The Choice (28 page)
“It has energy,” Sandy said, spearing a peach slice with her fork.
“Push them hard,” Patty added. “Especially Tameka. I want you to get her heart rate into the training zone and stay there.”
“She pushes herself and the other girls,” Sandy replied. “She has springs for legs.”
“Which is why she's going to compete for a conference title in the 400-meter intermediate hurdles.”
While they were talking, Sandy saw Carol come into the cafeteria. She tried to catch the counselor's eye, but Carol didn't look in her direction. Patty finished and left Sandy alone with Kelli.
“Have you had much contact with Carol Ramsey?” Sandy asked in a low voice.
“A little. Why?”
“I took a student to see her for counseling this morning.”
“She cares about the kids,” Kelli replied. “But she's territorial, very territorial.”
“That's what I picked up on,” Sandy said, nodding. “The student trusts me, and I felt like Carol wanted to cut me out of the loop.”
“Counseling is her area of expertise.” Kelli shrugged. “How would you feel if she barged into your classroom and started lecturing on Emily Dickinson's fixation with death?”
“You know about that?”
“Remember, English is my native language.” Kelli smiled. “And I saw the title of the paper Meredith was writing for your class.”
Carol emerged from the food line and joined a table of younger teachers.
“You're right,” Sandy said. “I can't assume I know the best way to help a student in trouble.”
“But you're one of the people I'd want my daughter to talk to if she was in a mess and didn't feel comfortable coming to me about it.”
“You're sweet.” Sandy smiled. “But Cathy never got within a hundred yards of serious trouble. How is she doing in college?”
Instead of going to the faculty lounge during her free period, Sandy stayed in her classroom to grade papers. Hearing footsteps, she glanced up and saw Maria standing in the doorway. The Hispanic girl looked forlorn and alone.
“Come in, come in,” Sandy said, putting down her red pen. “I'm glad to see you.”
Maria sat in a student desk across from Sandy.
“How was your visit to the health department?”
“Okay.”
“Did they give you another pregnancy test?”
“It was yes. The woman who talked to me said seven or eight weeks.”
Sandy had a sudden flashback to Dr. Braselton's office.
“Just getting started,” Sandy said, as much to herself as to Maria.
“Ms. Ramsey is going to take me to see a doctor in Atlanta,” Maria continued. “We go there next Tuesday.”
“Atlanta?” Sandy asked in surprise. “There are at least three doctors in Rutland who take care of pregnant women.”
“Ms. Ramsey says the doctor in Atlanta will not cost any money.”
“Oh,” Sandy said, then had an idea. “Does your father have health insurance that pays for you to go to the doctor through his work?”
Maria opened her backpack and took out a brown leather wallet with the stitching coming loose. She handed Sandy a ragged yellow card.
“Yes,” Sandy said. “This proves that you have health insurance and can probably see a doctor in Rutland. Atlanta is a long way to travel for prenatal care.”
“Prenatal care?” Maria asked slowly.
“A doctor to help until the baby is born.”
Sandy handed the insurance card back to Maria.
“Did you show Ms. Ramsey this card?”
“No, she didn't ask me for it.”
“I think you should let Ms. Ramsey see the card and tell her you'd like to see a doctor in Rutland.”
“Okay.”
Maria sat silently. Sandy wished she could open the teenage girl's mind, climb inside, and help her sort out her thoughts.
“Is there anything else you want to talk to me about?” Sandy asked.
“Ms. Ramsey says a woman from the police is going to ask me questions. Do I have to talk to the police if I do not want to?”
Sandy was on shaky ground. She suspected Maria had the right to remain silent, but to do so might not be in the girl's best interest.
“Why are you afraid to talk to the police?”
“I want to stay in school here.”
The great unspoken threat of illegal immigration status hanging over the heads of many Hispanic students was now out in the open.
“I see,” Sandy said. “Does your father have a green card?”
“Yes.”
“Then what are you worried aboutâ”
Sandy stopped at the realization that Maria's fear of the police might not be limited to deportation of herself and other family members. Something worse might be lurking in the darkness.
“The police probably can't make you talk to them,” Sandy said slowly. “But it might be good if you do.”
Maria covered her face with her hands for a moment.
“I don't want to.”
“When does Ms. Ramsey want you to talk to the police?”
“I don't know. Please tell her I can't do it.”
“Let me see if I can find out some answers for you.”
Maria brightened a little bit. She glanced around the room.
“Can I stay here until the end of school?”
“Aren't you supposed to be in your sixth-period class?”
“Yes, but I cannot think about my schoolwork right now.”
Sandy didn't have the heart to make the girl walk in late to class and then waste her time staring out the window.
“Okay, but just this once. You can't do this again.”
“Thank you.” Maria smiled shyly. “I feel happy and safe when I am in your room.”
Sandy gave her a kind look. “I like to be with you too.”
S
andy spent much of her late-afternoon walk with Nelson praying for and thinking about Maria. The girl was still on Sandy's mind later when she pulled into Ben and Betsy's driveway.
Her brother and his wife may not have bought a house on Millionaires' Row, but the residence they purchased was far from a shanty. The large brick home was on a cul-de-sac in the middle of a tract of land that fanned out behind the house for more than five hundred feet. A wooded area was filled with wildlife: squirrels, raccoons, owls, pileated woodpeckers, and deer. When Sandy spent the night, she enjoyed getting up early in the morning to drink coffee in the sunroom as deer grazed at the edge of the woods.
Sandy, Ben, and Jack Lincoln dutifully trudged through life with a strong sense of perfectionism inherited from their mother. Betsy married into the Lincoln family but didn't adopt the same attitude toward life. Wisps of her brown hair were often out of place, and it wasn't uncommon for a guest to have to move a partially read magazine or section of the newspaper from a chair before sitting down. The casual clutter of the house made Sandy's mother's jaw clench when she came to visit. Betsy didn't seem to notice, or if she did, to care.
Sandy rang the doorbell. Within seconds she heard the deep-throated bark of Ben's dog, Ginger, a female Rottweiler with a huge head. Ben opened the door. He resembled their father in the prime of life before old age zapped his vitality.
“Come in so Ginger can sniff you,” Ben said. “You could have brought Nelson.”
Sandy entered the foyer. The dog sneezed on her foot.
“The last time I brought Nelson for a play date he was traumatized for the next twenty-four hours,” she said. “Ginger can knock him over with one paw and hold him down on the floor while eating a bowl of dog food.”
Finished with her inspection of Sandy, Ginger trotted over to a huge plaid dog bed and lay down. Her mouth opened in a massive yawn.
“Betsy is in the kitchen,” Ben said.
Sandy followed Ben through a wood-paneled den and into a large formal dining room. The shiny table in the dining room was covered with piles of used clothes.
“What's going on?” Sandy asked.
“Those are going to Mexico. Betsy is sorting through everything that's been donated. There are bags of shoes in the garage. A group from the church is going to take everything when they leave on a mission trip in a couple of weeks.”
Ben and Betsy attended a large nondenominational church. Sandy occasionally visited the church, especially when her nephews were in a play or music program.
The kitchen was beyond the dining room. Betsy, wearing an aqua-colored cotton top that was partially tucked into her jeans, stood at the stove with her back to them. She was barefoot. Her toenails were painted bright red.
“Sandy, help!” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “I feel like I'm making stone soup and no one has brought anything except the stone and a handful of turnips.”
Sandy joined her at the stove. There was a wonderful aroma rising from the pot.
“It smells great. Is that a chicken stock?”
“Yes, but taste it.”
Betsy handed a spoon to Sandy, who took a sip and licked her lips.
“Add a few twists of white pepper and a dash or two of Tabasco sauce. It's a good base; it just needs some kick.”
“You do it,” Betsy said, stepping away from the stove. “I don't want to ruin it.”
Sandy knew her way around Betsy's kitchen. She found the ingredients in a cupboard, added them to the pot, and stirred.
“Try it now,” she said to Betsy, who was brewing iced tea.
Betsy dipped her spoon in the pot and lifted it to her lips. A smile creased her face, making her green eyes shine.
“That's sublime. We'll eat as soon as the corn bread comes out of the oven.”
Betsy was from south Alabama and made the best corn bread on the planet. She baked it in miniature pans that yielded a dainty loaf for each person. Her corn bread was fluffy with a hint of sweetness. Mayonnaise was one of her secret ingredients.
“That's why I invited you over,” Ben said to Sandy from a chair in the breakfast nook where he was reading the local paper. “It's the only way I'm guaranteed corn bread for supper.”
“You get it every time the boys come home,” Betsy said.
“Which isn't enough,” Ben answered.
“What do you hear from them?” Sandy asked.
“Mark gets up at six every morning to beat the worst of Atlanta rush-hour traffic on his way to work,” Betsy said. “Robbie has trouble getting out of bed in time for a ten o'clock class.”
“His time will come,” Ben said.
They ate in the breakfast nook. Sandy's youngest brother, Jack, lived in Chicago with his wife and two teenage daughters. Sandy and Ben had always been close, and since Sandy didn't have a husband, Ben had slipped into the role of trusted male adviser. Betsy didn't seem to mind sharing her husband with his older sister.
“The pepper and Tabasco really helped the soup,” Betsy said after she ate a couple of bites.
“But the corn bread is what makes the meal,” Ben said, cutting his second loaf in two. “Baby, you're the reason God gave us cornmeal to eat.”
“Speaking of babies, a pregnant student sought me out yesterday,” Sandy said before swallowing a spoonful of soup.
“How old is she?” Betsy asked.
“Barely sixteen. She's from a Hispanic family and won't identify the father of the child. Her mother was murdered in Mexico when she was just a little girl.”
“How horrible! What are you going to do to help her?”
“I'm not sure. And I'm concerned she might not get the best advice from one of the counselors at the school. I took her to the woman and got the feeling she wanted to cut me out of the loop.”
“Take it up with Dr. Vale,” Ben said.
Sandy shook her head. “I'm not sure that's a good idea. When he spoke to the faculty at the beginning of the year, he made it clear that the counselors are the ones to help students with serious personal problems. But this student has legal issues too. The police want to talk to her about the circumstances surrounding the pregnancy. She doesn't want to say anything, and I'm not sure that's what she ought to do. Do you think she should talk to an attorney?”
Ben spread a thick pat of butter on a piece of corn bread.
“Any lawyer would say yes,” he said, “but that's self-serving. You could take her in to see Ralph Hartness.”
“He writes wills,” Betsy interjected. “What would he know about pregnant teenage girls?”
Ben took a bite of corn bread and chewed thoughtfully for a moment.
“I've met a sharp young lawyer in Tryon. I wrote a life insurance policy for him several years ago when he was in the district attorney's office. Since then, he's gone out on his own and seems to be doing well. He's increased the amount of his insurance twice since he first took it out.”
“Does he have a specialty?” Sandy asked.
“I'm not sure, but he goes to court, and somebody as young as he is should still remember how to do research. Betsy's right. Ralph Hartness probably never cracks a law book.”
“I like the idea of meeting with someone who isn't in Rutland,” Sandy said. “But I'm not sure how I'll get the girl to Tryon.”