Bright Before Us (16 page)

 

I waited for her arrival, but the principal never showed. As the moments ticked past and she remained absent, I felt ever lighter, slowly filling with relief, bathed in chilly sweat.

Oh my God, I thought: it's going to get better.

Had I figured all of this wrong? Of course I had. I had been so eager, like always, to jump to the worst conclusion. There were a few parents still present, and once again I felt I understood their presence for what it was: not about me. They were here for their kids. They weren't spies. They were just attentive, engaged parents—Christ, was it any wonder I had trouble recognizing
that
?

Good morning, Mr. Mason,
Mrs. Stone said.

Good morning,
I said back.

They were there because they wanted to give their children one extra boost of support; they wanted to ease them back into life's inevitable trajectory, the parent-ectomy—
you go here during the day, and I go there
—before quietly backing out of the room, confident that their kids had readjusted. I just need to keep repeating this, I remember thinking. Just keep on believing this.

 

When Jacob's mom approached me midmorning, despite her nervous expression I greeted her with a reassured smile.

I want to tell you that Jake has loved being in your class,
she said.

Through the thick muffle of the pills and the tremulous hangover, I felt my face brighten even further.
Oh,
I said.
I love having him. He's a great kid.

She nodded.

Well,
I said, when she didn't move,
thanks for telling me.

She twisted the rings on her fingers.
You're welcome,
she said.

I guessed that the parents had made their peace with me, my methods, my state of mind—none of them approached me with further questions. Whatever doubts they had about my ability had evidently been quelled by their time in the classroom, by the news of my loss.

And then the cold sweat changed into something disorienting—something viral, pestilent; a plague overtaking every inch of my body.

My loss, I thought. All of it came back—they still doubted me, hated me. They
are
here to watch you, you naive, fucking
pathetic
piece of shit: none of them told you they're sorry for your loss. My bereavement had gone unacknowledged.
Think this through,
I whispered to myself. Look at the possibilities. Don't refuse to see what you don't want to see.

Either they didn't believe it was the truth, or they didn't care.

 

At lunch, some of the kids came to sit near me at the back table, Simon and Marcus among them. The parents went elsewhere; they took their kids off campus to a drive-through or else left to grab coffee at one of the chains nearby. When they returned, they always seemed reinvigorated, as though returning from intermission to see the next act.

I heated a tuna sandwich in the toaster oven, and the classroom took on a fetid, familiar smell. I stared at the bread, the encrusted cheese. I was starving, but the process of eating felt imposed, laborious: why did I have to eat, even if I didn't want to?

Mr. Mason, your lunch looks nasty,
Marcus said.

It stinks, too,
Simon said, food falling from his mouth.

You eat the same thing every day,
Marisol said.
You always bring tuna.

It's my wife's favorite,
I said.

What does your wife look like?
Marcus said.

I thought for a moment.
She looks kind of like me,
I said.
We look a bit like brother and sister.

Lunch is almost over,
Simon said.
You better eat that, Mr. Mason.

I shook my head, like a toddler.
I don't even want it.

My vision was blurred, and faint white trails followed every moving thing. It was as though I had removed my glasses—the world was underwater again, everything distorted. The bell rang, and the kids moved to dispose of their trash. I looked at Marcus, who remained behind, until he stared down at his food, smiling in discomfort.
What?
he said, in an unconvincing attempt at defiance: in his voice was anxiety, clear as a bell. My gaze was unwavering.

I don't want to be here any more than you do,
I whispered to him.

He lifted his chin, the remnant of his smile disintegrating.

 

Take your seats, take your seats, I sang out, corralling every ounce of my strength to say the words, to do this
small thing, to exist. The food smells started to lift and exit through the open windows.
I'm counting to five and anyone still standing is last to go to afternoon recess ...

I mounted my stool before the wall of windows, legs bowed like a cowboy.
Time to play Description, gang,
I said.
Who's ready with an object?

Amber's hand shot up.
Apple,
she said: a perennial, predictable favorite.

Amber's hand went skyward.

Let's let someone else have a turn,
I said.
Who's ready?

Me!
Jeff said.
Apple is round!

No it ain't!
yelled Mariana.

Jeff looked at me helplessly.
It's almost round?

I had my mouth open to speak when someone else did:
Hands raised, I think is the rule,
Mr. Noel said. The kids all turned to stare at him, dumbfounded. Before I could staunch it, I felt my face smear with snide shock. The words spilled from my mouth before my drowning brain could catch up:

Do you mind?
I said.

The three or four seconds that followed had a high-pitched whine about them, barely audible, like a teakettle seconds from a full-on wail. I could feel each instant teetering on some kind of awkward fulcrum, deciding which way to go: all-out confrontation, as is always imagined in those sorts of moments in the corner of the brain that governs fight or flight—or what actually happened, which was absolutely nothing. Mr. Noel pretended I hadn't spoken; I turned back to the kids and smiled insincerely, and a few somebodies called out—without raising hands—
Red! Green!
and
Shiny!

The kids went out to recess after we had gotten through six nouns—I was so exhausted that the final one,
pillow
, drove me to distraction—and I said I had to visit the copier and then carry out another small errand:
I'm just going to run up the hall to the photocopier to make a few ...
I paused, delaying the stupid, inevitable final word:
copies
, I finally said. I had to get out of there. I'd gotten away with one sharp remark; if I stayed, I knew I'd make another.

I didn't even bother to walk in the direction of the copier once I left class. Instead, I headed, sure and purposeful, to the door that led to the roof, and once up there I grabbed my folded lawn chair where it leaned against the edge. But I lost my balance and fell to the tar; I stayed there, sitting cross-legged. I clapped a hand over each ear, my palms sliding to my mouth, and then my closed eyes, like I was hiding from a horror film.
Fuck me,
I said, and the words felt so good: pure, and deliciously wrong. Out on the soccer field two kids were playing catch with a kickball. I opened my eyes and looked at my watch. Another two hours. A plane droned overhead, and I watched the game of catch.
Jesus,
I said, engrossed. Sometimes, I didn't understand the way children played—like it was hate that drove them, not fun; as though they were exorcising demons. I watched them pass the ball in zipping line drives, these joyless, horizontal throws—I watched, suspended, as they chucked the ball at each other like it was something they abhorred; like it was a burden they wanted to be rid of, like they wanted their compatriot to have to take it up in their stead.

After the final bell rang, most of the parents escorted their children outside to begin the car or bus or cab rides home. I planned on staying late to correct the children's reading responses from the week before. Rebekah needed to stay, too—we had just begun double-digit addition, carrying numbers, and she was one of the many who was struggling. Her father often let her linger after school, until she could finish her reading or confidently spell CALIFORNIA.

I'd be happy to walk her through the math again today,
I told her father that afternoon.

I should get her home,
he said.

It's no trouble,
I said.
I'm always glad to help her.

He grimaced.
I'll come back at four thirty.

Great,
I said, trying to ignore his reluctance.
We'll have her caught up in no time.

 

We went over it and over it, and then Rebekah returned to her chair; though I knew she still didn't understand, I let her. And then, sure enough, at quarter to four she finally caved in and walked back over, frowning.
Mr. Mason, I don't get it,
she said. Her paper was translucent, worn thin by erasure.

Here's how it works,
I said, beginning again, repeating verbatim what I had already said.
The number is two digits long. There's only one spot for a number, so the other number gets carried.

Okay,
she said, not comprehending.

Rebekah,
I started to say,
I think we should—

The classroom phone rang, startling me. I set her paper down, watching the receiver tremble in its cradle.

Shit,
I said aloud. I told her, my mouth dry,
Just a sec, okay?
before hesitantly answering the phone.
I can finish helping you in just a second.

I spoke into the receiver.
Is this about my wife?

A male voice cleared its throat.
This is Officer Buckingham.

We took turns exhaling.

Rebekah watched me. I mouthed again,
Just a sec.
She ignored me, holding her paper up.

I'm wondering if you've been able to remember more about the time line that day,
Buckingham said.

Is that my dad?
Rebekah said.

Sorry,
I said to Buckingham, shaking my head at Rebekah.
The time line? What does that mean exactly?

I was just going over what happened,
he said. I heard him sip something, heard the mug being set back down on his desk. I heard the faint air of irritation in his voice.
Just filling in the blanks in my report, really. I was wondering how long you'd been at the beach beforehand.

Mr. Mason,
Rebekah said,
is my dad coming soon?

Bek, can you sit at your table for just a minute?
I said, holding my hand over the receiver.
I'll be right there.
Into the phone, I said,
I think we were probably there twenty minutes before she jumped, maybe thirty, but I—

Buckingham was silent. I felt my spine snap taut as a tripwire.

All I could manage was a whisper.
I—I didn't—

He scoffed.
You saw someone jump off the bridge?

No,
I said, scrambling.
I didn't.

He cut me off again.
Christ,
he said.
Start over. Tell me whatever it is you're not—

I think I interrupted you,
I said, interrupting him.
What did you—you needed to know something. What did you need again?
I hastened to cover my tracks, erase what I had said with new words; I talked so fast I doubted he could understand me.

He said nothing for several moments. I knew he was sorting through our interactions, evaluating my motives. Gauging my veracity.

Start over,
he said again.

I took a deep breath. Rebekah fidgeted in her seat. Outside, a motorcycle bellowed down the narrow street.

I know I should have said this sooner,
I said carefully.
But the woman on the beach ...

Rebekah looked up. I turned my back on her.

Yes?
He sounded spring-loaded. I pictured him leaning forward in his chair. This time, I didn't feel the quickening, the lightness of a lie being borne out of my body—as I spoke what came next, it seemed pure, definitive, clear as water. Real and whole and impregnable.

Your wife,
he said.