Authors: Laura Pedersen
“Yes,” I reply.
“Dr. Collier wishes to see you at your earliest convenience,” snaps Ms. Davis.
Apparently Dr. Collier has continued his rise in the highflying academic attendance world and now has his very own secretary.
“How about a week from Friday?” I offer.
“How about first thing tomorrow morning?” She suggests this alternative in the way I imagine army officers
suggest
that prisoners of war march to their detention centers. We agree on tomorrow morning. Maybe Uncle Lenny can watch Lillian while Mrs. Muldoon, the next-door neighbor, wrangles the twins.
The phone rings again and I briefly consider ordering caller ID solely to weed out any more exchanges with the dreaded Martha Davis. However, it turns out to be Craig.
“Hey, stranger, I just wanted to see how things are going.”
“It's so great to hear your voice! But the kids are supposed to arrive home from school any second and so I don't have time to talk, other than to tell you that I'm not so sure I want to have kids.”
“How about just one?” he asks.
“No way! Everyone knows that only children are crazy.” This is of course meant as a joke because Craig is an only child. I say that if he wants to call back later tonight, I'll fill him in on all the local gossip, such as how Bernard has become a Girl Scout. Apparently his session down at the shop went so well that the entire troop is going to the house next week for a tutorial on table setting and napkin folding.
The doorbell rings and we have to hang up. My poker pal Herb has arrived with a care package from the drugstore he owns. It's mostly baby stuff—diapers, wet wipes, shampoo, powder, and diaper rash cream.
After I've thanked Herb for the box he admits, “That's not the real reason I came.”
I'm suddenly worried that he knows something—for instance, that the school is sending social services over here to check on us. Or maybe that doctor in the emergency room decided to launch an investigation after all. Images race through my mind of having to flee into the woods and hunt squirrels in order to keep the family together.
“Teddy stopped by the store to pick up his asthma inhaler and the insurance company rejected the claim,” explains Herb. “It seems you owe them some paperwork.”
Leading Herb past Lillian in her playpen, I show him the stack of medical bills on the dining room table. Herb looks at his watch, removes a pen from his pocket, and sits down in front of the mess. “I'll see how far I can get in an hour.”
Davy, Darlene, Francie, and a neighborhood child come flying
through the doorway chasing one another and yelling about who did what to whom on the short walk from the bus stop— knapsacks, coats, and school projects are strewn across the living room floor as they storm the kitchen for a snack. Between the punching and poking the common refrain is, “You started it!”
It soon becomes obvious to Herb why I haven't caught up on all the paperwork. Before leaving he says, “I'll stop back tomorrow and try to do a little more. In the meantime you should come by the game Friday night. It'd do you some good to get out of here for a few hours.”
“Yeah, right. As soon as I finish writing a hundred thank-you notes, find a free baby-sitting service, and buy a self-cleaning bathtub.”
I can't even remember the last time I washed my hair. Not that it makes much difference since the strained carrots would go right back into it as soon as the twins had their lunch. On the bright side, they practically match the color.
T
HOUGH COMMUNISM COLLAPSED SOME TIME AGO, THE HIGH
school is ready to serve as the Kremlin West should bolshevism rise again. The dark gray cinder-block building manages to block out the sun and cast a shadow over anyone who dares enter its steel-framed doors. The inmates all share the same sentence—four years with no time off for good behavior and no chance of probation.
One of the first things I notice is that the traditional row of student cars in the back of the parking lot has been extended from one row to three. Either more kids are taking after-school jobs or else more parents are tossing automobiles around as sixteenth-birthday gifts. Apparently
someone
has money.
It's the first time I've walked down the halls of Patrick Henry High School since dropping out over two years ago. There still aren't any metal detectors to pass through, the way they have in some of the Cleveland schools, but it definitely feels as if the halls are narrower than when I was a student. However, I must admit, the kids moving through the halls and stopping at their lockers look pretty happy. And though you may think that nine o'clock in the morning is a bit early for making out, more than
a few couples are pressed together in their favorite shadowy nooks and dark corners.
All of a sudden I'm staring into the face of my old history teacher, Mr. Wright. He recognizes me and says, “Hello there, Hallie Palmer.” I go on autopilot and abruptly blurt out,
“Plessy versus Ferguson
, 1896.” This isn't a complete non sequitur, since Mr. Wright had spent the better part of a week drilling five landmark Supreme Court cases into our heads.
Mr. Wright just laughs, as if I'm only one in a long line of old students to see him, panic, and start reeling off Supreme Court cases. We talk for a minute and as I'm walking away he shouts after me,
“Miranda versus Arizona!”
For a second I freeze but muscle memory kicks in. “Before questioning suspects police must inform them of their right to remain silent!” I call down the hall.
Mr. Wright smiles back as if brainwashing young people is a good thing, and then becomes lost in a sea of pimply faces and brightly colored knapsacks.
I walk into the front office and receive a warm greeting from Mrs. Hardy, the perpetually kind and sunny office secretary whose twenty-something daughter has been in drug rehab three times. Mrs. Hardy doesn't take it upon herself to judge others.
“Well, if it isn't Hallie Palmer,” she cheerily announces.
“Hi, Mrs. Hardy.”
“We were all so sorry to hear that your father was called home.”
She makes it sounds as if Dad's desk phone suddenly rang and a voice announced that his eternal bungalow was ready.
“Thanks,” I say.
Mrs. Hardy comes out from behind her desk and gives me a hug. “You're so skinny, Hallie. I heard that the ladies’ auxiliary from church was coming by with some food.”
“They are.” I try to sound reassuring. “We have plenty to eat. I guess I've just been getting a good workout from stress and X-treme vacuuming—it's a new sport I'm trying out.”
“Well, do try and take care of yourself,” says Mrs. Hardy. “And what can we help you with today? Did you come to drop off a lunch or some gym shoes?”
“I'm here to see Mr.—I mean, Dr. Collier,” I say.
“Oh!” She looks surprised. I assume this is because my regular run-ins with the attendance office ended over two years ago and certainly she'd seen my name on the graduation list.
Mrs. Hardy turns to another secretary and tells her that Hal-lie Palmer is here for an appointment with Dr. Collier. A woman who appears a decade too young to have gray hair briefly looks me up and down as if I should probably be strip-searched, and then tersely states, “I'll tell him you're coming.” She whirls around in her swivel chair and picks up a phone.
Mrs. Hardy gives the impression that she's accustomed to a lack of courtesy from her office mate and points down the hall while explaining that Dr. Collier's office is now where the janitor's closet used to be. I give her a look that says, Janitor's closet? Only she just smiles and says, “That's right, we're absolutely desperate for space around here.” But from her eyes I can tell that the rest of the staff think he's an asshole, too, and probably no one would share an office with him. There's a reason that generations of kids have referred to Mr. Collier as Just Call Me Dick, and it's not just because that's what he says as soon as he meets a parent.
As soon as I step outside the office door I spot Collier's beaky profile coming down the hallway. When he sees me standing there, he rubs his hands together as if they're the feelers of an insect contemplating some long-awaited prey.
JCMD ushers me into his office, where he's done a fairly
good job disguising the fact that his lair was recently a janitor's closet, except for the big industrial-sized drain that's still visible in the corner. And the air freshener on top of his J. Edgar Hoover file cabinet can't do anything to suppress the smell of damp mops from days gone by. Just as the black swirl of a dozen carefully placed hairs does little to conceal his balding head.
“I'm sorry about your father,” says JCMD as he points to an uncomfortable metal chair.
And I'm sure he is, seeing as my dad more or less sided with him in the fight to keep me in school. It was my mom who finally examined alternative solutions and then worked on my dad. Likewise, I'm prepared to fight for Louise. Even though I don't approve of what's she's done and want her back as well, there's no way I'm going to tell
him
that. I remove Louise's birth certificate from my folder and hand it across the desk.
“Louise is going to be sixteen in two weeks, and after that she doesn't have to attend school,” I say. “She's planning to start in Boston as soon as she gets settled.” This may or may not be true, but it's intended to avoid the drama of trying to chase her down between now and her birthday.
JCMD doesn't take the birth certificate from me or even try to look at it. Instead he slides a piece of paper with a calendar on it in my direction. “Theodore has been leaving school before lunch every day for the past week and not returning—which means he's missing math, science, and, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, physical education.”
“Teddy? This is about Teddy?”
“When I asked him about the situation, Theodore refused to give an explanation, other than to pose the hypothetical question: If I knew exactly what day I was going to die, would I do anything differently?”
Dr. JCMD looks perturbed about this. And I have to keep
myself from laughing. That definitely sounds like Teddy. When Mom sends him to his room as punishment, he usually mumbles something about Kierkegaard and trying to live spontaneously without being spontaneous. He's read that book
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
a hundred times.
I look at the copy of Teddy's schedule and the red lines indicating where he's cut class. It's a chart very familiar to me. And it's pretty easy to figure out what's going on—he's found a way to go and visit Mom in the hospital. Still, I'm not about to tell Dr. JCMD that.
“I understand there's been a death in the family and so I'm trying to be sensitive to his needs,” continues Dr. Collier. “I organized an appointment with a counselor, but he didn't show up. One of his friends offered some information that leads me to believe he's involved with a cult, which you know we have to take very seriously.”
“He's not in a cult,” I inform JCMD somewhat angrily. “Teddy just likes—what do you call it—metaphysics. He says he's a monist—a person who believes that everything in the universe is connected, or something along those lines.” I have plenty to worry about without keeping track of Teddy's philosophical musings. But I know enough to be sure that he doesn't fit into any loner gunman profile.
Dr. JCMD sits opposite me at his desk, stares directly into my eyes, and says, “I'm worried, Hallie.”
It's safe to assume that homeschooling is definitely not an option at this point in our lives. “He won't skip any more school,” I promise.
“I think that problems in the home are negatively impacting the education of your siblings.”
Now I'm really steamed. Because it's none of his business what goes on in our home. “I don't really think it's your concern what's going on so long as the kids are in school,” I say sharply.
“Quite the contrary,”
says JCMD, his voice becoming more slippery than eel snot. “The state of Ohio depends on its public school system to alert the authorities about any family problems such as neglect or drug and alcohol abuse, just to cite a few possibilities.”
It's like being on trial. “My mom will be home soon.”
Dr. Collier trains his steely gaze on me as if he's made a few phone calls and knows otherwise. “And in the meantime what qualifies you to take care of so many children?”
“I'm their sister!”
Dr. Collier turns his head away and sighs as if this just isn't good enough.
“What? Are you going to try and have all my brothers and sisters put into foster care?” My quivery voice betrays how upset I've become.
“There's always the option that they could go and live with relatives.”
“No one can take in seven kids!”
“Well, of course they'd have to be split up,” continues Dr. JCMD, and I think I catch the slight glimpse of a cruel smile.
It was two years in the making, but finally his revenge is in sight.
U
PON ARRIVING BACK AT THE HOUSE, I CAN'T HELP BUT THINK
about when I would return from school in the old days. There were freshly baked cookies on the kitchen counter, or else cake and ice cream left over from a birthday party the night before. The good thing about having a mother who bakes and a large family is that there's a terrific birthday cake almost every few weeks. And no matter how much Mom scrimped and saved on meals, she always made huge cakes with lots of frosting, carefully decorated, and served with at least two flavors of ice cream.
While changing the twins I study them intently for any sort of identifying marks. Nothing. Hopefully the hospital made fingerprints or footprints just in case we ever need to know for sure who they are. When I hoist them off the table, my shoulders ache a bit and I wonder if they're growing incredibly fast or I'm just getting incredibly old.
Next I change Lillian's pull-ups. I promise myself that starting tomorrow there will be a major effort to resuscitate Lillian's potty training, which has seriously lapsed during the past few weeks. Mom has a foolproof six-week program to convert any
child from diapers to underpants, only I'm not sure exactly how it works. Dad used to call it her Ministry of Potty Training.