Danny's Mom (17 page)

I put a plate on the counter and watched an egg roll slip off. “What makes you think I'm the one who's pulling away from Joe?”

“I didn't mean it like that. I'm not blaming you. I just want things to be good between you two. You need each other.”

“How do you know what I need, Dad? You always think you know what I need and how I feel. But … but you don't.”

I bit my lip as I filled the coffee pot and put the kettle on for Dad's tea. “You can't possibly know what I need,” I went on. “Sometimes I don't even know.”

“Then let me help you, honey. We'll figure it out together.”

“No, Dad. You can't always help me.”

“Sure I can. I always have, haven't I?”

“No,” I said softly. “You haven't always helped me. I know you've always tried, but you haven't always helped.”

“How can you say that? When haven't I been there to help you?”

“I didn't say you haven't always
tried
to help. What I said was you haven't always helped.”

“I don't understand, Beth.”

“So much of what you tell me is wrong, Dad. And you know what? I don't want to hear it anymore.” I turned on the water to muffle my sobs.

My father came over and placed a hand on my back. “Please, honey, come sit and tell me what you mean. Are you calling me a liar? I've never lied to you. Never.” He guided me to the table. “You sit right here now.” Dad placed me in my chair. “I'll get the coffee and tea, and we'll talk about this.”

I thought of Tina, puffed up with power in the hall by the art room. And Peter, his fisted hands on my desk. Then, through my tears, I pictured Joe leaning into the doorframe of the bathroom.
You've got to let Danny grow up already. You have to stop babying him. If it wasn't safe, do you think I'd let him
go?

Dad put a cup of coffee in front of me. He set down his tea. I watched steam curl up the spoon sitting in his mug. “Now what's all this about, Beth?”

I tried to pin my rage on something Dad had said, anything to explain my anger and the reason I chose to aim it at him. In the connect-the-dots drawings I had done as a girl, a picture always emerged. I searched for an image now, trying to connect the dots from Tina to Peter to Joe. The allegations. The put-downs. The reprimands. Their faces formed an ugly border around my thoughts. I connected the dots, and in the center, my father stood alone.

Hot coffee trickled down my throat, fueling the fury that threatened to explode. I put down my cup and looked at Dad, older now than an hour ago. His eyes glazed. Yet, I couldn't stop the volcano that was bubbling inside me. “You are a liar, Dad.” My words spewed like lava.

He jumped in his chair. “Please, Beth. You have to tell me what you're talking about. I don't understand what's happening. I've never, ever lied to you.”

“You do it all the time. And the sad thing is, I've always believed you.”

“Honey, please. Tell me what you mean.”

“You lie when you say you're always there for me, because nobody, not even you, Dad, can always be there for me.”

“But when haven't I been?”

“At school this morning. You weren't there when a student laced into me. And you weren't there when the assistant principal barged into my office.”

“But you could've called me, and we would've figured out what to do, how to make things better.”

“No! You can't always make everything better. No one can do that.”

“But I could help.”

“No, you can't. You wouldn't know how. You haven't done anything since you retired—except watch TV, hang out with Saul, and play poker. God, it makes me so angry. You never date. You probably can't even remember the last movie you saw. And when was the last time you read a book? Come on, Dad. You don't even have a life. So, how can you help me with mine?”

“You've
been my life, Beth. That's been enough for me. And I always thought you appreciated that.”

“But I can't be your whole life. I'm all grown up.”

“But you'll always be my little girl.”

I trembled as anger rushed through me. I had never stood up to my father, and I had never before wanted to shout
I'm not your little girl anymore!
“I have to be strong, Dad. I have to face problems by myself now.”

“I'm sorry, honey. Maybe you're right. Maybe I do too much for you. But it's just that I love you so much, and after your mother died, well … I just wanted to protect you, to take care of you.”

“But don't you see? You never gave me a chance to learn to take care of myself.” I softened my voice again. “You told me to be generous, to work hard, to respect others. You said people value integrity and honesty. And I believed you, Dad. I believed you. But now, I see it's all a big lie. Because now I'm up against people who don't give a damn about those things, and I don't even know how to deal with them.”

I moved to the sink and began rinsing dishes. The clatter of cleanup pushed my voice louder. “You made me believe that if I did the right thing, then everything would turn out fine. But life isn't a fairy tale. The good guys don't always win. And we all don't get to live happily ever after, do we?”

I looked at my father, who stared at the table. “I'm sorry, Beth. I've done the best I could. And if that wasn't good enough, then all I can say is, I'm sorry.” He swirled the spoon in his tea. “You know, there are plenty of people who wish they had the relationship you and I've always had. Remember how Rayanne used to love staying at our house, how she always said she wished her father cared for her the way I care for you?”

“Well, you know what? Turns out Rayanne's a helluva lot luckier than I am.” I pictured Rayanne with her boys. “Because she learned to take care of herself, and her kids aren't dead.”

Joe walked in, the empty beer bottle dangling from his hand. “Jesus! What's goin’ on in here?”

“I was just leaving,” Dad said. He carried his mug, still full, to the sink. “Beth's had a long day. I'm going home.”

Joe looked at me. “What's going on?”

“I don't want to talk to you now. I don't need another liar.”

“What are you talking about?”

My father answered. “Beth thinks everything I've taught her is a lie.”

“I don't understand,” Joe said.

My anger boiled. “Well, you should, ’cause you know all about lies.”

“What are you saying?”

“You told the biggest lie of all, Joe. You said it was safe for Danny to drive to Noah's.”

Chapter Nineteen

I
stayed in Danny's room again that night. The sound of Moose breathing finally lulled me to sleep. In the morning, Danny and Dad mixed in my thoughts. My explosion had lifted a weight, like Danny's barbells, from my chest. Yet the guilt that replaced it pumped acid into my gut.

I remembered Joe's building rule: Build it right the first time so you won't have to tear it down and start again. As I dressed for work, I worried about having to build a new relationship with my father.

I called him as soon as I got to my office—not even thinking about Peter's ban on personal calls, not stopping to go through the mail or to check my appointment book. Dad answered on the first ring. “Beth, are you all right?”

I'd expected anger. “I'm not sure, Dad. I'm … I'm just so sorry about last night. I never meant to take everything out on you.”

“It's okay, honey. I'm glad you called.”

I tried to find words to explain my behavior, but none came. After a moment, my father asked if I was calling from work.

“I do better when I keep busy,” I told him. “Too many memories in the house. They make me crazy sometimes, like last night. But I never should have exploded at you. I feel so bad about what I said. And you're not a liar, Dad. I don't know where all that anger came from.”

“Do you want me to tell you?” My father chuckled, assuring me I hadn't destroyed our relationship. “Or will you accuse me of pretending to know how you feel?”

“No. I won't accuse you of anything. Don't you think I did enough of that?”

“What you did last night was probably healthy.”

“You know, you're the only person who could take such a beating and then tell me he's glad I hit so hard.”

“That's because I'm your parent. I root for you even when I'm the opponent.”

A lump rose in my throat. I sipped my coffee, hoping to forestall tears. “I just wish I weren't so angry.”

“It's no wonder you're angry. You miss Danny. And you're angry about what's happening between you and Joe. I'm an easy target, honey. You know I'll always love you, no matter what you say.”

I pictured my father in his kitchen and wanted to be there with him—fixing his breakfast, pouring his tea.

“And Beth, I don't want you to be hard on yourself for last night. What's surprising is not that you got angry but that you've held yourself together for so long. You've been holding your feelings in ever since the accident. It's good you finally let some out.”

“I don't know, Dad. It's scary to explode like that.”

“I wish I knew someone you could talk to. Saul and Martha's daughter and son-in-law in Cleveland went to some counselor or therapist. Saved their marriage, Saul says. Maybe you and Joe need to see someone.”

“I don't think Joe'll go.”

“But you need help, honey. There's no harm in suggesting it.”

I was comforted by the recognition that my father hadn't dropped the reins of parenthood. Yet I knew he'd begin to loosen his grip.

Sue buzzed me as I pulled Dr. Goldstein's number from my wallet. “The student support team's waiting for you. Mr. Stone just called.” I stuck the pink paper in my desk and raced to the conference room.

“Mrs. Maller,” Peter said as I walked in, “glad you finally decided to join us.” I sandwiched myself between the school psychologist and Nevil Clark, a math teacher sporting a tan warm-up suit and stubble from a too-quick shave. Without looking at Peter, I addressed the group. “Sorry. I got held up.”

“Well, now that Mrs. Maller's graced us with her presence, we can finally begin,” Peter said. “And thank you all for your patience. I know how busy you are.”

Folders opened in unison, spilling Gary Johnson's math tests and interim reports. Peter tapped the table. “Mrs. Maller, we'll start with you. I assume you have report cards and standardized tests to help us understand Gary's trouble in math.” Peter fixed on the empty space in front of me.

“Well, I can talk about Gary without my folder, or I could run back to my office for it.”

“You know, Mrs. Maller,” Peter said, his voice brimming with condescension, “why don't you do just that? Go back to your office. But do us all a favor. Don't bother coming back.”

Without a word, I walked to the door. “Sorry to have wasted your time, folks,” I heard Peter tell the group. “Now that Mrs. Maller's left, we can start. Mr. Clark, let's begin with you.”

Back in my office, I held the pink sheet with Kate's and Dr. Goldstein's numbers. I called Kate first. “What's the matter, dear?” she said. “You sound upset.”

I told her about dinner with Dad. “And where was Joe while this was going on?” she asked. “Didn't he have dinner with you?”

“No. Most of the time he stayed upstairs.”

“Oh my. You two are in trouble, aren't you?” Kate paused, expecting an answer, then went on. “Beth, I do wish you'd call Dr. Goldstein.”

“I was just about to do that.”

“Good. He won't be surprised to hear from you. I told him you might be calling.” When had Kate spoken with him? And why had she talked about me? She had told me that she was in therapy with Dr. Goldstein three years ago. Was she still seeing him?

“Well, then,” I said to her, “let me call Dr. Goldstein now so I can get to work here.” Embarrassed by the situation with the student support team, I chose not to say anything about Meadow Brook. Never before had I forgotten a meeting. And never had I been so unprepared. I didn't need Kate to remind me of the spillover of grief. My behavior reminded me of it constantly.

“Oh, and one more thing, dear. How about lunch today? You sound as if you could use a friend. Why not come to my house?”

“I don't know, Kate. I always have lunch with Mrs. Harris, the art teacher.”

“But it's such a beautiful day. We could eat outside. The fresh air will do you a world of good. And anyhow, Mrs. Harris gets to see you every day at school. Surely she can share you this once.”

Kate's voice steadied my breathing. “You're right. I'd love to see you. What's a good time?”

Before I phoned Dr. Goldstein, I looked at the student support team agenda: three students to discuss after Gary Johnson. Two were Debra's; one was Steve's. Peter couldn't intrude for at least another hour.

Dr. Goldstein surprised me by picking up his phone. I had expected a secretary or an answering machine. “Kate Stanish said you might call.”

“Dr. Goldstein, I need help.” I sounded weepy.

“Kate told me about your loss. A son, wasn't it?”

“Yes. Danny. And I thought I was handling it, but last night I exploded. It scared me. And the awful thing was, I raged at the person I least wanted to hurt.”

“And who was that?”

“My father.”

Dr. Goldstein was silent for a moment. I pictured a man who looked like Tom, seated in a huge leather chair, balancing an oversized mug and an appointment book. “You're married, aren't you?”

“Yes. Though we're having problems.”

“I'd like to see you and your husband together, at least for one session, if you think that would be possible.”

I scheduled an appointment for the following week—an evening appointment, in case Joe said yes to attending. Then, walking the long way around the building to avoid the conference room, I went to see Callie. Her second period boys were in the computer room again, engrossed in battles of Air Warrior and Silent Death. The girls, serving as the ad hoc prom committee, sang to a CD. The paper mache volcano had been pushed to the rear of the room. Callie sat on the floor, helping Susanna Smith outline a lopsided palm tree. Both were shoeless, their sandals clustered, like coconuts, under fan-like fronds.

“Ah, our wandering helper has returned,” Callie called when she saw me. “Welcome to the luau production line. Kick off your shoes and color some leaves.”