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“What happened?” I ask as we walk together down Broadway.
“The girl’s parents told the principal, who had no choice but to call DCFS. But being indicted by DCFS comes with consequences. Rumor got out that Amelia was being investigated for suspected child abuse of a student. It was completely unfounded and unsubstantiated of course—other kids attested to the fact that they never saw Amelia lay a hand on his child—but despite having her name cleared, Amelia was embarrassed. Her coworkers and the parents of the children she taught never looked at her the same. Amelia left her job, which was hard on her. I suggested she look for another position in a different school, a different district—a fresh start—but Amelia wasn’t sure she ever wanted to step foot in a classroom again. What was to keep this from happening again?” He takes a breath before going on, deciding whether to say more. “Amelia has had many letdowns in her life, and her relationship with Caitlin has been much the same, a series of disappointments.”
“How so?” I ask as we step into the intersection at Barry, crossing, letting traffic wait for us.
“Just as with teaching, all of her life, Amelia dreamed of being a mother,” he says. “She wanted a daughter more than anything. She and her own mother had been incredibly close. They were practically inseparable until her mother had a heart attack and died. Amelia envisioned having a similar relationship with Caitlin, but that didn’t happen.
“Caitlin was always a difficult child,” he says, and as he does, I turn to see a change come over his face, his voice infused with something like resentment or disgust. “I hate to speak negatively after everything that’s happened but, as a child, Caitlin didn’t enjoy being told no. Unlike other children who might pout or slam a bedroom door, she would fly into a rage and pull out all the stops to get what she wanted. There was nothing she wouldn’t do. With Caitlin, it was pathological,” he says, giving the full picture of the woman who lies unconscious on the hospital bed, one that bears scrutiny. “Caitlin was eleven or twelve when the investigation with DCFS happened. She caught wind of it and used it to her advantage, realizing how easily a lie could ruin her mother’s life. Every time Amelia told her no—no she wouldn’t buy her more candy or clothes—Caitlin would make like she was being hurt. Let go, you’re hurting me, she’d cry out in public until people looked. Amelia and I tried to make light of it. Caitlin, we told ourselves, was an adolescent with a still-developing brain. She didn’t know what she was doing. She didn’t know the consequences of her words and actions.
“Once, when she was angry with Amelia for something—I don’t even remember what anymore, it was that inconsequential—she picked up the phone and dialed 911. She told the dispatcher that her mother was hurting her. The police came, because they had to and, for a second time in her life, Amelia was investigated by DCFS.
“For all of Caitlin’s life, Amelia and I would tiptoe around her, afraid to do anything that might set her off. But she had Amelia, in particular, in an emotional death grip, because Amelia wanted more than anything to be close to her, to be her confidante and a good mom. You have a daughter. I’m sure you can understand. We have two sons, but Caitlin is our only daughter. Amelia would do anything to earn her affection and love, which was parceled out by design. Imagine,” he says, “loving this tiny little human so much and so unconditionally, and then one day, she turns on you and becomes the source of so much pain.” I can’t imagine it. I can’t bear to think of it. Sienna has her moments but she could never hurt me like that.
“Every time Caitlin behaved in a certain way—” he pauses, thinking his next words through “—it broke Amelia’s heart and pushed her closer to the edge.”
I wonder what he means by that. But before I can ask, he changes course, saying, “I’ll definitely mention the counselor to Amelia though and see if I can’t talk her into giving it a try. It would be good for her to talk to someone.”
He reaches out all of a sudden then, setting a hand on my arm, stopping forward motion. The sensation of his hand on my arm—the firmness of it and the breach of personal boundaries—discomfits me. My breath hitches. I turn to face him, looking up.
“The thing is,” he says, his face suddenly grave. “I don’t know what Amelia will do if Caitlin dies. She won’t survive it.”
I pull back. I don’t know what to say, how to respond. My mind searches for words, something comforting that doesn’t give away my own discomfort.
“I don’t mean to unload on you like this,” he says because of my silence, his eyes holding mine, studying them before the faint, throttled sound of a ringing phone, heard barely over the sound of traffic and the wind, interrupts us. “I’m sorry,” he says, breaking his gaze, reaching into the pocket of his pants to produce the phone, letting his eyes run over the name on the caller ID. “Speak of the devil. It’s Amelia,” he says, and then, “I can call her back later,” as if he’s just going to slip that phone back into his pocket and keep talking to me, keep walking with me.
“No,” I say, too eagerly, and then more staidly, “No. You should take it and make sure she and Caitlin are okay.”
“Yes,” he says, giving it some thought. “You’re probably right. You’ll be alright on your own from here?”
I nod. “I’ll be fine. I do this all the time.”
As I walk away alone, I think how what he said—about Mrs. Beckett not surviving if Caitlin were to die—sounded almost prophetic.
Sixteen
That night I have bad dreams. Angsty dreams, like that the apartment is on fire and I’m late to school and can’t find my class. It goes on all night so that I don’t get any restful sleep. I’m tired the next day at work as a result. I go through the motions, keeping to myself and avoiding people as best I can because I’m not in the right mind for conversation.
Around five o’clock, I step out into the hall to text Sienna.
I had texted her this morning too. This morning, I waited until I was at work because I didn’t want to text too early and catch her when she was still with Ben, having breakfast together or on the drive to school. How was the show? I’d asked and, at the time, she texted almost immediately back in all caps.
SO GOOD.
I’m glad you enjoyed it! I said, hoping it didn’t come across as insincere. I was glad she enjoyed the show. I just felt envious that she shared the experience with Ben, and I regretted not having splurged to buy the tickets first.
I slipped my phone into the pocket of a cardigan then, keeping it on silent but vibrate so that if Sienna needed something, I’d feel it pulse in my pocket.
The day got away from me, so that only now do I find the time to check back in.
How is everything going? Are you and Nat getting along okay? I ask, because today is the day that they will be alone and meeting for the first time. The situation isn’t ideal. I know that and feel guilty for it, but there is nothing I could do in light of Dear Evan Hansen, and the last thing I wanted was to take that experience away from her and say she couldn’t go.
I hold the phone in my hand, waiting for a reply that doesn’t come.
Nat was still getting ready when I left for work this morning. I left the apartment before she did, telling her to lock the door from the inside because she didn’t have a key. She was going to work herself and Sienna would be home before either of us, so she’d be there to let Nat back in.
Now, after a few minutes of waiting in the hall, I reluctantly return the phone to the pocket of my cardigan and get back to work, though Sienna’s lack of a reply troubles me.
An hour later, I steal another look at my phone. It’s after six o’clock now and Sienna still hasn’t replied. My anxiety intensifies. I’m sure there is a reasonable explanation (maybe, I tell myself, she and Nat are hitting it off so well that she hasn’t bothered to look at her phone), but still I send Nat a quick message too, asking if everything is going okay and letting her know that I’ll be home soon.
