The Life List (14 page)

“When’s the wedding?” Shelley interrupts.

I move faster, keeping my eyes on the sidewalk. Shelley’s the one person who would know that in a perfect world, I’d like to be married when I have a baby. “Marriage wasn’t on the life list.”

“I wasn’t asking about the list.”

Finally, I come to a halt and wipe the perspiration from my brow. “Truth is, Shel, I don’t know.”

“You need to tell Andrew he—”

I shake my head. “Look, life isn’t perfect. We’re all just getting through this journey as best we can. Admit it, Meg, you’re with Jimmy because you’re afraid of being poor.”

She scowls, but then shrugs. “You’re right. I’m basically a prostitute. But I can’t help it. I just hate working.”

“And face it, Shel, you’re miserable since you quit your job.” I sling an arm around her. “Honestly, I don’t know if Andrew’s going to marry me. But he is willing to do other things for me, important things, like have a baby. For now, maybe that’s enough.”

Shelley sniffs. “It’s that obvious I’m miserable?”

I smile. “Remember when I fell down the stairs at Mom’s funeral? Yes, I was wasted, but I was also trying to stuff my feet into shoes that didn’t fit. I worry that you’re trying to squeeze yourself into being a stay-at-home mom, when that’s clearly not the right fit for you.”

She looks up at me. “Yeah? Well I worry that you’re trying to squeeze yourself into a size Andrew, when he’s clearly not the right fit for you.”

Touché. If I had the guts, I’d admit that I worry, too. I’d confess that sometimes, when Andrew’s distant and I’m lonely, I wonder if there’s still enough time to meet someone else before next September, someone I could fall in love and have babies with. But of course, there’s not. I wonder what my mother would think if she knew that her little plan has made me more dependent on Andrew than ever.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

M
y first days on the job pass in a blurry haze. Since Wednesday I’ve been tagging along with Eve Seibold, the sixty-something who’ll be vacating the position as soon as she thinks I’m the least bit competent. So far, she hasn’t mentioned a date. We sit in the homebound office on the third floor of the administration building Friday afternoon. Compared with the spacious suite I had at Bohlinger Cosmetics, this cement-block room feels like a custodian’s closet. But a nice window overlooks East 35th Street, and after I fill the ledge with my mother’s potted geraniums, the place looks almost cheery.

I sit at the computer table perusing student files while Eve cleans out her desk. “Ashley Dickson sounds pretty straightforward,” I say. “Two more weeks of maternity leave and she’ll go back to school.”

Eve chuckles. “Trust me, they’re never straightforward.”

I set aside Ashley’s file and open another, this one for a sixth-grader. “Mental illness at age eleven?”

“Ah, Peter Madison.” Eve pulls two notebooks from her desk and crams them into a cardboard box. “Crazy as a bedbug. His shrink wants to talk to you. Dr. Garrett Taylor. He’s got a signed release from Peter’s mom.” She points to a phone number scrawled on the top of the folder. “The doc’s number’s right there.”

I flip through the file and land on Peter’s psychiatric report. Acts of aggression in the classroom … expulsion for the remainder of the semester. And I was worried about shabby houses? “What’s wrong with him?”

“LSS,” she tells me. “Little Shit Syndrome.” She pulls a smashed Twinkie from the back of her drawer, contemplates it for a moment, and then chucks it into the metal waste can. “Dr. Taylor calls it conduct disorder, but I’m no fool. The kid’s just like hundreds of others from these parts of Chicago. No dad, family history of substance abuse, not enough attention, yada, yada, yada.”

“But he’s just a kid. He should be in school. They can’t deny him his education.”

“That’s where you come in. Give him homebound services twice a week and he’s considered educated. Illinois Public Act Ninety-something-or-other. Make sure you call Dr. Taylor before you leave tonight. He’ll fill you in.”

B
y the time I’ve finished reading all seven student files, it’s almost six o’clock. Eve left an hour ago, taking with her two large boxes crammed with everything from candy dishes to framed photos of her grandchildren. I gather my notes and my purse, suddenly anxious to start my weekend, too. Just as I’m about to turn out the lights, I remember I’m supposed to call Peter’s psychiatrist. Damn. I trudge back to my desk. At this hour on a Friday,
he’ll be gone, but I’ll feel better if I leave a quick voice mail. I punch in his number and mentally rehearse the message I’ll leave.

“Garrett Taylor,” a melodious baritone answers.

“Oh … hello. I, um, I wasn’t expecting you to answer. I was planning to leave you a message.”

“Another ten minutes and you would have. How can I help you?”

“My name is Brett Bohlinger. I’m the new homebound teacher. I’ll be working with Peter Madison.”

“Ah, yes, Brett. Thank you for calling.” He chuckles. “You were expecting my voice mail; I was expecting a male voice.”

I smile. “Good one. Just one of the pitfalls of having a man’s name.”

“I like it. Isn’t there a Hemingway character named Brett?”

I lean back in my chair, impressed that he’s made the connection. “Yes, Lady Brett Ashley from
The Sun Also Rises
. My mother—” I realize I’m rambling. Do psychiatrists have this effect on everyone? “I’m sorry. You’re about to leave. Let me get to the point.”

“Take your time. I’m in no rush.”

His voice has a friendly, familiar tone, and I feel like I’m talking to an old chum rather than a medical doctor. I grab a piece of paper and lift my pen. “I’m calling about this student, Peter Madison. What can you tell me about him?”

I hear what sounds like Dr. Taylor settling back in his chair. “Peter is a very unusual boy. He’s extremely bright, but very manipulative. From what I understand, he was wreaking havoc in his classroom. The school district wanted a complete psychiatric workup, which is why they enlisted my help. I’ve only been working with him since September, so you and I will both be learning about Peter as we go.”

He tells me of Peter’s escapades in the classroom, everything from bullying a student with cerebral palsy, to tormenting the classroom hamster, to cutting a student’s hair.

“He gets pleasure from the reaction he receives from others. He enjoys inflicting emotional pain. In fact, he’s highly stimulated by it.”

Outside the wind howls and I wrap my sweater across my chest. “What caused him to be this way? Was he abused or something?”

“His mother is somewhat limited, but seems to be concerned. Dad’s not in the picture, so there could be some emotional trauma associated with that. Or it’s possible Peter’s psychological disturbances are simply the result of an unfortunate genetic endowment.”

“You mean he was just born this way?”

“It’s possible.”

Nothing I’ve read in
What to Expect When You’re Expecting
has touched on this. I imagine a chapter titled “Unfortunate Genetic Endowments.”

“But you’ll find that Peter can be quite charming when he wants to be.”

“Really? Like when he’s putting scissors to my hair?”

He chuckles. “I’m afraid I’ve frightened you. You’ll do fine. You sound very capable.”

Uh-huh. So capable my mother fired me.

“You’ll be the eyes and ears of the house, which will be extremely helpful. I’d like you to call me after each visit. Is that possible?”

“Yes, I can do that. Eve and I are supposed to see him Monday.”
Unless I can come up with an excuse
.

“My last session ends at five on Monday. Would you be able to call me sometime after that?”

“Sure,” I say, but his words barely register. Every cell in my brain is consumed with the fact that in three days, I’m going to be teaching the future Hannibal Lecter.

——

I
take special care dressing Monday morning, finally opting for a pair of navy wool slacks to match the heather-gray cashmere sweater my mother bought me last Christmas. Not only do I want to make a good impression on my new students today, I also want to look my best when I meet Carrie. I think about her all the way to my office, hoping work goes smoothly and Eve doesn’t yammer endlessly at the end of the day. I want plenty of time to get to McCormick Place and find the restaurant in the Hyatt before Carrie arrives.

When I get to my office, I learn that Eve’s chatter would have been the least of my problems. Mr. Jackson, my supervisor, finds me before I’ve even turned on my computer.

“Eve called this morning,” he says, his large frame filling the doorway to my office. “She had a family emergency and won’t be back. But she’s confident you’ll be fine on your own. She told me to wish you luck.” He gives me a terse nod. “Good luck.”

I shoot from my desk, snagging my sweater on the splintered edge of my desk. So much for good impressions. “But Eve was going to introduce me to the students today, help me get the hang of things.”

“I’m sure you can manage. Did you drive or take the bus?”

“I-I drove.”

“Well then, you’re all set.” He turns to leave. “Be sure to keep track of your mileage. We do reimburse you, you know.”

Mileage reimbursement? I don’t give a rip about mileage. My life’s at stake! I trail him as he walks away.

“Mr. Jackson, wait. We have this student, Peter Madison. He sounds like he could be trouble. I don’t think I should see him alone.”

When he wheels around, the crease between his brows is angled like a tree branch. “Ms. Bohlinger, I’d love to provide a personal bodyguard for you, but unfortunately our budget won’t allow it.”

I open my mouth to object, but he’s already marching back to his office, leaving me alone to gnaw on my thumbnail.

M
y first student today is Amina Adawe, a third-grader who lives on South Morgan. I’m shocked when I spy an abandoned tenement with Amina’s house number dangling above the entry door. I slow to a stop. People actually live in this place? The splintered door pushes open and a toddler waddles out, followed by a woman gabbing on her cell phone, dressed like she’s ready to go clubbing. Apparently, they do.

I make my way up the cracked sidewalk, thinking of my private office at Bohlinger Cosmetics, with its lush green plants and my little fridge stocked with fruit and bottled water. A familiar anger rises in me. Why has my mother placed me in this predicament?

I take a deep breath and, using my coat sleeve, twist the doorknob. Before stepping inside I look around one more time, as if it might be my final glimpse.

It’s murky and dank in the narrow hallway, and stinks of dirty diapers and garbage. I worm my way down the hallway, littered with food wrappers and cigarette butts. Rap music blares so loudly from one of the units I swear the floor is palpitating. Please tell me it this isn’t Amina’s apartment.

The apartment numbers on this floor are double digits. Amina’s unit, number four, must be in the basement. My heart pounds in my chest and I inch down a flight of stairs. Who’d ever find me if I disappeared inside this hellhole? How long must I keep this damn job before I can convince Brad to check it off my list? Another week, I decide—two at the most. By Thanksgiving I’m finished.

I reach the bottom of the stairwell. An exposed lightbulb overhead flickers, creating a frenetic light show. From behind the
closed door of apartment number two, obscenities storm me, ugly and foul. I freeze. I’m just about to race back up the steps when a door swings open at the end of the hall. A thin woman with caramel skin and kind gold eyes appears, a silk hijab covering her hair.

“I-I’m looking for apartment four,” I enunciate slowly, holding out my staff ID. “Amina Adawe. I’m her teacher.”

She smiles and waves me inside. When she closes the door behind us, the shouting and stench vanish. The tidy apartment smells of baked chicken and exotic spices. She nods when I remove my shoes, and leads me into the living room where a tiny girl rests on a threadbare sofa, her plastered leg propped on pillows.

“Hello, Amina. I’m Miss Brett. I’ll be your teacher while you’re recuperating.”

Her dark eyes take me in bit by bit. “You very pretty,” she says with a lovely Arabic accent.

I smile. “You are, too.”

She tells me in broken English that she moved here from Somalia last winter, that she had one leg that was too short, so the doctor fixed it. She’s very sad to be missing school.

I pat her hand. “We’ll work together. When you return to school, you’ll be right on track with the rest of the class. Shall we begin with reading?”

I pull her reading text from my leather bag and a small boy rushes into the room. He clutches the cotton fabric of his mother’s jilbāb.

“Hello,” I say. “What’s your name?”

He peeks at me from behind his mother’s dress and whispers, “Abdulkadir.”

I repeat the multisyllabic mouthful and he blossoms into dimples. Amina and her mother giggle, their faces ripe with pride. With Amina propped on the bed and her brother sitting on his
mother’s lap, the three sit rapt while I read a story about a princess who couldn’t cry. They study the pictures, stop to ask questions, giggle and clap.