Folie à Deux (32 page)

Twice more we’ll spend the day in a hotel. I blindly march through the same futile steps to hide my whereabouts, once even parking my car down a country road to ride my bike to the room. I think nothing of holding the room with my credit card making my presence completely traceable but my obsession is blinding. Our last excursion includes a stay overnight. By this time in the relationship we are able to revisit places in our past to reminisce, having breakfast at the diner where we first kissed.

By the time I drop her off I’m unable to sit still, overwhelmed by the anxiety of having been detached from myself for so long. I’m convinced that someone, if not everyone knows what I’ve done. I’m terrified to look at Dana when I walk into my house
because, although she bought my alibi about playing cards, spending the night with my underage girlfriend drives me to new depths of corruption with which I’m not sure I can ever be acquainted.

I receive several warnings in the nascence of my missteps. The first day of school, the crisis counselor, Sharon, with whom I have always had a positive relationship casually tells me I should come to her office. Her tone does not convey crisis but I have no doubt what she wants. I go two periods later overcome with curiosity.

Sharon’s office is always buzzing. There is forever a student with a perceived dilemma or a parent with a real one causing her phone to ring perpetually. When she closes the door and sits behind her desk she looks at me and chews her gum loudly before speaking. Her omnipotent smirk irritates me, tempting me to ask what’s wrong, but I have to let her speak first in the hopes that she reveals something.

She is an overly proud recovering alcoholic who thinks she knows how to deal with any problem because she has overcome her own. In a thick New York accent, through a stream of cliché phrases that only add to the mystique of her thick skin she says, “Listen, the field hockey coach came knocking on my door. I was her first line of defense to tell me the rumors coming down the pipeline.”

Sharon understands the pitfalls of a student who latches onto a teacher. She only refers to Natalia by last name and tempers whatever she might truly feel with, “We both know kids like to
chew the fat and if she’s getting positive feedback then maybe she took the ball ran with this thing a little too far, ya know?”

Since Sharon is not only giving me the problem but also the explanation I let her continue. I let her stroke her own ego with plenty of addiction jargon about kids in need. I taper the conversation by asking what I might do to help this situation and conclude perfectly when I say, “Should I speak to Natalia’s coach to smooth things over?”

She tells me without any thought, “I got your back on this one.”

I sit and wonder how she is going to cover me because during my time in her office I explained nothing. It wasn’t really a lie if all I did was agree with the justifications thrust upon me. Disturbingly, still no incentive to actually change my behavior appears. Every opportunity to act is instead viewed as a bullet dodged.

Dana makes her own attempt to reel me also, not simply by speaking to me or searching the root of my erratic behavior but also telling me the ancillary consequences of my repeated absences. “Your daughter is having a very hard time dealing with whatever you’re going through Jim,” she says as I arrive home one night after a day with Natalia. I try to ignore her for all of the typical reasons that I have found to disregard her feelings in the past. I dismiss her pleas as simple embellishment to produce guilt. I tell myself that Dana is trying to tug on my heart strings by using our kids as pawns, dismissing the possibility of any truth.

I’m not surprised that Dana would use the kids to accentuate a point because she knows how much I love being a father. Dana has heard plenty of accolades from members of her family and
friends regarding the rapport that I have with my kids. She not only shares the compliments with me but also the opinion.

I never knew what it meant to truly love someone until the first time I held our first born daughter. I stayed up long nights staring at her, enamored that she relied on me to meet all her needs. It was daunting and melting simultaneously. I was nervous when Dana was pregnant for a second time, unsure I could offer the same love and attention to another child, my affection absolute for my daughter. However, the capacity to love expanded effortlessly when my only son was born twenty-three months later. I felt blessed and truly happy for the first time since before high school as I took inventory of my life.

Another twenty-three months brought another daughter and yet another augmentation of the feeling that I could barely harness toward one child yet somehow multiplied by three. Dana and I spoke about three children and here they were, omnipresent in my life. Yet something was still nagging at me frequently.

“Is this all there is?” I asked myself many times. Nothing seems to ever live up to its billing. It confuses me when an event or a milestone, holiday or happening is so anticipated. I don’t know if I’m afraid to have happiness taken away from me or if I’m unable to enjoy things the way other people do. Am I the tainted variable?

I will marry and think, “Is this all there is?” I witnessed the birth of my three children and thought, “Is this all it is?” Graduate high school, college, gain employment, promotions, be chosen Teacher of the Year, compete in bicycle races, triathlons and in each instance feel the normal amount of anticipation and excitement in expectancy.

But in the quiet, reflective, solitary moments afterwards I ask again, “Is this all there is? I want to feel more. I’m dying to feel
something clean and natural but the more events that unfold I fear purity may never come.

I’m so far into myself and satisfying my own needs that I am oblivious and impervious to everything. Even, “Your daughter is laying on the floor crying that she misses her dad,” although terribly upsetting, does not wake me. I miss her too. I miss all three of my children very much, but the person I miss most is me.

The most serious scolding comes in December. In the middle of class the phone in my room rings, I am greeted by the principal’s secretary who tells me that Barbara, the principal would like to meet with me. Her call concludes ominously, “She suggests that you bring a union representative.”

I know instantly that we will be discussing a serious topic and have no doubts what that is. I find and tell my delegate, giving him nothing more than the same cursory story. He puts my mind at ease offering past stories of suspected impropriety. He prepares me as much as he can for the meeting but I know what I must do and by this time, have told the lie so many times that I’m not only comfortable, but believe the validity myself. The added caveat here is that I’m sure a decision is going to be made whether or not to take this to the next level.

I’m surprised when I walk into Barbara’s office to also find Rick, the head of guidance, who doubles as the Affirmative Action Officer. There is no surprise when Barbara tells me very officially, “It has been brought to my attention that there’s a female student who has grown quite attached to you, Jim. There are rumors circulating that could potentially damage your reputation. I know how hard you’ve worked to create a pristine reputation for both you and your department,” she preaches.

She passes directly over the question of whether or not there is any truth to the rumors and begins to control the damage. She
does have the good sense to ask, “I realize that Natalia is in your class, but how is it that you’ve come to have a relationship with her outside of the classroom?”

This allows me to tell her how Talia latched onto me in her time of need. I explain, “Her mother is aware that Natalia has confided some problems in me and she is aware that I have put her in contact with guidance as well as provided my own bit of advice.” Nothing seems to strike her as odd until I mention our trip to the therapist.

At my revelation of visiting Natalia’s therapist she becomes agitated, fidgets in her seat and cuts me off, “Wait a minute, you mean you went to her therapist with her?”

“Yes, and her mother,” I add quickly as if saving myself from admonishment.

“Oh Jim, that was not a good idea at all,” Barbara says, the wind knocked out of her.

I explain that the idea wasn’t something I offered, rather was asked by a direct call. That explanation makes no difference in Barbara’s clear disappointment. She directs me, “You need to explain to Natalia and her mother that guidelines must be put in place that prohibit you from being alone with her at any time.”

Barbara offers to be present at this conversation to make clear the decision is coming from above. I try to appear like I’m contemplating her option but politely decline, “Thank you Barbara, but I feel as though I can handle the conversation by myself,” full of complete dishonesty.

As the meeting draws to a close and I’m walking to the door, Rick, who has sat and silently scribbled notes the entire meeting says, “I have just one question,” his pause sycophantic, self-righteous. “I feel as affirmative action officer I would be remiss if I
didn’t ask you this directly,” he says before looking up from his legal pad.

“Is there anything going on between you and Natalia that violates the teacher-student relationship?”

I clench my jaw to prevent any other incriminating reaction, my heart pounds.

I know that I must answer quickly and I must lie. This is the first time that anyone has come out and asked me directly. With all eyes on me, I look at him and say, “No, Rick, there is nothing going on between me and Natalia.”

I make a point to look at Barbara for punctuation. I sound so convincing, I even believe myself. As I utter that sentence I detach myself from the life I live after three o’clock in the afternoon. I am not the man sleeping with a fifteen year old girl. My answer comes from somewhere that is still living up to the self-made promise to live a good life but sadly, that person is not rooted in reality. That man will evaporate into the conniving ego that controls my actions as soon as I leave this office.

During my drive home, I cannot stop dwelling on how dirty I feel. This is the first time I lament the betrayal of myself. I don’t care about lying to either Barbara or Rick. They are administrators, but I’ve always expected more of myself. I’m so tired of lying and so tired of creating situations where the need to lie becomes self-preservation. What I feel is constantly slamming against what I think I should do. I’m exhausted and want this to end. The mental gymnastics are demanding and are losing their efficacy. I’m running out of lies as well as the energy to fabricate them.

We mold our relationship around the obstacles in front of us, our routine unable to remain static. I’ve been driving her home for quite some time until my admonishment makes it clear that any contact draws too much attention so we meet at a park next to school. Although a nuisance, the alternative to stop driving her home is not an option.

She knows my schedule and comes to my classroom during free periods, closes the door behind her, walks behind my desk and rubs my back or asks sweetly, “Can I have a hug please?”

She also knows the places in the building where we pass in the hallway. We both speed up or slow down to put us in the optimal spot to exchange a glance. I neither discourage her behavior nor curtail my own, constantly setting examples and reveling in the reciprocation.

It’s difficult to ascertain the point when it becomes an infatuation, but taking inventory now, this seems more like an obsession than any relationship I’ve ever had. I amaze even myself when I lie down and recount my day before I pass out from the exhaustion of a double life.

One night, late in the fall, I sit outside Talia’s job, waiting to drive her home. Periodically starting the engine to take the chill from my car. Just about the time I start to worry because she is
late, I receive a text, sure to read that she will be right out. What I see is simply, “I told mom.”

My first reaction is that she sent the text to the wrong person, “Told mom what?”

After I send, the thought occurs that perhaps she is referring to our secret, but easily dismiss the absurdity of that notion.