The Girls of No Return (24 page)

“Yeah,” I said. I didn't tell her that I had dreamed of New York City, my dad and Terri hand in hand in Central Park, a small child walking in front of them, clutching a Raggedy Ann doll and kicking at the leaves with green rubber boots. I had woken up sweating, my nails digging into my palm, knuckles white.

There was no one else from the cabin at our table. Boone, having come back from Ben's lookout late in the night, had risen early and was gone again before any of us woke up. Karen and her parents were at their meeting with Bev. And, from where I sat, I could just make out Gwen and her mother as they stood outside, both of them smoking long, thin cigarettes. They didn't appear to be speaking.

“Morning, Lida.” My dad nodded at me and then resumed looking around the room anxiously. No doubt he was wondering when I would break down and do something stupid, like pour syrup over my own head. I looked at the syrup bottle. I thought about it.

“Well, little ladies, it appears as though the tide has shifted.” Jules's dad spoke in a fake western drawl, and he winked at me and Jules. “The natives are getting restless.”

“Morning, hun,” Jules's mom said, reaching over to pluck a stray hair from her daughter's shirt.

“Where's Westy?” Jules asked.

“He's in the dorm. You know that dogs aren't allowed in the Mess Hall.” She looked truly apologetic.

“Not for lack of trying,” her dad added. “That Bev is a hard nut to crack.”

“Good thing she's not here, then,” I said, looking pointedly toward the window, where we could all make out the plume of smoke from Gwen's cigarette. “I wonder what she'd say about
that
.”

(The teachers who
were
in the Mess Hall were clearly pretending to have lost the gift of sight. I assumed that some parents, like Gwen's mom, were just as protective of their daughters' right to smoke as they were of their own right to, say, have a screwdriver every morning with breakfast.)

I sat next to my dad at the large round table. Terri was on his other side. I reached over and grabbed an English muffin from the cornucopia of pastries, pancakes, and assorted pork products that had been laid out in the center.

“This is not how we normally eat, you know,” I said as I smothered each side in butter and honey. “I haven't seen this much food since last Thanksgiving.”

“I'm sure it's not that bad,” said Terri. Even this subtle reprimand seemed to lack its usual gusto. She must have slept quite poorly.

The three of us ate quietly, letting the ambient sounds of other people's arguments wash over us. Jules and her parents were talking too, but I didn't pay much attention to them. Having my dad and Terri at Alice Marshall was as exhausting as a ten-mile hike, and I was famished.

After breakfast, some of the parents and their grumbling daughters made their way over to the parking lot, where, true to Boone's word, a number of horses were stamping the ground in anticipation of a trail ride. Luckily, I was spared a humiliating encounter with a saddle. It was time for our meeting with Bev.

First, though, we had to stop by the guest dorm so that Terri could grab a sweater. That woman does not engage with the elements very well. She is always too cold, too warm, too tired. Too much. I was thinking about this as my dad and I waited outside of the dorm, our hands stuffed in our pockets because, really, it was a bit chilly.

“Lida.” My dad interrupted my thoughts. “You do look well. I mean, you look happier. Well-adjusted. Terri and I have noticed that.”

“Thanks,” I said. “It must be the result of being surrounded by so many well-adjusted role models.”

My dad appeared not to notice the sarcasm in my voice. “Well, whatever it is, it's working.”

“Just a few more years here, and I'll be ready to reenter the world on a part-time basis.”

“Don't be like that. You've made huge strides here. Lots of things to be proud of. The only thing I wish . . .” He looked away uncomfortably.

I sighed. “What?”

“I just wish that you would try a little with Terri.” It was as though he recognized the futility of what he was saying as soon as he said it, and he shook his head sadly, closing his eyes for a brief moment.

“She doesn't —” I began, but he interrupted me.

“I don't need to hear about it anymore. I love you, Lida, but this has been going on for too long.” His voice was weary, but he continued. “She is trying. She has always been trying. I wish you could see that and appreciate it. If you could just give her the chance to be the mom that she wants to be to you —”

“Whatever,” I said. “Thanks for the input. I'll keep it in mind the next time I find myself in a Disney Channel miniseries.”

Terri came out of the dorm then with a white sweater draped over her shoulders, and we walked the rest of the way to Bev's cabin without saying a word.

When we entered, Bev was sitting in the same chair that she had sat in on my first day at the school. After she stood to shake my dad's and Terri's hands, she gestured to the couch in front of her and we all sat down. Bev crossed one ankle over another. I could see that she was wearing argyle socks beneath her gray slacks.

“Mr. and Mrs. Wallace,” Bev began, “thank you for coming to Parents' Weekend. I think it's important for the girls to reconnect with their families at certain times during their enrollment at Alice Marshall.” She smiled in turn at my dad, Terri, and me, her head swinging between each of us like a metronome, and then she went on. “I believe that it offers the girls the chance to reexamine old patterns of behavior that may have been destructive or have had an otherwise negative impact on their home life. For those reasons, I thank you for taking the time to come here.” She lifted a folder from the table next to her and opened it. “Before we begin, do you have any questions for me?”

My dad leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees. “Only whether Lida is making progress,” he said, “and whether she's enjoying herself.” He laughed as though he had made some sort of joke.

Bev apparently did not think it was funny. “Don't worry,” she said, “we will be addressing those concerns.” She looked down at the folder. “Let's see what the teachers say, shall we? ‘Lida is doing as well as can be expected in most of her classes,' ” she read aloud.

As well as can be expected?
What, did I have some strange disability that I didn't know about? As well as can be expected, given the polio. As well as can be expected, with the three arms and all.

Bev continued. “ ‘Lida shows extremely strong orienteering skills and is willing to work as a team member.' ” She glanced up. “All fine so far. Good, in fact. Not everyone is a team player here, as I am sure you can imagine.”

My dad smiled uncomfortably. Terri did too, though because she was always smiling uncomfortably, it didn't make that much of an impact.

“It says here that Lida has difficulty talking about her problems with others. That is certainly something that we insist upon, and while she hasn't been here for a great deal of time, it has been long enough that she should be participating in our larger discussion groups.” Bev had a concerned expression on her face, the way a mechanic might look at a man who had just brought in a junker that he hadn't bothered to repair for a number of years.

“Lida?” My dad turned to me. “What's going on? Why aren't you participating?”

This was exasperating. Surely they didn't expect me to open up then and there, divulging my feelings like I had just been waiting to be asked. I reverted back to the tried-and-true shrug.

My dad shrugged right back at me. “That's your answer? That's not good enough.” He was tensing up, I could see. Old patterns of behavior, indeed.

Bev interrupted. “Let's ask Lida to use her words.”

Use her words?
Well, if that's how they saw me . . .

“Bottle,” I said. “Ga-ga.” I stuck my thumb in my mouth, and took it out again. “Binkie.”

“Lida Renee!” my dad said. Bev sat back, frowning at me. On my left, however, I heard a short burst of laughter that was quickly muffled. I looked over at Terri, who had a hand clapped over her mouth. She wouldn't make eye contact with me. Everything up to that moment had followed the familiar script that dominated all of my conversations with my dad. Terri's laughter, however?
That
was new.

Bev pointedly ignored Terri's outburst. She addressed me directly. “I know that these kinds of conversations can be uncomfortable,” she said, “but they are a necessary aspect of your education here. Your refusal to participate in the discussion group is reflecting poorly on your performance at Alice Marshall. What do you think that means?”

My first impulse was to say something sarcastic (“I guess this means that I won't make Varsity this year”), but this was Bev I was talking to, not my dad. So I hedged my bets. “I don't know,” I said.

“It means that we will have to deduce that you are not getting the skills you need in order to reenter your home life with confidence. It means that I have to encourage you to remain here until you acquire those skills.” She addressed this last bit to my dad and Terri.

It was obvious that Bev thought this was a pretty good threat. She probably used it in most of her meetings, thinking that it would whip the girls into shape. How funny that, of all the people who worked at Alice Marshall, the director would be the most oblivious. Oh no! I would have to stay longer! I wouldn't be able to go home!
Why
did Bev think that any of us would ever want to go home? What did she think we were eager to return to?

Nevertheless, I made the requisite sad face, as though I had been hoping that this meeting would signal my release from the school. My dad and Terri made their sad faces too. They were probably just as relieved as I was.

 

We passed Jules and her parents as we left. Jules's mother was smiling and talking to Westy in a high-pitched baby voice as the dog ran in wide circles around their moving feet. Jules gave me a little wave as she disappeared into Bev's cabin.

We had some time before the vans were supposed to leave: two hours and seven minutes, not that I was counting. We got coffee from the Mess Hall (where a gaggle of ostracized mothers sat hunched over their mugs, speaking to one another in furious whispers), and then we stood outside looking at Bob, the bell, anywhere but at one another.

When Margaret walked by, my dad raised his arm in a jaunty wave. She came over to us, smiling broadly and adjusting the sleeves of her sweater. “Mr. and Mrs. Wallace,” she said, “I hope you're enjoying your time with Lida.”

“We are, we are,” said my dad. “And are you —” He fumbled, clearly unsure of how to proceed.
Are you enjoying yourself as well? Are you having fun with Lida too?
He laughed at himself and changed the subject. “You teach the Outdoor Ed class, right?”

“Sure do,” said Margaret.

“You don't know by chance where the English teacher is, do you? I'd love to hear more about the play Lida was in.” If he'd been that kind of dad and I'd been that kind of daughter, I'm sure he would have given me one of those classic awkward-slash-proud side-hugs at that point. “Sounds like a fun project, though I have to say” — he chuckled — “I'm surprised that they took it so far, you know, asking the girls to cut their hair.”

“Ah,” said Margaret. She looked at me, a microburst of laughter in her eyes. Then she turned to my dad and smiled blandly. “You know, I think she went on the mail run. But yes, Lida does have a wonderful acting instinct, doesn't she?”

I looked away, trying not to laugh.

“Must run,” said Margaret, gesturing toward the Mess Hall. “I'm on cleanup duty today.”

Obviously, that included cleaning up our little white lies. We watched her walk away, her sweater hanging bulkily over her tiny frame.

“Great teacher, that Margaret,” said my dad. “I was glad to hear Bev say that you're doing well in her Outdoors class.” He had his hands in the pockets of his jeans, and he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet while he talked. “You know, Margaret told me privately yesterday that you're her star pupil. She said you have a real facility for orienteering.”

I stared at him. Margaret said that? “I just pay attention,” I said. “You'd have to be pretty stupid to get lost with a map.”

“Is that so.” My dad chuckled. “I might beg to differ. You're looking at the most inept Boy Scout to ever set foot in the wilderness. I couldn't find my way out of a shoe box when I was your age.” He shook his head. “You must have gotten your outdoor skills from your mother. She always knew just where to go —” He stopped suddenly.

There was a long moment during which my dad's face turned red and I looked above his forehead to the web of branches on an old pine tree. Had he really just said that? I thought about changing the subject, saving us from this awkward conversation, but I couldn't; I had to know.

“She did?” I asked, my voice scratchy.

He looked at me and spoke slowly. “She did. Your mother used to lead backpacking trips in Alaska before we got married. Didn't you know that?” Then he blushed and spoke softly, as though to himself. “Well. How would you?”

Whenever I thought about my mother, I imagined her in a series of black-and-white photographs that I'd never actually seen but had developed in my mind anyway. My mother and father, dancing on their wedding day. My mother at the sink in a farmhouse where I'm sure they never lived, washing tomatoes, her hair in a bandanna. My mother in the hospital, holding me in a blanket. My mother walking out the door, locking it behind her. To these pictures I now added a new one: a young woman with a backpack, standing on the crest of a mountain and holding her hand to shield her eyes as she surveyed the wilderness below. A young woman with shorter hair, a crooked smile. A woman who looked like me.