Sight Reading (21 page)

Chapter 7

I
n just one week, three more white splotches appeared on Hazel's face; the next week, three more. She briefly considered seeing her doctor, but there was no point, really; she had been assured, years ago, that her condition was purely aesthetic, no threat to her physical health. She had been told, too, how these things usually progressed, knew that this proliferation was, like so many other things, inevitable. After all, remissions always come to an end, she found herself thinking, and recalled the homeopath telling her, so easily, to “embrace” what was happening to her body—as if Hazel did not hate, truly hate, the mottled person she had become.

That Monday night she spent a full thirty minutes reapplying her makeup. There was a meeting at Jessie's school, and Hazel couldn't help thinking she might possibly run into Hugh.

A midterm report had arrived explaining that Jessie was having trouble in her Earth science class, which was why her parents were being called in. This would not be a private meeting, the letter explained; each term the school held “open classrooms” for parents whose children were not excelling in a particular topic, as “a chance for the teacher to address in a more comfortable manner the main problem areas and typical points of contention.”

We find this a nonconfrontational way for teachers to communicate more generally their own expectations as well as the ways parents might help their children improve personal performance in a specific class.

Hazel had telephoned Nicholas about it, but he hadn't been at all worried by his copy of the letter. He pointed out, as he always did, that Jessie would have other talents; she possessed them already, within her, just waiting to make themselves fully known, like the scent of baking bread. And really (he always reminded Hazel) these talents—athleticism, her good nature, her physical beauty—would propel her further than even the best grades. For now Jessie was simply waiting out seventh grade, where, Nicholas explained (based on some sort of journalistic knowledge from his friend Gary), all the worst teachers were employed, the ones with unchecked psychological disorders, the ones who had been reprimanded by administrators, who spouted extreme politics, and whom the high school teachers couldn't bear. If she could just make it through this awkward time, Nicholas told Hazel, he was sure Jessie would make something wonderful of herself.

Hazel supposed this was Nicholas's way of convincing her that there was no need to attend the meeting.

“I can't, at any rate,” he had said, explaining that there was a concert at the conservatory that night. In retaliation, Hazel informed him that she was to help Maria with an event at the fabric store that same evening. And though she knew deep down that she would end up going to the school instead, she told Nicholas that it was time he stepped up and took more interest in Jessie's academic life, hoping he might at least feel briefly guilty.

Really, though, she was less worried about Jessie's scholastic record than about the possibility of crossing paths with Hugh. She hadn't seen him since the night of the chestnuts, and who knew if she might bump into him in the school parking lot, or the corridor. Already she had planned how she would act if that happened: calm, content, glad to see him. As if he had not crumpled her heart in his palm. After all, she told herself, he had suffered his wife's untimely death and was better than those other men, who just wanted someone younger than themselves. In fact, even now it seemed to her that there was still a chance he might become “able.” It even seemed possible that if she wore just the right thing (the green silk blouse, with her black pencil skirt and narrow sling-backs), that alone might be enough for him to see, finally, that she, too, was lovable, she, too, could be (had once been) a person accorded happiness.

Hazel shook her head at herself. Pathetic, to think that could ever happen for her. Her aloneness was part of who she was, part of her daily embarrassment. Especially at these school events, couples all around, so that each year she told herself that
next
time she would not show up alone. Worst of all was the annual holiday performance. Already she was dreading it, as she did every December, arriving alone while Nicholas and Remy and the rest of the parents all had each other, their own small circles of love, as if there existed only so much joy to be ladled around, and none left for Hazel.

Two years ago had been the worst. Hazel had been making her way toward Jessie after the concert, pushing slowly forward among the throng of parents, when Nicholas and Remy had somehow ended up just a few paces ahead of her, chatting happily, their arms swung casually around each other, and Nicholas had leaned over to spontaneously place a kiss on Remy's cheek. At that moment, the parents of one of Jessie's classmates had recognized Nicholas and Remy, and while the two husbands began chatting, Hazel heard the wife tell Remy, “Your daughter's a real firecracker, isn't she?”

Hazel had stopped in her tracks, horrified by the error. Mistaken identity, as if she were a minor character in some British farce—only now her very motherhood had been usurped.

And to think that Remy might be having a daughter of her own now! And that her pregnancy might be visible by the time of this year's holiday concert! As if the usual spectacle were not painful enough.

Hazel added one last dab of foundation. To think that she had allowed herself to imagine that this year she might not have to go there alone! That she might have gone there with Hugh!

Even now, though, as she finished her makeup with a protective layer of powder, she permitted herself a fantasy, just briefly, that Hugh might come running up to her in the parking lot tonight. In a low, desperate voice he would say that he had been wrong, that in fact he
was
able to be with her. He simply hadn't realized it until now, the chestnuts had thrown him off. . . . He might even kiss her right there, unworried should anyone witness them, so sure he would be of his love for her. Things like that happened, sometimes. At least to other people they did.

Hazel let the fantasy slip away. The truth was, Hugh might not even be there tonight. Luke was surely a responsible student. Probably Hugh hadn't received any school letter at all.

REMY ARRIVED AT THE SCHOOL
early, a vestige of her longtime effort to make a good impression wherever other parents were concerned. She made her way down the brightly lit, oddly quiet halls to the science classroom, where three other people sat: in the front row an oldish man whose face looked familiar (perhaps his child had been in Jessie's elementary school) and toward the back a blond couple she hadn't met before. “Hello,” Remy said, and all three said hello back, with little enthusiasm; it was nothing to be proud of, this visit. The oldish man introduced himself and said the name of his daughter, and Remy did the same, shaking his hand. The blond couple mumbled their names quickly, as if not wanting to be recognized.

Remy took a seat near the windows and immediately felt like a student in detention. “Kept after school”—that was how they said it, though of course she hadn't ever had to “stay after.” Now, though, she felt real guilt. No matter that she had made it clear to Yoni they couldn't let such a thing happen ever again. Nothing could erase what she had allowed to happen.

“I'll do what you say,” he had mumbled into the phone when she called him, two weeks ago now. Before that she had spent a full week dreading what she might again do with him. “I didn't know I could feel this again,” he said when she called. “I'm here. For you, I mean. I'm yours.” And through it all she had told herself that no matter what he said, she could not allow herself to be alone with him again.

She looked down at the freshly waxed floor, at her feet in her scuffed shoes, and then up at the walls with their curling posters of aerial views of various fissures in the earth. At her left was a low shelf on top of which sat three murky tanks of greenish water. Remy's eyes searched and found a few glum goldfish. Another tank, containing wood shavings instead of water, housed two gerbils, also inactive.

Now Remy smelled a familiar scent, subtle and hovering, somewhere behind her. Hearing the others saying hello, she turned to find Hazel standing a few desks away.

“Oh, you're here!” Hazel sounded oddly delighted.

“Oh—well, yes, Nicholas said you couldn't make it.” She didn't mean to sound accusatory; she was just confused. But Hazel always made her stumble like this, made her sound like a worse person than she really was.

“I was supposed to help Maria at the shop. But since Nicholas said he couldn't make it . . . Well, good of you to come.” She smiled in that terrifyingly civil way of hers. It was always this way with the two of them, Hazel so polite, Remy cowering a bit. It had something to do with Hazel's briskness, her crispness. Probably it was simply that, deep down, Hazel still hated her.

Well, why shouldn't she? Remy shifted uncomfortably in her seat. The first few times their paths had been forced to cross, Hazel had looked at her with such cold, sad eyes, Remy was sure she had been cursed. And yet there had come—quite soon, actually—a period when Hazel, Nicholas, and Remy were all three perfectly cordial, exchanging Jessie back and forth every two weeks until that transfer itself became second nature and Hazel seemed (but perhaps just
seemed
) to have forgotten to feel the awful things she had surely felt, just as Remy forgot to feel that constant heavy remorse. By the time Jessie was seven, eight, nine, Remy had often taken a moment to chat with Hazel about television rules and homework habits, and to briefly update her on Jessie's accomplishments and minor offenses. That was parenthood; there was no way around it.

Perhaps to prove that there were no hard feelings between them, Hazel took the desk just one seat away from Remy. Her perfume billowed over, delicately sweet, like something edible only in brief seasons. In her younger days, Remy had been in awe of Hazel and her perfume, of how elegant it must feel to be the type of woman to wear scent, to be recognizable by it. Now the scent made her feel ill. Surrounding Remy, like some awful odor of her own, was a cloud of guilt—so strong Remy was sure it must be visible.

She looked down again, suddenly ill. She really was a wreck: exhausted yet sleepless, hungry yet without appetite, every part of her—breasts, skin, heart—throbbing, as if permanently bruised.

A few more parents had joined them in the classroom. Apparently they already knew the blond couple; a lively conversation had started up. Remy wondered if Hazel knew them, too, but Hazel hadn't even looked back. She was extracting from her purse a small spiral-bound notebook, which she opened to a blank white page. Next to it she placed a black pen. Remy looked down at her own bare desktop; it hadn't occurred to her to bring a notepad, probably because she had been so focused on herself. She scolded herself for not planning ahead. Not to mention that she must look like a schlump, in her wrinkled pants and baggy purple sweater. In fact, Hazel was staring at the enormous sweater as if its very bagginess were an affront. Hazel saw that Remy had noticed, and quickly pulled her eyes away, but Remy couldn't help putting her hands where Hazel's eyes had been, across her midriff, as if to protect herself from that stare.

Well, who could blame Hazel? She must resent the very fact that I'm here. . . .

Of course Hazel was perfectly arranged, makeup on her face and spray on her hair. Her foundation and blush were exactly blended, as if she were about to go on live television or have her portrait taken.
Impeccable
: that was the word.

They were just very different people, that was all. That was why Nicholas was with Remy now, instead. With this thought, Remy became newly horrified: here she was, sitting next to the woman whose husband she had stolen, when for weeks all she had thought about was another man, about the things she had done with that other man. Ashamed, Remy turned her head away—and found one of the goldfish staring at her.

On the telephone with Yoni, telling him that she could not continue with him, she had said that she knew he would understand. She couldn't help it: as much as she cared for him, her heart belonged to Nicholas. That was what it came down to. She was devoted, she explained, and could only remain devoted; it was her nature.

“So, have you met the teacher?” Hazel asked.

“Oh!” Remy turned back. “No. He hasn't been here yet.” She lowered her voice. “I'm feeling a little wary, though,” she added, “just seeing the state of these fish tanks.”

Hazel swiveled her neck to look at the shelf next to Remy. The expression on her face became one of horror. “It's
disgusting,
” Hazel whispered back. Remy felt bad for having pointed it out; Hazel looked like she might be sick.

Quietly Remy said, “Now I understand why Jessie refuses to bring Jasper back here.”

“Jasper?”