CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
On Tuesday, when I pick up Lisset from school, my stomach drops the moment I spot Laura, Lisset’s teacher, standing beside her, clearly wanting to speak with me. Her presence can only be bad news and I’m right. Offering me an apologetic smile, Laura pulls me aside to tell me that Lisset no longer wants to participate in the Reading Dog Program.
“But didn’t you say her first session last week went well?”
“It did,” Laura confirms. “But today, for some reason, Lisset was dead set against it.”
“Did she say why?”
Her teacher sighs. “No, and we don’t want to force the issue. Let’s give her some time. We’ll try again next week.”
On the drive home, I try to broach the subject with Lisset, but she bursts into angry tears and I decide to drop the matter. At least for now. What on earth happened?
When I pull into the driveway, Lisset throws herself out of the car and rushes up the stairs to her room. I debate following her to try to get to the bottom of what’s going on, but in so many ways my daughter is a mirror image of me. When we’re upset, we want to be left alone to wail and rage.
I let out an unhappy sigh. Even though it goes against my instincts as a mother, I understand Lisset well enough to give her the time and space she needs.
I start preparing dinner, my mind whirling, the pressure inside me building. Just when I thought we were making progress, this happens.
I’m stirring the sauce into the gnocchi when the doorbell rings.
“Hey,” Gideon says when I open the door.
Seeing him standing on my porch, looking rugged and competent and concerned, I feel a stinging behind my eyes that tells me I’m seconds away from bursting into tears. And I never, ever cry in front of anyone.
I bury my face in my hands.
Without a word, Gideon closes the gap between us and pulls me gently against his chest, wrapping his strong arms around me and encasing me in his warmth. At first, I stand stiffly, panic sniffing around me, trying to nudge its way in. But Gideon is holding me in a way that lets me know I can pull free anytime. I close my eyes and concentrate on the soft fabric of his T-shirt against my cheek, the measured, steady beat of his heart in my ear. Slowly, slowly, the turmoil inside me eases. I should be uncomfortable, but it’s with a sense of wonder I realize I feel...safe.
It’s not lost on me this is the first time he’s touched me. And that I’m allowing it.
I don’t know how much time passes before I haul in a deep breath and straighten. He immediately drops his arms to his sides. I step back, putting distance between us.
“How’s Lisset doing?” he asks.
“Honestly, I don’t know. She’s not talking.” I push my hair wearily out of my eyes. “What happened today?”
“I’m not sure. She wouldn’t attend the session.”
I raise my palms in a helpless gesture. “I don’t know what to do.”
“We’ll work something out,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“I don’t know yet, but I’m not giving up on her.”
His words swell inside my chest, making me feel a little less alone.
“Can I speak to her?” Gideon asks.
His question throws me. “Now?”
“Why not?”
I hesitate. “My house is a mess.”
What I really mean is, my life is a mess . And I can’t help the illogical feeling that if he crosses the threshold into our home, it’ll be akin to a Neil Armstrong moment. One small step for Gideon Walker, one giant leap for Kate Miller.
Maybe I’m making too big a deal of it. I probably am. It appears to be a default setting in my brain.
Lisset comes first, I remind myself. Always.
I step aside. “Sure. Come in.” I move toward the stairs. “I’ll get Lisset. Uh, you can wait in the living room, if you want.”
“Okay,” he says easily.
When I open Lisset’s bedroom door, the only traces that remain of her earlier distress are her puffy, red-rimmed eyes. I gather her into my arms. “You okay, Lis?”
“Yeah,” she says dispiritedly.
“Let’s eat dinner.”
She follows me down the stairs but stops short when she sees Gideon in the living room.
“It’s okay,” I reassure her, ignoring her I’ve-been-ambushed expression. “You’re not in trouble. We just want to talk to you.”
“Hi, Lissy,” Gideon greets her as she slouches onto the couch opposite him. He engages her in a few minutes of frivolous small talk before asking her directly why she didn’t want to attend the Reading Dog Program today at school.
“I don’t like it,” she answers, crossing her arms and looking at her knees.
I make to speak, but Gideon gives a small shake of his head. I squash my knee-jerk resentment and rearrange myself on the couch, tucking my legs underneath me. She’s my daughter, but this is his area of expertise. I keep quiet and decide to let him handle it.
“That’s all right,” Gideon tells her. “You don’t have to like everything. What’s important is that you gave it a go.”
I feel myself frowning. This is his way of handling it?
Lisset is fiddling with the zipper on her hoodie, still refusing to make eye contact with either of us.
“Just out of curiosity,” Gideon asks casually, “what is it about the program that you don’t like?”
“I just don’t like it.”
“Is it Uno?” he asks. “Do you not like him?”
“I LOVE Uno!” she emphasizes fervently.
“What about me?” he asks in a playful, growly voice. “Am I scary?”
A tiny smile tugs at the corners of her lips. “No, I like you,” she confesses shyly.
“What about the books? How do you feel about them?”
“I don’t want to read them,” Lisset maintains.
“What if we change the books?”
“I don’t like reading,” she bursts out. “Reading is stupid and I hate it!”
It’s a passionate outburst and I’m shocked. This is a child who used to love to read. Who would spend hours curled up in her favorite spot, reading stories above her grade level. I remind myself she’s been tested for dyslexia, so I know that’s not the problem.
“Lisset, you can’t get through school without reading,” I point out. I hate to break it to her, but that’s the reality. Maybe the time has come for some tough love.
“You read to Uno the first time,” Gideon says to Lisset, not reacting to her outburst. “Remember?”
She nods.
“I think he was kind of excited for you to read to him a second time.”
Tears shimmer in her eyes. “But the other children watch.”
My spine straightens. What?
“They’re not in the sessions,” Gideon informs me, noticing my expression. “Everyone has their own ten-minute slot.”
“Honey, did someone say something to you?” I ask her carefully.
She hesitates, staring a hole in her lap.
We wait, not rushing her. At least, I hope I don’t look like I’m rushing her. I hope I’m projecting a calm, collected air. On the inside, though, I crave to jump to my feet and demand she tell me right now who these children are and what they’re saying.
Lisset’s words finally spill out in a rush. “Charlie laughed at me. He said I’m stupid because I read to a dog. And then the other kids laughed as well.”
“Does Charlie attend the program?” I ask in a deadly quiet voice.
Gideon’s eyebrows draw together a little. “No.”
I breathe in sharply through my nose. This Charlie kid, I’m going to grab him by the scruff of his neck and march his cruel, thoughtless self to the principal’s office. I’m going to make him pay. I’m going to make all of them pay. I’m...
“Mom, please don’t say anything!” Lisset cries out. “It’s not just Charlie, it’s the other kids too. Everyone thinks there’s something wrong with me because I was a good reader and now I don’t want to read anymore. If I go to the program and read with Uno, then it just makes them remember that I’m weird.”
It’s like a boulder has rolled onto my chest and I’m struggling to take in a breath under the enormous weight of it.
“You’re not weird,” I finally manage.
“Definitely not,” Gideon adds in a firm tone. “In fact, you’re one of the coolest kids I know.”
“Cooler than Charlie,” I mutter.
Lisset glances at me. “Mom, I can read, but I just don’t want to. Everything about reading is dumb.”
My daughter is not budging. Stubbornness seems to be an excessively dominant gene in our family.
“I’m hungry,” she announces. “Can I go eat now?”
A multitude of lectures and arguments are still bubbling inside of me, but I swallow them all down. “Yes, help yourself.”
“Thanks for being straight with us,” Gideon says to Lisset. He holds out his hand for a fist bump and she obliges. “See you around, kiddo.”
“See you around, Gideon,” she echoes before dashing to the kitchen.
I sigh, an admission of defeat, and see him to the front door. “Thanks for trying.”
“Sorry I wasn’t more help.”
“She’s so unbelievably stubborn,” I say in disbelief. “It’s so frustrating she won’t accept help.”
He smiles at me for a second too long. “She sounds exactly like someone I know.”
And then he ambles away into the fading evening light, leaving me standing open-mouthed on my porch staring after him.
Worn out by the events and emotion of the day, Lisset is fast asleep before eight. I tidy up the house and iron a pile of work clothes while a cooking show plays mindlessly on the TV.
All the while, my ex-husband dominates my thoughts. Maybe it’s the cruelty of the children that’s prompted my restlessness. I’m in a dangerous place and I know it. This whole thing with Lisset has unsettled me, and I’m always weaker when I’m upset.
Desperate to fill the evening hours, I clean the kitchen. Then I think, why stop there? I go from room to room, dusting, wiping, polishing until my arms and shoulders ache.
But it doesn’t help because I’m still thinking about Oliver and what’s in my bedside table.
On some level, I know I’m only delaying the inevitable.
I check on Lisset, who is still fast asleep, covers thrown off, arms and legs flung out like a starfish. I cover her even as I accept she’ll no doubt kick her blankets off again in the middle of the night.
I climb into bed, only to stare at the shadows on the ceiling. Every time I blink they seem to transform themselves into a different menacing shape.
Just when I believe I’m moving forward, trying to claw my life back, I pass by a storm drain and a clown’s hand snakes out and drags me into its dark depths.
That bedside drawer is my storm drain.
I sit up and switch on my bedside lamp.
I tell myself not to give in and open that drawer, but I’m an addict and my drug of choice is self-flagellation. It always amazes me how we’re drawn to things that have the potential to hurt us. I observe it even with Lisset, when I instruct her not to touch the hot surface on the stove and then I see in her eyes the almost overwhelming desire to defy me and touch it, even though she knows she’ll be hurt.
I open the beside drawer and take out the wrinkled piece of paper. The letter is only one page, but the words are like circling vultures, eager to peck at the bones of my insecurity. My stomach is heavy with dread as I relive my marriage in the scribbled words of hate and disparagement on the page. I read about how my husband became so bored of me after I had Lisset. No longer was I the wild and fun Kate he fell in love with, the one he enjoyed partying with. I was now the boring and domesticated mother he couldn’t stand to be around, who was always whining about how exhausted she was. I was the mother of a brat who demanded all my time and attention. I was to blame every time he lost his temper because I was such a failure as a wife.
I touch the scar on my chin that has faded to a tiny white line. A souvenir of the first time he lost his temper.
Our marriage was combustible in the best way at the beginning; in the worst way at the end.
I close my eyes. Why haven’t I burned the letter? Why do I keep returning to it, reading it over and over again? I wish I had an answer. The letter possesses a strange dark hold over me and I can’t seem to untether myself from it. Maybe it’s a reminder of how cautious I should be, especially when it comes to Gideon. This letter is part of my history, and isn’t history supposed to be about learning from past mistakes? Perhaps I haven’t yet learned everything I need to learn.
I fold up the letter along its well-worn creases and put it back in the drawer. If only I could put away the memory of my ex-husband falling so spectacularly out of love with me.
Yes, Oliver broke my heart. But I broke myself. And I can’t seem to find a way to put all the pieces back together so I can feel whole again.