Where'd You Go, Bernadette: A Novel (8 page)

Before you write me off as the Girl Who Cried Real-Time Flash!, listen to this.

As I told you, Elgin, Pablo, and I had a lunch meeting downtown. Elgin insisted we take the 888 Shuttle. (Which, it turns out, is no different from the Connector. All these years I’d imagined the doors opening and it looking like the inside of a genie’s bottle or something.) There was construction downtown, so when we got to the corner of Fifth and Seneca, traffic had completely stopped. Elgin said it would be faster to walk. It was pouring buckets, but it wasn’t my place to argue so I followed them off the shuttle.

Now, Audrey, you’re always talking about God’s plan. For the first time, I understand what you mean. I would have thought God was forsaking me when he made me walk three blocks in the pouring rain. But it turns out there was something on that third block that God intended me to see.

Elgin, Pablo, and I were scurrying along Fourth Avenue, heads down, clutching closed our hoods over our faces. I happened to glance up, and what do I see? Bernadette Fox asleep in a pharmacy.

I repeat, Bernadette Fox just lying on a couch with her eyes closed in the middle of a compound pharmacy. She might as well have been in the window at Nordstrom for all of Seattle to see. She wore dark glasses, trousers and loafers, a men’s shirt with silver cuff links, and some kind of vest underneath her raincoat. Also, she was clutching a fancy purse with one of her silk scarves tied to it.

Pablo and Elgin were up ahead on the corner, turning in circles, wondering where I had gone. Elgin spotted me and marched over, looking irate.

“I—” I stammered, “I’m sorry—” It was my first day on the job. Whatever was going on with Bernadette, I wanted no part of it. I ran to catch up, but it was too late. Elgin had already looked in the window. His face went white. He pulled open the door and went inside.

By this time, Pablo had come over. “Elgin’s wife is asleep in there,” I explained.

“It’s really coming down,” Pablo said. He smiled and refused to turn his head toward the pharmacy.

“I already know what I’m going to order for lunch,” I said. “The salt-and-pepper calamari. It’s not on the menu, but they make it for you if you ask.”

“Sounds good,” he said. “I’m probably going to have to check out the menu before I order.”

Finally, Elgin came out, looking shaky. “Change my flight to D.C.,” he said. “I want to leave in the morning.”

I wasn’t completely up to speed on Elgin’s schedule. But I did know his presentation was in D.C. at four p.m. I opened my mouth to explain that with the time difference—

“Just—” he said.

“Fine.”

Then, wouldn’t you know, a Connector passed by. Elgin darted into traffic and stopped it. He conferred with the driver, then waved me over. “He’s taking you back to Redmond,” Elgin said. “S-plus me my new itinerary.”

What choice did I have? I boarded the shuttle. Pablo did bring me back an order of salt-and-pepper calamari, but it didn’t travel well.

This will have to be quick because I’m up to here with party preparations. The real “flash update” is that you’re starting to realize that God is driving the bus. (In your case, literally. Honk, honk!) I’d love to talk to you more about it sometime. Coffee, maybe? I can come out to Microsoft.

Remember how I told you I was going to Seattle on a pilgrimage to see the public library, and I joked that I’d let you know if I had a Bernadette Fox sighting? Well, guess who I saw outside the public library?

Bernadette Fox! She was about fifty, her hair was brown and wild. The only reason I looked twice was because she was wearing a fishing vest, which is something you notice.

There’s the one picture of Bernadette Fox taken about twenty years ago when she won her award. And you hear all the speculation about her, how she moved to Seattle and became a recluse or went crazy. I had a really strong feeling it was her. Before I could say anything, she abruptly volunteered, “Bernadette Fox.”

I started gushing. I told her I was a graduate student at USC, and had visited Beeber Bifocal every time they opened it to the public, and that our winter project is a competition to reinterpret the Twenty Mile House.

I suddenly realized I had said too much. Her eyes were vacant. Something was seriously wrong with her. I wanted to get a picture of me with the elusive Bernadette Fox. (Talk about a profile pic!) But then I thought better of it. This woman has given me so much already. The relationship has been one-way, and still I want to take
more?
I bowed to her with my hands in prayer position and walked into the library, leaving her standing outside in the rain.

I feel bad because I think I might have messed her up. Anyway. In case you were wondering: Bernadette Fox is walking around Seattle in the middle of winter wearing a fishing vest.

10:00–10:45—MPs arrive. Drinks and food passed.

10:45—Mr. Kangana and parent Helen Derwood arrive with kindergarteners, who enter, quiet as
church mice
, through side door and situate themselves for marimba performance.

10:55—Gwen Goodyear gives short welcoming speech, then directs MPs to sunroom. Mr. Kangana leads kindergarteners in marimba performance.

11:15—Closing remarks.

Cheers!

GOOD LUCK TODAY! I just spoke with Pizza Nuovo. The rain doesn’t affect their wood-burning oven. They will set up a tent in the backyard. I’m stuck in Redmond because Elgin is making a presentation in another city and he wants me at my desk to troubleshoot any glitches. No comment.

Crisis
. Enormous billboard hovering over Audrey’s house. Erected overnight by
crazy neighbor
. (Fellow Galer Street parent?) Audrey hysterical. Husband calling city attorney. I don’t do
black swan
.

I assume your little ones have told you snippets about the shocking events at today’s brunch. No doubt you are concerned and confused. As the only kindergarten parent in attendance, I’ve been inundated with phone calls asking what really happened.

As many of you know, I’m a counselor at Swedish Medical Center, specializing in post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). I went to New Orleans after Katrina and still make frequent trips to Haiti. With the permission of Head of School Goodyear, I am writing both as a parent and PTSD counselor.

It’s important to root our discussion in the facts. You dropped off your children in front of Galer Street. From there, we boarded the bus, and Mr. Kangana drove us to the Queen Anne home of Audrey and Warren Griffin. Despite the rain, the setting was lovely. The planters were full of colorful flowers, and the smell of burning wood filled the air.

A gentleman by the name of Ollie-O greeted us and directed us to the side entrance, where we were asked to remove our raincoats and rain boots.

The brunch was in full swing. There were approximately fifty guests in attendance, who all appeared to be enjoying themselves. I noted palpable tension coming from Gwen Goodyear, Audrey Griffin, and Ollie-O, but nothing a kindergartener would be able to detect.

We were led to the sunroom, where Mr. Kangana had set up his
marimbas the night before. The children who had to go potty did, then kneeled behind their instruments. The shades were drawn, leaving the room quite dark. The children had difficulty locating their mallets, so I began to raise the shades.

Ollie-O materialized and grabbed my hand. “That’s a nonstarter.” He turned on the lights.

The guests packed in for the performance. After a short introduction by Gwen Goodyear, the children started in with “My Giant Carp.” You would have been so proud! It was going delightfully. About a minute in, however, a commotion erupted in the backyard, where the caterers were.

“Holy s——!” someone shouted from outside.

A few guests reacted with good-natured titters. The children hardly noticed, they were so absorbed in their music. The song ended. All the little eyes were on Mr. Kangana, who counted them into their next song, “One, two, three—”

“F——!” someone else shouted.

This was
not
OK. I dashed through the laundry room to the back door, with the intention of shushing the raucous caterers. I turned the handle. A strong, dull,
consistent
pressure pushed the door toward me. Immediately sensing a terrible force of nature on the other side, I attempted to close the door. The inhuman force wouldn’t allow it. I stuck my foot against the bottom of the door. I heard an ominous creak. The hinges began pulling loose from the frame.

Before I could compute any of this, the marimba music suddenly stopped. A series of pops and pings erupted from the sunroom. A child squealed in distress.

I abandoned the threat at the door and hurtled to the sunroom, where I was met by the shattering of glass. The children were running, screaming, from their instruments. With none of their own parents to
run to for comfort, the kindergarteners collectively burrowed into the crowd of prospective parents, who in turn were trying to squeeze through the one small door leading to the living room. It’s a small miracle nobody was trampled.

My daughter, Ginny, ran to me and hugged my legs. Her back was wet… and muddy. I looked up. The shades were now eerily raised of their own accord.

And then came the mud. In it sloshed, through the broken windows. Thick mud, watery mud, rocky mud, mud with beveled-glass shards, mud with window muntins, mud with grass, mud with barbecue utensils, mud with a mosaic birdbath. In a flash, the sunroom windows were gone, and in their place, a gaping, mud-oozing hole.

Adults, children, everyone, was trying to outrun the wreckage, which now included furniture. I stayed behind with Mr. Kangana, who was attempting to rescue the marimbas he had brought with him as a young boy when he emigrated from his beloved Nigeria.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the mud stopped. I turned. An upside-down billboard was flat against the hole in the sunroom, forming a dam. I have no clue as to where this billboard originated, but it was bright red and vast enough to cover what had been a wall of windows.

PRIVATE PROPERTY

NO TRESPASSING

Galer Street Gnats

Will Be Arrested

and Hauled Off to Gnat Jail

By now, the guests were flying out the front door and screeching off in their cars. Mud-caked servers and chefs were milling around, viciously whooping as if this were the most hilarious thing they’d ever
seen. Mr. Kangana was swimming in mud, scooping up marimbas. Gwen Goodyear was in the foyer, trying to keep a brave face as she handed out Galer Street gear. Ollie-O was in a semicatatonic state, uttering nonsensical phrases like “This is not biodegradable—the downstream implications are enormous—the optics make for rough sledding—going forward—” before getting stuck on the words “epic fail,” which he kept repeating.

Most incredible, perhaps, Audrey Griffin was running down the street,
away
from her home. I called after her, but she had turned the corner.

I alone was left to care for thirty traumatized kindergarteners.

“OK,” I rallied. “Let’s everyone find their boots and raincoats!” I recognize now this was the wrong thing to say, as it only drew attention to the impossibility of such a task. Further, these children were in their socks, some even barefoot, and there was broken glass everywhere.

“Nobody move.” I collected every cushion I could find and laid a path out the front door to the sidewalk. “Walk on these cushions, and line up against the hedge.”

If there’s one thing kindergarteners understand, it’s how to line up. One by one, I carried each child down the street to the bus, which I drove back to Galer Street.

This is why your children were returned to you shoeless, jacketless, covered in mud, and full of fantastic stories.

Now let me speak to you as a PTSD specialist.

“Trauma” can be loosely described as any event a person experiences which he perceives as being a threat to his life. This can take as little as 1/18th of a second. In the immediate aftermath of trauma, children might demonstrate fear or confusion. I took the time to carry each child to the bus so that I had the opportunity to physically connect with them. Research has shown how healing touch can be immediately following trauma, especially with children.

During the walk to the bus, I was able to listen, express curiosity, and simply “be” with each child. I was also able to observe them for early indications of PTSD. I am happy to report that your children appeared to be coping very well. Their greatest concern was whether they’d get their rain gear back, and how it would be returned to them. I answered every question as honestly as I could. I told them we’d do our best to recover their belongings, which would probably be dirty, but the mommies would try to clean them.

The good news is this was a single traumatic incident, and therefore the chances of developing PTSD are minor. The bad news is that PTSD can surface months or even years after an event. I feel it is my responsibility as a doctor to let you know some symptoms of PTSD that may occur in your child:

• worry about dying
  
• bed-wetting, nightmares, insomnia
  
• reverting to thumb sucking, baby talk, and diaper wearing
  
• physical complaints for which there is no underlying physical cause
  
• withdrawal from family and friends
  
• refusal to attend school
  
• sadistic, violent behavior
  

If you notice any of these symptoms now or within the next several years, it is important you immediately notify a specialist and tell them about the events at Audrey Griffin’s house. I’m not saying this will happen. The chances are very much against it.

I have offered Gwen Goodyear my counseling services for both kindergarten classes. We are still weighing whether to have an all-school
assembly, a kindergarten-only gathering, or a parent forum to collectively process this traumatic event. I’d like to hear your feedback.