In Nightmares We're Alone (29 page)

A part of me held out hope he’d come home last night. At two o’clock in the morning I thought maybe he’d muster up the courage to face his demons and walk out the front door and get a cab. A couple of times I even woke up in the night thinking I heard him coming to crawl into bed with me. But it didn’t happen.

We disconnected the landline at Mom’s place a few days ago and threw the phone into a stack of trash. I don’t know why we had to do that so soon. Couldn’t have kept it hooked up until the last day at the house like a normal person would. We had to throw it out early. When I try calling in the morning Arthur hasn’t hooked it up. Every few minutes I have to look at my cell phone and see if I’ve missed any calls. But of course I haven’t. He’s probably sitting perfectly still on the couch, still staring at the floor between his feet like he has been since I left, still blubbering and thinking something is coming to get him.

I come into the classroom with such a fear for Arthur burning in me that I forget to brace myself when I turn the light on and see the chalkboard.

There it is. Like I would have known it would be if I gave it a thought.

“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.”

No. No!

Bullshit!

Someone is coming into my house and my classroom. Someone is doing this to frighten me. Nothing is hiding in the shadows waiting for me to discover its secret. There is no great supernatural mystery here, waiting for me to spot it. There is only my own fear and longing and sorrow.

The world is not full of magic things. I will not go down this road. No matter if Dad and Mom and Arthur all want to sense wonder hiding just beyond reach, I will not accept this.

I have no sense of whether I’m walking or running or floating as I go from my classroom to Mr. Van Berkum’s office.

I shove the door open and shout, “Have you found them? Have you found who’s writing on my board?”

“Oh. Oh… I… No, it’s… I’ve asked the other teachers and no one has been—”

“Well somebody has! Every morning when I come in, somebody has been in there, and they’re leaving notes to me, for me specifically. This is a hostile workplace. You better find them. Whoever they are, you better…” I stop myself.
Them
and
they
. I hear Mom in my voice.

I start breathing slowly, deliberately.

“Edna,” says Mr. V, very slowly. “Why don’t you go home? We’ll find a substitute. And you just take all the time you need, and you give me a call when you’re feeling a little better. My mother passed last year. I know… What do you think? Why don’t you just take a break?”

If it weren’t for
them
and
they
, I’d nod my head and go. But I can’t play into
their
hands. This is my own sanity I’m fighting for. I am a logical, rational woman who does not believe in spook stories and fairy tales and I will not give in to this pressure.

“No,” I say. “I’m fine. I have to teach a class. Just find out who’s writing on my board.”

I walk back to the classroom trying not to shake.

* * * * *

They ask us to do Show and Tell once a week but I’ve been doing it every day since this mess with my parents started. It’s an easy way to kill half an hour sitting behind my desk, sitting back and staring at my cell phone and hoping for a call. Every time I take my eye off the phone, it goes straight to the faded, erased letters on the board.

“…magic things, patiently waiting…”

“Does anybody have anything for Show and Tell?” I ask the class.

Macie Giddings puts her hand up instantly and eagerly. I might have known. Of course it would be Macie. More about evil dolls and witches and people burning other people alive. It couldn’t have been another day like yesterday when she was absent. No. The universe can’t give me a break.

“Macie,” I say. “Maybe you want to tell us why you weren’t at school yesterday?”

“No,” she says. “I brought something I want to show.”

She comes up to the front of the room with a little child’s doll in a homemade dress, turning this made-up twenty-first century woman into a 1950s housewife. It’s an odd look.

“This is my doll Kaylie,” she says.

I can feel the whole class shifting in mood as soon as she says it. Most of them look uncomfortable and a handful have that morbid excitement some people get when they’re driving up to a car accident. I look down at my cell phone.

Call me, Arthur. Resolve this building sense of doom I’m feeling.

“She’s not the witch doll,” says Macie. “The witch doll is my mom’s. My mom’s only had the witch doll for a week or so but I’ve had Kaylie for two years. Even though I threw her in the garbage she came back. And every night I bury her under clothes in my closet but when I wake up at night she’s on a shelf in my room and pointing to my mom’s doll room.”

“Macie…” I say.

I have to make her stop. This silly superstitious nonsense, it’s damaging. Kids this age are impressionable. Fill their heads with these tales of ghosts and bogeymen and they grow up to be adults with ridiculous superstitions who visit mediums and spend all the money they need for retirement.

“The world is full of magic things…”

Macie keeps going with building hysteria. “I don’t want to get rid of Kaylie, because I love her. But I want to get rid of her because I think she’s friends with the witch doll and that’s why when I throw her in the garbage or bury her she just comes back, because the witch doll won’t let me get rid of her.”

“Okay Macie,” I say curtly. “That’s enough. Back to your seat.”

She ignores me. “The witch doll has one blue eye and one green one and when I wake up at night that’s always how Kaylie looks. Her eyes change when I’m the only one around so she can look like the witch doll.”

I look around the room at the other children. Little Stephanie, covering her ears and shutting her eyes and shaking her head. Martin with a trace of a smile on his face and a glare of fascination in his eyes. Bobby swallowing dryly and hoping somebody will give him an excuse to laugh and let it be a joke.

And I know one of those students out there is Arthur. Maybe Macie herself. Get bombarded with enough of these damaging lies and one day something in you snaps and you believe a house is trying to kill you. You sit there pissing yourself on your mother-in-law’s couch and refusing to leave the house because there are ghosts inside that will kill you. It starts off small, but it destroys lives.

“…magic things, patiently waiting…”

“Macie, am I going to have to call your mom again?” I ask.

I notice my hands are shaking. I breathe in and out deeply to try to calm myself.

Macie stops and gives me a look aiming to win my empathy. “Please,” she says. “Just another second. It’s important.”

I don’t want to damage her. I don’t want to be cruel. But I won’t let her do this to the rest of my class. “If you aren’t going to tell the truth…” I begin.

“It
is
true!” she shouts. “If any of you have parents that know about ghosts or monsters or anything, you have to help me. The witch doll talked to me the other night and I think it wants to kill my mommy or take her away from me and I have to stop it!”

“…waiting for our senses to grow sharper.”

That’s when I finally lose it. I start screaming her name and trying to grab her, trying to drag her out of the room where she can’t impart these kinds of disgusting lies on the minds of her fellow students. I find myself chasing the little brat around the front of the room as she screams about witches and evil and how she’s more scared every day.

I finally get hold of her arm and try to pull her away as she bangs the doll down over and over on my desk, screaming, “I don’t want her anymore! I don’t want this doll or Mommy’s doll or any goddamn doll!”

She breaks the doll’s head off on the desk and sends it flying into the classroom and landing at some poor girl’s feet, who is looking up with tears in her eyes as I lift Macie up over my shoulder and carry her kicking out of the classroom.

And I know, I know at the end of the day all of these children will come home from school and their parents will ask “How was your day?” and they’ll say “One girl was screaming about witches and banging a doll on the desk.” And then they’ll ask Mommy and Daddy if there is such a thing as a witch, and whether there are ghosts who can possess dolls and take over houses. And all I can do is pray, pray that none of these children have a father like Arthur who’s going to reinforce this stuff in their heads until they lose their minds in the future and turn their suffering spouses into emotional wrecks.

In college they taught me Frederick Douglass said,
“It is easier to build strong children than to repair broken men.”

It’s probably true. But no one ever taught me to do either.

* * * * *

Mr. Van Berkum won’t talk any sense into this girl, and neither will a day or a week or a month of detention. They might shut her up, but they won’t make her understand the damaging nature of screaming these things to a classroom full of her peers. I guess that’s why I drag her into a janitor’s closet and chew her out before I take her to the office.

This isn’t really proper etiquette for a teacher. I could get put on suspension for it, maybe even fired if the parents found out and really kicked up a fuss. But if I stop one child from growing up to be like Arthur, then I’m at least doing a service to the world.

“This kind of immaturity is not okay in the classroom,” I tell her. “You can’t get up there and scream and cause a scene and make everybody uncomfortable. It’s not a civilized way to behave.”

“But it’s true!” Macie protests.

“No, it isn’t, Macie, and you know that perfectly well. There is no magic or witches or spells. And even if it was true, do you think you’re the only person in the world who has problems? You don’t see anybody else screaming at the rest of the class and trying to scare them. They all behave themselves the way people should.”

“But they’re not in danger!”

“What danger? Does your mom hurt you? Are there problems at home? You can talk to me about these things. If there are real problems, you can talk to me and I can help you.”

“Then help me from the doll!”

“The doll is just a doll, Macie. There are no ghosts, no witches, no… It’s not real! You’re too old to believe in that kind of childish nonsense. You’re not a baby. And you should be mature enough not to scare your classmates with it. It’s a terrible thing to do.”

“You don’t care,” she says, turning away from me. “You say you do, but you just want everybody to shut up and listen to you.”

“I try to care, Macie, but when you go off acting like a stubborn little bitch, you make it difficult to do.”

I say it without thinking and regret it right away, but when Macie turns her gaze back to me it’s not with a dropped jaw and teary eyes like I’d expect from a girl her age. It’s just an angry, hateful glare.

I try to recover. “You can talk to me, or the nurse, or Principle V, or any of the grown ups here at school. You can tell us anything and we’ll try to help you, but you have to be civilized and respectful about it. You can’t act crazy and scream at a bunch of children who haven’t done anything wrong and infect all of them with your problems. Understand?”

She gives me a look like you give a stupid child, the look I should be giving her, and shakes her head.

“Do you understand me?” I repeat.

“You know what I think, Mrs. Harris?” she says. “I think
you’re
the bitch.”

I sigh. I try to pretend the sentence doesn’t hit me as hard as it does.

“You said it first,” she tells me. “That’s called collateral.”

I grab her by the arm and take her to the office and explain the situation to the principal. He just nods his head and tells me to go back to my students and a minute later I’m racing back to the classroom, hoping things haven’t gotten completely out of control in the ten minutes or so I’ve left them unattended.

When I notice my hands have taken to shaking uncontrollably, I have to stop to regain my composure. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve never lost it before at school. Not like this.

I get my cell phone out of my pocket and check it for a missed call. Still nothing. As I’m sticking it back in my pocket, my eyes find their way through the doorway to the gymnasium and I see the banner hanging over the bleachers. Suddenly my hands go back to trembling and my legs feel weak and I walk into the gym and sit on the floor with my hands shaking in my lap and I breathe in short little sobs.

The banner reads:

BE KIND.

FOR EVERYONE YOU MEET IS FIGHTING A HARD BATTLE.

I know the quote. There’s some speculation as to who said it first. Ian Maclaren. Plato. I don’t know. In college we read Maclaren and he did say it, only the word he used was pitiful, not kind.

One thing they never taught me in college was how to be kind, especially when my own battle is this hard. Matter of fact, sometimes I wonder if they somehow inadvertently taught me the opposite.

* * * * *

Macie’s right. I’m the bitch, not her. I’m the one screaming at an eight-year-old girl for being frightened. I’m the one putting my problems on other people. I’m the one behaving badly and damaging someone else. I can’t get the banner over the bleachers out of my head when I walk back into the classroom.

The class is all sitting silently with their heads down, waiting patiently as I come back in.

“Okay, sorry about that,” I say. “I think it’s time to get back to our division. So I need everybody to take out their math books and open them to…”

As I’m speaking, I turn toward the chalkboard and my voice catches in my throat.

“Who wrote this?” I ask the class. “Who wrote on my board?”

The text on the board. Again.

“I am a part of all I have met.”

Yes. Standing here screaming at a frightened little girl. Telling her to shut up and bottle her problems and swallow her pain like me. Chastising my husband for his belief in the supernatural, making him ashamed of leaving the house to the point he has to come back and be terrified.