CHAPTER FOUR
“I don’t understand what you’re telling me.”
Laura Bilson, Lisset’s blonde, blue-eyed teacher, leans forward in her chair, as though that will help me to understand her words better. “I’m afraid Lisset is refusing to read.”
I frown. Everything about that statement is wrong. “But she loves to read.”
“She used to love to read,” Laura says carefully.
I process this for a beat before I say, just as carefully, “Are you sure this is my daughter we’re talking about and not some other child?”
It feels like a reasonable question. I mean, if you have more than twenty kids in your class, you’re bound to get confused sometimes. And Lisset’s teacher looks so delicate I feel as though a gust of wind will topple her. How does she handle a classroom full of energetic eight-year-olds?
Laura Bilson, however, looks not only taken aback, but also a little insulted, so I guess there’s no careful way to phrase that particular question. “I’m very sure, Mrs. Miller,” she says stiffly.
I stifle a sigh. I can’t afford to alienate her. “Call me Kate. Please.”
Laura Bilson is young, passionate, and earnest. Everything about her is earnest, from her lesson plans and progress reports to her fervent belief she’s changing the world one child at a time. Who knows, maybe she is. Only a couple of years out of college, she’s armed with ideals that haven’t yet been knocked out of her.
We’re currently sitting in her classroom, where the walls are peppered with life-affirming quotes, as well as various projects and colorful artwork the children have completed. It’s clear to me why Lisset adores her. Then again, Lisset adores most people.
“How long has this been going on?” I ask.
“I’d say about the last two weeks,” Laura replies. “I kept hoping it was a phase Lisset would pull out of, but it doesn’t seem to be getting any better.”
Now that I think about it, it’s been a while since Lisset asked me to visit the library, usually one of her favorite places. And I can’t remember when last she grabbed a book from the bursting bookshelf in her room and curled up on the couch to read.
I look through the inner classroom window at the small figure of Lisset sitting in the adjacent tutorial room, playing a game on my phone while she waits for her teacher and me to finish up in here. Shame floods me. How could I have not noticed what was happening with my own daughter? What mother doesn’t notice when her child stops reading?
A negligent one, clearly.
My chest tightens with that all-too-familiar anxiety.
“Look, Lisset’s a great student,” Laura says reassuringly, evidently wanting to ease whatever expression she sees on my face. “She’s helpful and eager to learn, and she’s doing well in math and her other subjects. It’s mostly her reading. She flat-out refuses to read in class, either out loud or on her own.”
“This is so unlike her.”
“I agree. With your permission, I’d like to arrange a dyslexia diagnostic assessment. I don’t believe she has dyslexia, but we want to be sure.”
I’m reeling. Dyslexia? “Yes. Absolutely.”
Laura is silent for a moment, then she clears her throat and I straighten in my seat. Nothing good follows an awkward throat clearing. I try to mentally prepare myself for whatever Lisset’s teacher will say next.
“Mrs. Miller...Kate...has anything happened at home?”
My spine stiffens. “What do you mean?”
“Has Lisset experienced an upsetting event recently? Sometimes children act out of character if there’s something going on at home.”
“There’s nothing going on at home,” I declare, trying not to sound defensive, but realizing I sound it anyway.
“There’s been no big upset, like a family member moving away?” Laura presses. “Or an illness in the family?”
“No,” I maintain, shaking my head. “We’re just carrying on like we normally do.” I shrug. “Nothing momentous has occurred.”
In all honesty, sometimes getting out of bed feels like a momentous occurrence.
“What about school?” I ask, shifting the questioning. “Has anything changed there? Maybe Lisset’s being teased? Or she’s fallen out of her friendship group?”
“I’ve been keeping an eye on her,” Laura admits. “She’s shown no reluctance at lunchtime to head out. She’s smiling and she’s not left out of games. She also appears happy in the classroom.”
My attitude toward her softens. Laura Bilson is clearly worried and going out of her way to try to figure out what’s happening with Lisset.
I give myself a moment to think. “Could it be the books you’re offering her? Maybe they don’t interest her?”
Laura gestures to the bookshelves positioned around the periphery of the classroom. “As you can see, we have a wide variety of books on offer. I’ve encouraged her to pick whatever book she wants, but she refuses to even choose.”
I worry the silver necklace hanging around my neck, my stomach twisting in concern. “I’ll chat to Lisset tonight.”
“Thank you.”
Thinking we’re done here, I make a move to stand, but Laura stays me with a light hand on my arm.
“We have a new program starting up at the school in two weeks,” she says. “It’s called the Reading Dog Program. It involves children with social, emotional, or learning needs working with a volunteer handler and a therapy dog.”
I try not to sigh. I know she means well, but that description in no way fits Lisset. Yes, I’m a single mom and I work full time, but she’s not a neglected child. I’m there for Lisset every night after school. I’m there for her on weekends. I don’t take drugs, drink to excess, or go out partying.
And even if I did agree to enroll her in such a program, I know Lisset would feel singled out and she’d hate that.
But Laura is caught up in earnestly explaining the merits of the program.
“I believe the formal term is ‘Reading Education Assistance Dogs,’ but we call them ‘Reading Dogs.’ It’s easier for the children.”
You know what’s easier for the children? Humans. Preferably those who have gone through the higher education system and who have been trained to help a child read. Not a dog, who can provide no feedback or assistance whatsoever.
“The sessions will be conducted in the library,” Laura continues, oblivious to my skepticism, her face glowing with enthusiasm. “The kids will sit on bean bags and it’ll be a non-threatening, fun environment for them.”
I stare at her in confusion. Fun? How is that supposed to sell it to me? The program sounds like a waste of time and an excuse for kids to simply lounge around. I mean, I’m all for kids having fun, but that should happen in recess. In classroom time, I want them to learn, not loaf around on bean bags and play with a dog.
I realize that what Laura lacks in experience, she makes up for in passion, but I wouldn’t mind a little more practical teaching experience in this current situation.
“Has this program been tested at the school?” I ask.
“Not here, no, but we’ve heard positive results from other schools.”
“What positive results?”
“The feedback is that the dogs improve students’ interest and confidence in reading.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Do you have any statistics to back that up?”
Her starry-eyed expression falters. Blast it, I realize too late I sound like a CIA interrogator and I need to tone it down. She’s still someone I need on my daughter’s side.
“It sounds like a good program,” I lie, “but it doesn’t sound like it would suit Lisset.”
I check my watch. Time to exit the classroom and this conversation. I’ll figure out what’s going on with Lisset on my own.
When I broach the subject with Lisset in the car, I have no better luck than the teacher in getting her to open up. She refuses to disclose why she won’t read, treating me to a moody shrug and a mumbled statement that books are boring. My chatterbox child is unusually recalcitrant.
I have failed at so many things in my life, but I cannot fail Lisset. Parenting is the one part I want to get right. Not perfect, just...not failing.
It’s in moments like this, when I study the lost look on my daughter’s face, that I feel the weight of being a single parent. I can’t simply pick up the phone and ask my husband, “What do you think we should do here? Any ideas, because I’m stumped?”
But I have family, I remind myself. I’m not completely alone.
With worry pulling at my chest, I say to Lisset, “Hey, what do you say we surprise Grandad and Grandma with a visit?”