversation regarding this matter. Let me give you the facts as we currently know them. Then you can ask your questions, and perhaps by then Heidi will be awake and I can take you to see her.” He hesitated. “You should know that this has been an extremely traumatic experience for her and on doctor’s orders your daughter has been sedated. We will go over there, of course, but she may not be awake.”
I must be hopelessly naïve, or hopelessly hopeful, because I could not believe that her first words hadn’t been, “Is my daughter okay?” or “How is Heidi?” If not in the assembly, at least in here. But her pressing concerns seemed more to involve her priority and standing and how she should be treated than with the condition of her child. I hoped I was wrong and the show of concern would be forthcoming.
“This is Thea Kozak,” he was saying. “General and Mrs. Norris, Heidi’s parents. Thea specializes in trouble-shooting for private schools.”
The general looked down his nose at us. “You can’t handle a little thing like this yourself?”
Little thing? Maybe if you were used to war. But on an ordinary, human level, this was hardly insignificant. There had been an unexplained pregnancy involving a girl too young to consent. A tiny infant who had been abandoned and left to die, still struggling to survive, whose future would have to be decided. A tiny little girl who was this woman’s granddaughter. The mother, a child herself, was deeply traumatized and facing potential criminal charges. There was also a potentially serious situation with respect to that young mother’s mental status. The police would be investigating. The press, other than the one we’d sent to jail, was camped outside the campus drive, salivating for a juicy story that could deeply damage the school’s reputation. The only “little thing” here was the man’s mind.
Gareth gestured toward the coffee pot. “Perhaps you’d like some coffee while I walk you through it?”
The General snorted. “A Scotch would be more appropriate.”
His wife perked up and gave him a smile. Gareth didn’t look at me, but it was pretty easy to read his mind. You see why Heidi wanted to come here?
“We can do that if you’d prefer.” He crossed to a tall mahogany cabinet. “Single malt or blended? Water or ice?”
“Single. Ice.”
When the coffee tray had been shifted to a sideboard and the Norrises had their drinks, Gareth explained the circumstances as he knew them, including Heidi’s insistence that she had never had sex and couldn’t have been pregnant. He described the visit from Dr. Purcell and her speculations about Heidi’s condition, laying heavy emphasis on the words “trauma,” “fear,” and “repression.” “Of course, Dr. Purcell will be available to meet with you tomorrow, and she can explain it far better than I can.”
I waited for them to jump in with a thousand questions, all the questions parents would naturally have in this situation. Was Heidi really all right? What about the baby? How was she? Where was the baby? Had Heidi said anything about the baby’s father? How were the police approaching this? Was Heidi at risk of being arrested? Was Dr. Purcell concerned about Heidi’s mental health? No one jumped. The General was focused on inhaling his drink. She drained her glass more slowly, her face an absolute blank as Gareth continu
ed to explain.
He told them how the police had responded so far, and what they might expect in the days to come. The possible crimes Heidi might be charged with, and some of his strategies for heading those off. “Of course, you’ll be our best informants about her. About her prior mental state, her background. About how this might have happened. About who the father might be.”
Lorena Norris was about to respond, her mouth twitching and her forehead knotting—signs I knew we both read as the beginning of denying all responsibility—when Gareth popped a zinger. “Your granddaughter is in the NICU at Boston’s Children’s Hospital. They’re concerned about immature lungs, but the doctors say she’s a sturdy little girl, just under four pounds, and they’re very optimistic. I believe social services has taken temporary custody, but of course, you’ll want…”
Her hand flew to her chest, the fingers spreading like a pale white fan with magenta tips, as her breath hissed out. After a moment, she found her voice. “Granddaughter? Grandmother? You’ve got to be kidding. As if I had anything to do with this. This all happened on your watch, Mr. Wilson, not mine.”
“Dr. Wilson,” he said, not quite successfully suppressing the ironic smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “The doctors say their best guess is that the baby was conceived in August, if not earlier. Heidi didn’t arrive at Simmons until mid-September. You of course remember, Mrs. Norris, that we agreed to a late start for her because of her last-minute acceptance and your schedule complications?”