A fresh smile pulled at the corners of his mouth as he put the cards in his backpack and zipped the top. Then he looked at her again. “Okay.”
She wanted to march Holden around to all the teachers and therapists who doubted that for Holden change was possible. But that wouldn’t be good for him, so instead she walked with him to his classroom. When Holden was safely into his routine—setting his backpack with the others and finding his seat, Ella walked up to the teacher. “He talked to me.” She flashed a confident smile. She’d had a few discussions with Holden’s main teacher before. The woman was kind, but she seemed stifled by her belief that people on the autism spectrum couldn’t experience much change.
Ella doubted she believed in miracles.
Now his teacher’s brow raised a little. “He talked to you?” Doubt dripped off every word.
“Yes. I told him we were going to class, and he told me, ‘Okay.’ “Ella didn’t have time to stay here and discuss the issue. She didn’t care if the teacher believed her. She waved as she headed for the door. “Just wanted you to know.”
Back outside, Ella remembered the trouble, as Holden called it. She hurried back to the place near the outdoor cafeteria, but there were only a few kids left—Jake and his buddies and… yes, it was Michael Schwartz. Whatever had happened, the first bell must’ve broken it up. She ran closer until the situation became clear and she stopped cold. What she saw made her furious.
There must’ve been a fight, because one of the football players was nursing a black eye. Maybe the original trouble hadn’t been between the player and Michael. Maybe he’d just happened by … Ella wasn’t sure. The contents of Michael’s backpack —dozens of loose-leaf pieces of paper, notebooks, pencils, coins —were scattered on the damp ground. Each time he bent down to pick something up, Jake kicked him. Then Jake and the jerks he hung out with would laugh like this was the funniest thing they’d ever witnessed.
“Don’t come by in the middle of a fight and think we won’t see you,” Jake said. “You freak. This is our part of the school.”
“Yeah,” Sam laughed and pointed toward the special-ed wing. “You belong over there with the others.”
That was it. Ella couldn’t take another minute. “Hey!” She stormed the remaining ten yards that separated her from the guys. “Go to class, Jake … Sam. Ryan.”
“What?” He spun around and faced her. For a few seconds he looked like he might come after her too. Then he relaxed his posture and looked at his buddies, an angry chuckle leaking from inside him. His eyes burned with fury. He let loose a string of cuss words aimed right at her, but she didn’t care.
“You make me sick,” she hissed at him. Then she moved right past him to Michael. Without being asked she knelt down and started picking up pieces of paper and pencils. “Are you okay?”
Michael stood, his face pale. “What’re you doing?”
“I’m helping.” She stood too. From behind her, she could feel Jake and his guys moving in closer, laughing at them.
“Isn’t that sweet.” Jake wouldn’t let up. “A couple of girlfriends helping each other.”
“I said …” Ella faced him, “get lost. Leave him alone!”
“Ella …” Michael sounded like he might be on the verge of losing it. “I’m fine. Go on.”
Before Jake could say another word, a teacher must’ve caught the eyes of one of his buddies, because in a rush they jogged off, still laughing. And that quickly, Michael and Ella were the only two left.
She lowered herself to her knees again and resumed the task of helping him collect his things. But Michael only stood there, staring at her. After she’d picked up a few things, she stopped and looked at him. “Is something wrong?”
“Yes.” He tossed his hands in the direction Jake and his guys had run off toward. “Are you kidding me, Ella? You just rescued me in front of the worst kids at school.” He paced a few steps away, and then back again. “They’ll never let me live that down.”
“What they did …” Her voice was louder than she meant it to be. “It was wrong, Michael. You can’t let people walk over you.”
“I can do what I want.” He wiped the dirt off his shirt —dirt Jake had left there with his final kick. “I survive around those guys. I keep out of their way and everything’s fine.”
“What about today?” Ella’s voice rang with indignation. How dare Jake convince a guy like Michael that it was okay to be bullied? “Why didn’t you stay out of their way today?”
“Because.” Michael snagged the items from her hands and shoved them into his backpack. He dropped to the ground and collected the rest of his things in a few quick grabs. Many of them looked a little wet and dirty, but at least he could get to class now.
“Because why?”
“Just because.” He slung his backpack over one shoulder. “The guy they were fighting is in orchestra with me. The mighty Eagles have decided everyone in that class is gay or a freak. I had to at least help.”
Ella crossed her arms in front of herself and hung her head. Really? Was Jake that cold hearted that he would start a fight with a guy in the orchestra, all to make himself look like some big shot?
“I don’t need help, okay? Not ever again.” He didn’t sound angry, just frightened. Because now Jake and his gang had one more reason to pick on him. “I know you meant well, Ella. But really… just leave me alone.” Michael backed up a few steps, his eyes scanning the yard and the cafeteria. “I’ll be fine.” He held tight to his backpack and started walking again.
Ella watched him go, but before he got more than a couple steps, she called out, “Wait!”
Michael stopped and slowly turned around. He looked like he wanted to cry, but clearly he couldn’t. If Jake and the guys found out, they’d hold it against him. His shoulders dropped a notch. “What?”
“Who punched Jake’s friend?”
“I did.” He hesitated. “I told you, I came here because someone had to stand up for the orchestra kids and the band geeks. All the rest of us who aren’t Jake Collins, you know?”
“Yeah.”
“Someone needed to have the guy’s back.” He hesitated, and after a few seconds he started walking again. “See you, Ella.”
“Bye.” She uttered the word too softly for him to hear. The whole situation was horrible. She wanted to walk straight to the office and report what had happened, get Jake and his group suspended, or better yet—expelled. But Michael was right. If she helped him anymore—especially if she reported what happened —her actions would only make life that much harder for him.
The old her would’ve felt badly about the trouble Michael was in, but she wouldn’t have dreamed of saying anything. Now, as she headed for English Lit, she changed her mind. She couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t at least go to the office and make some kind of report. At the front of the school she walked into the main office and asked to speak to a principal. Fulton was so big they had three assistants.
One of them walked out. “Hello, Miss Reynolds.” He smiled, relaxed and happy, clearly ignorant to the ways people were treated on his campus every day.
“I have something to report.” She spent the next five minutes giving exact details of what happened to Michael and the other guy from orchestra. Ella was careful not to spare a detail. “But… if those guys find out I said something, they’ll kill Michael. I just wanted you to know.”
But even having done the right thing was hardly satisfying. Almost certainly nothing would happen to the football players, and life for the Michaels and Holdens would only get harder. Bullying was a tough thing to police because the victims never talked about what happened. If they talked, they ran the risk that next time the attack would be worse.
So they stayed silent.
Ella pictured Michael again. He looked so shocked to see her, and what he said would stay with her always: “I’m fine … I can handle it.” But that wasn’t true. One of these days someone was going to get really hurt, all becaus
e of some peer pressure or gang mentality, and under the guise of having fun. But it wasn’t fun—it was bullying and it was cruel. No, it was downright evil.
As Ella walked to class she fought tears. She couldn’t control the way kids were picked on at Fulton, and she couldn’t make administrators find a way to eliminate attacks like the ones on the orchestra kids this morning. She thought about Holden’s mother, praying for her son every day. So why didn’t she herself try praying? She didn’t know how, of course, but she’d heard Mrs. Harris pray. It seemed a lot like talking. She walked slower and let her words ring silently—for her heart and God’s alone.
Hi, God, this is me—Ella Reynolds. I’ve never talked to you before—at least not since I can remember. But we need Your help down here at Fulton. The kids are awful. You see that, right? She waited but there was no loud answer. I want to take a stand or make a difference, but I don’t know where to start. There are so many people walking around here afraid of other kids. So give me the chance to turn things around, please. God, if You’re listening, show me how to stop the meanness on our campus. And help Holden keep coming out of his private world. Thanks for listening, amen.
Something about praying made her feel good. Like she was floating or safe or something. Ella couldn’t do much about the sad kids at Fulton, the ones picked on and teased. Kids like Michael. But she could keep doing what she’d been doing—being a friend to Holden Harris. She could report the bullies, and she could do this.
She could pray.
Twenty
THE FACADE WAS CRUMBLING. SUZANNE COULD SENSE THAT the same old lies weren’t working anymore. It wasn’t enough to have an investment plan and a BMW and a ski boat in their three-car garage. It wasn’t enough to be Randy Reynolds’ wife. Her life was meaningless, empty, and mechanical. She woke up wanting to scream, and she couldn’t fall asleep at night without a handful of pills. Something had to give, or she’d wind up in a mental institution, strapped to a chair.
It was Sunday morning after another sleepless night. Randy hadn’t been home since Tuesday. The season was over, but private training camps were in session. Randy wanted to be as ready as possible when they discussed his contract.
She stretched and felt the familiar burning in her stomach muscles. Lately she’d been taking her anger out on her ab workout, although that didn’t give her life meaning any more than anything did. She walked to the window and pressed her forehead against the cool glass. Their front lawn was an acre, pretty and manicured even now, heading into winter. As she stood there, she remembered an old movie she and Tracy watched once when they were in high school.
The original Stepford Wives.
Scenes from the movie flashed in her mind. Creepy plot, the sort of story that at the time had stayed with her on dark nights and left her unsettled when she was alone in the shower. Now, the storyline consumed her again. Gradually over time, the women of Stepford had been replaced by robots, replicas of their former selves. The two women lead characters were friends, and they swore they’d never become like the others. Then one day one of them paid the other a visit looking entirely different —her dress neatly pressed, hair perfectly combed. Her face fresh and made up.
Cue the scary music, and a frantic series of questions from the unchanged woman, until finally, while chopping an onion, she accidentally stabbed her now perfect-looking friend in the hand. But there was no blood—only wires and clockwork. The friend was nothing more than a robot, a mere machine-like shell of her former self.
Suzanne blinked, and the memory lifted. That’s how she felt lately. She remembered that she and Tracy had covered their teenage eyes at that scary part of the movie. Later that night they agreed they’d never be perfect, consumed with how they looked, desperate to uphold a certain image.
But that’s exactly what Suzanne had become. Nothing more than a Stepford wife. No heart, no soul, no emotions. She turned from the window and headed absently into her walk-in closet. So many clothes. Every shirt and sweater and tight pair of pants a desperate attempt at… what? To hold onto an image? To keep up the act?
She slipped into a T-shirt and tight black dance pants, but as she did she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. What was she doing? The dance pants were something she wore when Ella’s guy friends were at the house. Her way of proving she still had it, she could still turn the head of an eighteen-year-old.
The truth disgusted her. She yanked off the dance pants and shoved them back in the drawer. Sweats. Those would be better. Comfortable clothes were more appropriate for Sunday mornings. She found a pair, and when she was dressed she wandered into the upstairs hallway and a thought occurred to her. There was a time when church—not sweats—had been—more appropriate for Sunday mornings. The years when she and Tracy Harris were friends.
She walked quietly past the kids’ rooms and peered in at them, first Ella, then the boys. It was only eight o’clock, which meant at least an hour before they would be up. She thought about her husband, how he hadn’t been home. Training, he told the kids. But the kids could see through his lies. There was no way to avoid the truth: he didn’t want to be home.
By now the kids probably all pitied her. She was a sad joke, and in time they would learn to look the other way. Then what? She’d grow old alone without the respect of the very people who were supposed to love her most? One day, Randy would leave her. He had one foot out the door already. The thought sent a shot of fear through her veins and doubled her anxiety.
The title of Randy Reynolds’ wife was the only one Suzanne had ever known.
She steadied her breathing and continued down the hall to the other end, the place where a custom bookcase was built into the wall. She stared at it, half full and covered with dust. When they’d built this house, the plan was to fill the case with photo albums and scrapbooks. They would have so many happy memories one bookcase would never be enough.
A quick count told her there were twelve volumes in all—ten before Ella was four, two since then. Suzanne felt her eyes well up. The message was so loud it was deafening. All the good times, nearly every happy memory, had taken place before Ella hit kindergarten.
She came closer, studying the titles on the spines of the books. One was from high school, and another from the summer after graduation. There was a scrapbook of Randy’s early baseball adventures and one titled simply “Engagement Year.” The wedding took up its own book and so did their honeymoon. After that there was a fat photo book for each year until Ella was four. The next one had a three-year span written on the edge of the book, and the last one still wasn’t filled.
The glue that made them a family had lost its power somewhere along the way—whether that glue was the love they’d stopped sharing or the laughter that never happened anymore. Whatever it was, Suzanne didn’t see any way to make it work again.
The photo album from their second married year was the one closest to her. She pulled it out and took it across the hall into her office. With a quick turn, she shifted the office chair so she was facing the enormous picture window and their backyard. Their perfectly manicured backyard. Best house on the block, she told herself. Everyone must think you really have it all. But the truth was something different. Except for the kids, she could have walked away from it all. The idea was tempting.
She opened the photo album and there on the front page was a photo of herself with Tracy, the two of them pushing their baby strollers down the same sidewalk, iced-tea glasses raised to Dan, most likely. He was the picture-taker in the group. Certainly not Randy. When he was around, people took pictures of him, not the other way around.
There were more photos, and suddenly she wanted to see every one of them. Not just brush past them, but really look at them. She turned the page and there they were again, she and Tracy side by side on the swings, Holden in Tracy’s arms, and Ella in hers. Suzanne brought the album a little closer and studied the images.
I remember that day. It was one of the first times she’d told Tracy h
er fears about Randy, how a good-looking pro-baseball player would struggle to be faithful.
“But you have your faith,” Tracy had told her. “Stay close to Jesus, and you’ll survive.”
Suzanne wasn’t convinced. “What about the people who say they’re Christians, but they mess up anyway?”
She could still see Tracy’s smile, the way she kissed the top of Holden’s head, and how her voice became very gentle. “Everyone makes mistakes. It’s not how we fall that defines us as Christians. It’s how we get up again.”
The answer grated at Suzanne. “So there’s no guarantee for a happy life. Not even with God?”
Tracy thought about that for awhile. “I guess it depends how you define happy.” She gave her swing a slight push. “With Jesus you have the guarantee of heaven … and the guarantee that God is with you, that He loves you.” She slowed down, and her answer seemed to come from someplace deep within her soul. “The closer you are to Jesus, the fewer the falls.” She smiled. “But when you really live for God, He helps you catch yourself before things get out of hand.”
That part made sense—enough so that Suzanne had remembered her friend’s words every year since then. A thick wall of Jesus around their lives and maybe they really could get through anything. But that had stopped being the case more than a decade ago. Suzanne looked intently at her face in the picture, at her eyes. They were alive and shining, full of trust. Looking into them now she could almost remember what it felt like to believe.
Her eyes moved to Tracy’s, the joy and hope, the carefree way her smile shone through the photograph, as if time couldn’t touch whatever happiness lived inside her. A different memory came to mind. The last time Suzanne saw Tracy, a week before spring training that year. The conversation had been short and stilted, too awkward for a long visit. By then Tracy’s look was very different, closed off and protective, angry even.
The problem was Holden.