You interrupt. “Who?”
“The blonde with the neck tattoo?”
“Kenyon.” You’d been scared for a moment that delicate Saralinda had a back injury.
“Yes. She’ll have to wear a brace for a week or so. She’s in pain, but we have some lovely meds. Don’t worry. She’ll be fine.”
Lovely meds. Like your mother’s. You do not show your distaste. “What about Saralinda? She’s the one with—”
“Oh, her.” The nurse’s eyes roll. “The one with the mother. She just has some facial and head cuts. Her mother is with her, of course. All the parents are here.” The nurse’s gaze flicks behind you, as if she realizes there’s a hope of seeing Dr. Caleb Colchester in the flesh. You watch her assimilate that you are alone. “Someone did call your father? That is, your parents?”
“Yes.” You slip your phone back into your pocket.
A plump woman in her early fifties emerges from the curtained cubicle across the way. She grips a thick three-ring binder. Her eyes—totally different in expression from Saralinda’s—fix on the nurse.
“I’d like another blood sugar reading for my daughter. My experience tells me not to trust that first one without verification.” Her toe does not tap but it seems as if it might.
She’s so totally not what you expected. You’d assumed Saralinda’s mother—no, no, you assumed nothing, you never thought about it.
Okay. You did think about it. You thought Saralinda was Latina, like your own mother. But her mother is white.
“Just a moment,” the nurse says to her. She turns very deliberately back to you and points. “The restroom is that way, sweetheart.” She winks. “Then hang out near the main desk. You might hear something.” She goes to attend to Saralinda’s mother.
You walk slowly past Saralinda’s cubicle, but all you hear is the nurse saying, “Good color. Normal blood pressure.”
You linger, but Saralinda doesn’t say anything.
You head to the restroom. You peel off your T-shirt and shake out dust and particles of roof debris. You brush more stuff from your jeans. You wash your face, neck, shoulders, pits, and arms with hot water and soap, ignoring the sting of the soap in the cuts that are everywhere, dabbing away blood that seeps when the cuts reopen. You fish your comb from your back pocket and repeatedly wet it and run it through your hair before fastening it into a ponytail again. Then, because you’ve made an unholy mess of the floor, you grab a bunch of paper towels and mop up.
Finally you straighten and check your reflection. You don’t want your mother to get hysterical when she sees you, if she sees you, if she comes—which she won’t, or she might need more meds. Lovely meds.
You are careful, as always, not to meet your own eyes in the mirror, in case the wrong Caleb leers back at you.
You’re the hero, sweetheart.
No.
It’s true you called 911 and located the other kids and dug them out. But if you had not, Evangeline would have. She had almost freed herself by the time you found her, the first one you found, and she’d snapped right into focus. She’d been very useful, which had been necessary because Antoine’s left arm had been dangling from his shoulder.
Still, thank God the official help came when it did. You feel sick, picturing what might have happened.
You push away from the sink, unlock the restroom, and head to the main desk. There’s no need to eavesdrop. Evangeline is there. She’s as dirty as you were ten minutes ago, with bandages on her hands and some white surgical tape across one cheek. Next to her is a redheaded woman, who has an arm around Evangeline’s waist. This woman is in close, anxious conversation with a man in a white coat.
Evangeline spots you and twists deftly away from the redhead.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” You stuff your hands in your pockets. You nod a question toward her bandages.
She shrugs. “Whatever.”
“Know anything about the others?” you ask.
“Antoine has a dislocated shoulder, which we guessed. Also cuts and bruises, but altogether, not bad. What about Saralinda?” She hesitates. “Kenyon?”
You fill her in with what you learned about Kenyon and Saralinda. It’s strange to be talking with her—with anyone—so easily. You won’t let it last, of course. It’s not safe for it to last.
You are who you are and nothing has changed.
Then the redheaded woman is beside Evangeline again, curling a soft, tentative arm around her waist once more. Her face is oval, her eyes a deep, vivid blue, and—well. Well. Her femininity is basically weapons-grade. It is not directed at you but is something this woman does, is. Still you have to work hard not to check out how her breasts push gently against her shirt as the redhead rubs her cheek gently against the tape on Evangeline’s face, and a smudge transfers itself from Evangeline’s face to hers.
“Introductions, Evangeline?” she says.
Evangeline stands stiffly in the woman’s embrace. “Spencer, this is Caleb Colchester. Caleb, this is my stepmother, Spencer Merriman Song.”
Stepmother? Really? You try to hide your surprise, but the stepmother has got to be in her twenties. Her left hand, resting tenderly on Evangeline’s shoulder, bears a single plain gold wedding band. The clichéd trophy second wife, married to Evangeline’s rich father before his death. You wonder how much older he was.
Evangeline’s stepmother smiles at you rather too eagerly. When you reach out a reluctant hand to shake, she takes it in both hands. “Caleb,” she says, lingering too long on the syllables.
Your mother is also rather younger than your father, fifteen years, though he says he thought it was ten originally, and that she lied about her age when they met. To you, looking at their wedding pictures, the age disparity is clear.
There’s one picture you used to love. Your mother, Veronica, holds her head high, and her eyes glow more brightly than her rhinestone tiara. You get your father’s point about the tiara; it is in spectacularly bad taste. (She hasn’t dressed to go out without consulting your father ever since.) Yet you love her in the tiara.
Loved her, past tense.
Spencer Merriman Song still holds your hand. Hers are soft, with perfectly manicured nails. “So you’re the one,” she says intensely. “There are no words except thank you. Thank you.” She looks into your face as if she is trying to find something there.
You mutter something about having just been there. She laughs as if you said something witty. “Modest. Well. It’s a miracle that all of you survived.” Finally she lets go of your hand. She smiles tentatively at Evangeline. “Dr. Young tells me that my daughter won’t need plastic surgery.” She leans on the words my daughter, and flashes a smile at the man in the white coat, who’s lingering nearby, angled toward her.
For the first time you kind of want your father to get here, so he can meet this woman. You want to hear him analyze her afterward, the way he does. Because there are times when his perceptiveness about people is astounding.
If mean.
Evangeline eels free of her stepmother. “Excuse me. I see Antoine.”
The stepmother’s smile falters. You nod at her awkwardly and follow Evangeline.
Antoine’s shoulder and arm are supported by a sling. There’s a thin woman by his side, as tall as he is, with graying hair in short dreads around a worn face that resembles his. Mrs. Dubois hugs Evangeline with one arm, and says in a low voice, “I thought he was dead! I thought I’d never see him alive on this earth again!”
Evangeline hugs the woman back. “It’s good to see you, Gabrielle. Antoine’s fine. We’re all fine.”
Mrs. Dubois nods. She clutches a small gold cross hanging from her necklace as Antoine makes significant eye contact with Evangeline.
He says, “Let’s go home, Mom.”
“You’ll come home with me? Not back to school?” His m
other’s voice shakes.
“Just for tonight.”
Evangeline darts a look at Antoine, and says, “Are you sure?”
He nods at her, and she frowns more darkly. You wonder what’s going on. Evangeline doesn’t think Antoine should go home with his own mother?
Then you hear another woman’s voice, raised in demand, and look down the length of the emergency unit as the curtain twitches back on Saralinda’s cubicle. Her mother emerges with her big black binder.
It’s then that a tall, bulky man in wire-rimmed glasses strides through the automatic doors of the emergency unit. He’s alone. He’s wearing an open jacket, khakis, and a white dress shirt. He pauses for a second, looking around.
That thing happens, a small stir, a flutter, as a nurse, then a doctor, then an aide, and then another doctor recognize him.
It’s as if they are iron filings and your father is a magnet. It has always been this way. Even when people don’t know who he is, it is this way.
They stop. They stare. They smile.
He keeps moving.
You stand your ground.
He’s in front of you.
“Caleb. What a terrible experience. I’ve been talking to the police. You did well.” His arms twitch forward as if they might hug you.
You shove your hands more deeply in your pockets.
His arms go back to his sides.
You don’t ask about your mother. You aren’t disappointed that she’s not here. It’s better.
“Dr. Colchester?” Within seconds, your father is surrounded by his admirers.
You step away. If he notices, he doesn’t stop you. It’s time for you to go back to school, alone.
Wait, no, not quite yet. There’s something you have to do first.
Chapter 8. Saralinda
My mother holds the tip of the insulin syringe against my bare thigh. “Ready?”
Since we got back from the hospital last night she’s treated me like I am helpless. She doesn’t wait for me to answer, but sticks me (it doesn’t hurt, I am used to it, she knows that).
I finish getting dressed. She sits on my bed and watches me which I wish she wouldn’t but okay yesterday scared her, me too I get it.
She hands me Georgia.
Regarding Georgia this is what happened. When my mother was not there Caleb Colchester walked into my hospital cubicle and put her down beside me and left. (Georgia is fine or will be after some wood polish plus WD-40 for her mechanisms and Simple Green window cleaner for her orb.)
Caleb did not say anything by the way. But he thought to save Georgia for me. And it was him. Antoine’s arm was dangling from his socket and he was in shock, it was not his idea to save my cane. Also it was not Evangeline though she was very active in digging us out.
My mother says conversationally, “Maybe I’ll sue Rockland Academy.”
I stop thinking about Caleb.
“What?!”
She shrugs. “They’re responsible for the welfare of students on their property. Ergo, they’re guilty of negligence.”
“But I’m fine. All of us are going to be okay.”
“Saralinda, you were buried alive. There will be long-term effects. PTSD—that’s posttraumatic stress disorder. You’ll suffer for years. Possibly forever.” She gestures me to follow her into the kitchen and makes me sit. “Eat this.”
Food balances the insulin but it’s a sad little apple not protein. “Can I have an egg? I’ll make it.” I start to get up but she presses me back down by the shoulders.
“Rest. I’ll make eggs for you later.”
“But—”
“I want you to have carbohydrate before any protein. I’ll test you again in two hours.”
I would prefer to test myself but instead I take a tiny bite from the defeated apple and think about suffering forever from stress. Although it was horrible in the carriage house at the same time I was under the debris with Kenyon and we shared secrets about ourselves and we laughed.
“I’m going to research PTSD,” says my mother.
“I’m going to my room,” I say.
“Good. Rest.”
Georgia and I retire with the wood polish etc.
It is 8:22 a.m. on Saturday.
It’s going to be a long day, correction: weekend.
I used to be all right penned up at home, it felt safe and cozy. But now even when I have a delicious book (maybe I will read Jane Eyre again and see if Rochester is as bad an idea as I remember), I cannot disappear into it completely anymore. If only I could lock my bedroom door, have some privacy, but there is no lock on my side (renovation mistake, long story).
From my bed I can see outside my window. I am allowed to open it even though we are on the sixth floor because the window sticks firmly at eight inches. There is nothing interesting happening outside unfortunately.
Our home is a co-op on West 24th Street. It was once a one-bedroom one-bath condo that my mother bought with her divorce settlement (before my time of course). In the renovation, my mother sacrificed the living room so we would each have a bedroom and bath of our own, hers is also her office.
Having my own bathroom has never thrilled me however, because my mother thought it should be accessible in case I am in a wheelchair one day. I don’t know why she would think that would happen, I am better. The shower is enormous and on every wall there are metal grab bars. All-white tiles on walls floor ceiling. Why tile the ceiling? If the tiles weren’t there I would paint it blue which would help with the ambiance.
My bedroom is fine however and I also like our kitchen which is our living room as well. It has a TV and two chairs and an ottoman for my equally good foot. My mother’s printer is kept there too so that I can use it to print schoolwork, which I do not do often to be honest. My mother prints a lot and keeps her printings in her bedroom/office (she does not trust the cloud so she must print).
My mother has a bedroom/office because she works from home. She helps scientists write grant applications. She makes a lot of money sometimes because she is very good at it, and we are very good about not spending money when we don’t have it. When there is money, we splurge. It’s fun. We get clothes and gourmet takeout and tech, and then last year there was enough money to send me to Rockland (and a car service every day). I asked to go to school but I did not think she would let me, and then she did and a really good one too.
I love her, I do.
I have a terrible thought which is that she wants to sue Rockland because money is getting low again. Dilemma because I want to keep going to school but if we are poor I should not go, I should go to public school but I do not want to start all over again at a new school.
As I finish polishing Georgia, my phone beeps. I snatch it up.
—This is Kenyon. Are you there, SL?
It’s my first-ever text from a friend! And suddenly I am SL. I like it!
I gently close my bedroom door. It might be a while before my mother notices this I hope. I text back.
—Yes! How are you?
—Not bad. I’m on Percocet. Whee! You okay?
—Fine. Where are you? Hospital? School?
—No, I’m with Mr. Mayer, the teacher at my old school I told you about. He came to get me.
—Did you talk with your grandfather?
—They called him from the hospital. I told him I was going with Mr. Mayer. That was that.
I am suddenly appreciative of my mother who loves me and came right away when she was called.
—Sorry.
—It’s okay. Do you know how the others are? Including what’s her name.
—Evangeline? Will you forgive her? She helped get us out.
—It was Caleb who was in charge, not her.
I do not answer this directly instead I type something very prissy.
—
I think Evangeline could be a good person underneath. I think maybe she didn’t know about your mother.
—We’ll see. Oh, Mr. Mayer is calling me. Gotta go. Bye.
I put down my phone. I look at Georgia, who is shining with polish.
Caleb saved her for me.
Chapter 9. Caleb
You have felt strange and unlike yourself at school the last few days, since the carriage house collapse. People came up to you and said nice things. Awkwardly. But apparently you didn’t react the way they wanted. Not that you know what they want or how to give it to them. What you know is that it didn’t take long for them to take their compliments and their curious eyes and move away from you again.
You’re not hungry these days. That’s another change, because normally your body demands to be fed. Yet now it’s as if you are sick; all you can stomach is flat ginger ale. After a while you realize something: You are filled with waiting. There is no room for anything else.
Waiting for what?
You don’t know. On the one hand, it seems like waiting is all you have been doing, your entire life. Waiting for some self-inflicted disaster. On the other hand, you’re trying something new now, you’re trying to force something—change? That’s what the confetti is about every night. It doesn’t seem like much, true. You’re like the fly waking up in the sticky silk of the spider’s web and beginning to struggle. Or maybe just beginning to question the path you took to get here.
But still it is something.
Change is coming.
Or disaster.
Or both.
What happened in the carriage house is part of it.
What happened to you in the carriage house is part of it.
“Hello, Caleb,” says the Head of School as you pause in the doorway to his office. To you it is a familiar place. In fact you were here yesterday. Very possibly you saved four lives, Caleb.
The Head of School is Dennis Y. Lee. He has a bachelor’s degree in English Literature from Georgetown, a PhD in Education from New York University, and an MBA from Wharton. These degrees are tastefully matted and framed on the side wall of the office.