Chapter 7
There is a good thing about all this, and that is, no more lies.
No more secrecy.
No more mysteriously rushing off in the middle of family dinner to talk (read: argue) on the phone with Jack about some insane
Amelia-driven demand. No more looking like the most introverted person alive by shoving off invitations left and right so
I can mysteriously “be alone in my apartment to water my plants.”
Letting this little secret finally air out with Gran will release some pent-up tension. It will be a good thing to tell her what is going on. And, to be very clear, the absolute best thing in all this is that I have not broken contract. Somebody else told her (read: Gloria, no doubt); ergo, I am not responsible.
(Of course, the fact that I told Gloria roughly the second I got off the plane with Jack two years ago after specifically
being told not to is, indeed, my fault. But she’s my sister . The sister bond no doubt trumps a contract in a court of law. Everybody in the whole world knows all bets are off when it comes to your sister.)
I step up to Gran’s office door.
Gran has always been a polite one, dignified despite the fact that the door is a textured hollow core made of primed composite
with scratches all down its side. The brass on the knob has rubbed off in places. The commercial blue carpet has been trodden
on for no less than forty years. The windows are single pane, and yes, in the winter the heat just can’t keep up, and in the
summers, like this one, we find it’s better just to shove up the windows and our sleeves instead of asking anything more out
of the old HVAC.
But Margaret Page has always held her head high, and from the way she dresses for work—the same single strand of pearls, her gray hair rolled up in curls—you’d think she was the president at New York University instead of some place like this.
Margaret Page is the one who puts the extra touches on the place. Making sure the halls always smell of citrus essential oils
instead of cheap lemon spray. Making sure the bathrooms always carry a little basket of spare toiletries and fresh soaps at
the sink. Bouquets of some sort always sit on the teachers’ desks—a tradition that I discovered began in 1979 from bouquets
selected from Gran’s garden and has continued ever since.
These little touches lift the students’, and teachers’, spirits when they step inside. These, and the smiles, the conversations,
and the reaches into each other’s lives, are what make people lift their chins when they walk through the doors.
These touches are what set The Bridge apart.
One time I asked her why she goes to such effort, and she said simply, “It takes a great deal of courage for someone to come
to this country, often with nothing, and make a new start for their family. They need to feel proud of themselves.” And that
was that.
So for the forty-year-old engineer who once taught at his university in Ukraine before the war took over and he fled with
his wife and three children, the one who now works nights to clean the whiteboards as a janitor at a university here, the
scent of the citrus essential oils is for him. To give him a burst of energy while he works so diligently to keep his eyes
open as he finishes another test leading toward his GED.
For the young Somalian woman who fled an abusive situation and is now working to raise her two-year-old daughter alone, in
a new country, the smell of the roses on the desk is for her. Along with the free lavender deodorants.
And it all began with Gran. I rap on the door lightly.
“Come in,” she calls.
Gran is dressed in a blue suit today. Wrinkle-free down to the cuff links. Her ankles crossed over little white shoes. A window is open and the sound of the interstate floods through. It’s not an ideal noise, but the breeze that’s blowing in is a welcome addition to the hot July heat. A trade. The better of two options.
I begin to roll up my own blue blazer to the elbow and then pause at her slight frown. I push things enough by wearing tennis
shoes. Let’s not push her over the edge today.
“Shut the door, Bryony. Time for tea?” She motions to the little golden cart in the corner where her electric teakettle has
taken a permanent post.
“Just a few minutes,” I say, moving over to the cart. “I’ve only got about ten before I need to sneak back and finish up some
papers.” I pick up one of the little teacups and saucers.
There are, for the record, only real teacups and saucers at The Bridge. At the coffee station in the teachers’ lounge. At
the tea station here. Little unmatching porcelain cups with delicate golden curled handles and intricately hand-painted purple
flowers. Little five-dollar finds found in any antique store in the whole of the United States. They carry such a reputation
even the students sometimes discover one, buy it, and contribute to the supply.
One time an opportunity for a grant popped up, and an inspector tried to tell her the supply was extravagant when Styrofoam
cups would do, to which she replied curtly, “Treat a stallion like a pig, and eventually you’ll have a two-thousand-pound
pig.”
Needless to say, we did not get that money.
“So,” I say, suddenly finding myself at a loss for how to start. I pour the hot water in the teacup. Reach for the tea bags.
“So,” she returns, no more inclined to jump in than me.
I venture a glance her way and see she is frowning at me. The expression on her face is similar to when she discovered I had
snuck out of the house at fifteen for a party.
Terrific.
Not intimidating at all.
“You emailed me that we need to talk,” I say dumbly, as though that is new and fresh information to us both.
“How long, exactly, has this been going on?”
“Well...,” I say, dodging the question. After all, I don’t know exactly how to answer it. How long has what been going on? The ghostwriting of books? The sending of money? Part of it? All of it? Something else entirely? “It’s hard
to say... What have you been told?”
“Is there more that I don’t know?” She raises one brow.
“I don’t know.” I swirl my tea bag around in my cup. “Can you tell me what you do know?”
There’s no way I’m going to tell her on the off chance she doesn’t know about my little secret(s), so I might as well be stubbornly silent on the matter until she says something first.
There’s the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the hall, and Martha, Gran’s administrative assistant, talking in a very
loud and friendly voice says, “Yes, Mr. Takahashi. I just saw her go down the hall, in fact. Let me see if we can get this
straightened out.”
“Ms. Page, I have a quick question.” The door pops open, and Martha’s eyes widen as she catches sight of Gran and me. More
specifically, because of the expression on Gran’s stern face. Flat. Unimpressed. I offer up a little wave to Hiroto. “Hello,
Mr. Takahashi.”
He beams a little and dips his head. “Good morning, Teacher. It’s a...” He pauses before adding haltingly, “Very. Fine.
Day. I have my head in the clouds to talk to Ms. Page.”
My smile broadens. Nope. He’s not even close with that one. But bravo for trying.
“I’m in a meeting, Martha,” Gran says, her hands tensely crossed.
“Right, all right. But this man, Mr. Taka-”—she looks uncertainly at the man as if trying to read the rest of his name on
his face—“hashi,” she continues, then gives herself a little smile to prove she’s proud of herself, “says he doesn’t want
to move on from Ms. Page’s class.”
He looks confused, and Martha points at me. “That one.”
His face clears and he nods.
Usually I just go by Teacher. Or Teacher Bryony.
“He claims,” Martha continues, “he’s not trying to get the GED. He doesn’t care that he’s passed the test.”
“He passed the test. He must move up,” Gran says.
“Right. But—”
“No matter how much fun he has learning from Ms. Page.”
“Okay then.” Martha starts to spin herself toward the door. “But?” she says shrilly after a pause, raising a finger. “You
know, I do wonder—”
“He must move up—”
“Of course,” she says, again swiveling back toward the hall. Then her voice does a high-pitched warble yet again and she turns.
“But just, you know, in this one very special case with his daughter in the same class, the convenience—”
“They are all very special cases, as you will soon learn once you have been here longer than a month, Martha. Everybody wants to stay in Ms. Page’s class, and if everybody stayed in Ms. Page’s class, we’d have three thousand students in her classroom and an absolute zoo.” Gran pauses, and when
it’s clear Martha isn’t moved enough, she adds, “Which, incidentally, also means we’d have no more graduates. And with no
more graduates, we’d lose our funding. And teachers’ employment . And close our doors.”
“Right, so as I was saying, Mr. Takahashi,” Martha says, grabbing him by the shoulders and wheeling him around and out the
door, “Mr. Platt’s class at level four is a wonderful, lively classroom environment, where you will have your head positively bursting with fun—”
Well, that’s a stretch. Mr. Platt is a sixty-five-year-old man with sleepy eyes who reads directly from the GED ESL textbook
and could take a job narrating for the sloth in one of those Zootopia movies. But c’est la vie.
I shut the door.
Turn to Gran.
Somehow she has managed to peer down at me with her blue eyes very seriously even while being the one sitting. “Bryony, let’s get to the heart of the matter quickly before we get bombarded again. I know you are the Anonymous Giver.”
Ah.
So I was correct.
She knows about that secret.
The Anonymous Giver has a reputation at The Bridge. Suspicions and rumors and interesting tall tales have been whispered among
staff for the past few years about who this mysterious person is. Personally, I like the one about one of the students being
in reality a prince from a distant land, of a wealthy family but small country, who came to America with humble motivations
of learning the language and using the language to build relationships with politicians and create a mutually beneficial relationship
with the United States. And in his time at The Bridge, he was so impressed that he pledged to donate silently for the remainder
of his life.
The story of the Anonymous Giver has been fed like sourdough starter over the years, people adding interesting “clues” to
it every now and then. Mrs. Platt remembered seeing one of her students stepping into the back of a tinted vehicle. Martha
found a student’s registration papers with curious redacted information. I always enjoyed that particular theory.
“I know. It’s a letdown, isn’t it?” I say with a smile.
But to my surprise, she’s still not smiling. I mean, she’s not a smiler in general, but still. Nothing.
She takes a deep breath. “Sit down.”
“Good grief, Gran, you’re acting as if I’m in trouble.”
“You’re not in trouble. Of course you’re not in trouble. But we need to talk. Privately. And I don’t want this to get out.”
Ah. So words that are not conducive to paper-thin walls. Got it.
My teacup rattles in the saucer as I take a seat. I set it on the desk.
Give her my attention.
She leans across the desk and, in a surprising gesture, grips one of my hands. Gives it a squeeze. “I’m very... proud... and very sur prised... to find out that you have given so generously the past two years. But the fact of the matter is, I want you to stop.”
“What?” I say, startled. “No. It’s fine. I want to.”
“It’s a lot of money—”
“It’s fine ,” I say again. “I have the funds. I’m not scraping by, Gran, I promise—”
“—because we’re going to shut our doors regardless.”
The funniest sensation fills my senses. It’s like all the blood has just decided to slip out of my body and go through the
floors. Except for the extreme pounding of my heart. And the fact that some blood must be remaining in my body keeping it going.
“But...” I flex my fingers, then push them to my lap. “I know we’ve had some financial troubles. Which is why you keep
going to DC searching for funds—”
“There are no funds. And the funds we have will not be renewed for the next calendar year.”
“But all your traveling—”
“I’ve hunted, yes. I’ve hunted all over. But the fact is, we are in challenging economic times. Washington’s eyes have cut
to other pressing matters that are also important. It’s all important. It seems every facet of the government is sitting around
a bed, and the sheet is too short to cover everyone all at once.” She presses her lips together. Exhales. “They’re cutting
off our funding entirely. I plan to make the announcement to staff after Thanksgiving but before the semester starts. That
should give them time to find other employment by January. As for the students, they’ll just have to go to Corwick starting
next semester.”
“ Corwick ! That’s a ninety-minute drive!”
Half the students at least would drop out entirely. It’s too much money, too much transportation cost, too much time.
I don’t know how Madih works all night for hospice care and spends three hours each day going through classes when she has three kids at home to clothe and feed. When does she sleep? When does she spend time with her children? She couldn’t just cut out another three hours of each day for a commute.
“Bryony, calm down,” Gran says, looking at me fiercely. “Lower your voice.”
“I’m lowering ,” I hiss, but inside my nerves are all tangled together and setting each other off. “How much more do we need?”
Gran’s shaking her head. “We are past that question. I’ve asked myself that question the past five years. Now it’s time to
realize it’s done and go from here.”
“But how much ?”
“Six million,” she says, and the number stills me. “Six million and we still wouldn’t have enough left over to fix our AC.”
“But... but surely something can be done?” I say, flustered. “You’ve kept this to yourself. Maybe with my help we can think of—”
“You have done enough . Believe me, honey, if there was any other way, I would have discovered it by now. The fact is, we are going under, and the
very best thing you can do for me now, as your grandmother, is to hold on to your money—which is a whole other conversation
we’ll have at a later time—and not waste it on a dying program.” She pauses. And then her eyes soften as she continues. “Despite
how much we both love The Bridge, save it. Invest it.” She throws her hands up in the air. “Spend it if you will. Just do
literally anything else beside s dropping it in this fiery furnace never to be seen again.”
I stare down at my teacup. The juniper-mint tea slowly circles the cup. A little puff of steam wafts upward.
Funny how quickly bad news comes.
My entire world has been flipped upside down and the tea hasn’t even lost its steam.
“Fine,” I say at last. “But tell me one thing.” I flip through my mental files for the right words. “What would we need,”
I say slowly, my voice measured, “to stay open just one more year?”
Gran squeezes her eyes shut.
Her lips press together, and I see in this moment the unspoken pain that she’s feeling too.
She opens her eyes. “A miracle.”
Silence settles between us.
It’s the most depressing thing I’ve heard in my twenty-nine years of life, outside of the most awful, dreadful day of Mom’s
passing.
The silence breaks as my phone beeps with a text, and I look up at the little clock on Gran’s desk, telling me it’s five minutes
to class time. I move to stand as I slip my phone out of my pocket.
It’s a text from Jack.
Have you talked to her about the book tour yet?
I purse my lips. Type back. Working on it now.
Geez, the man is pushy.
The reply is instant. What are you waiting for?
A miracle, apparently , I type back and then silence my phone.
I swivel toward Gran and pick up my teacup and saucer. The wheels are spinning as I turn at the door. “Hey, Gran. For what
it’s worth, I’m going to try to get this place back regardless.”
She dips her head. “I know you will, stubborn child.”
“And as for my mysterious money-making skills... I’ll need some time off... pretty much immediately.”
Her brow jerks up. “Can you tell me exactly why?”
I pause. Shake my head.
“Is it... legal?”
To which I laugh. No, Gran, I’ve run off with the Florence mafia. “Yes.”
“And you need how long?”
“Two weeks.”
Her eyes become saucers. Honestly, of all the things said this morning, this is what has caused the most reaction from her? I suppose to some extent it makes sense. I’ve never taken so much time away
before and never on such short notice.
“Can I tell you no?” she says.
“Do we have subs available?”
“Yes.”
“Then I suppose you can.” I sigh. “But I’ll have to go anyway.”
And for the first time, Gran looks at me like I truly am some sort of secret agent for something mysterious. No, she looks
at me like she’s just realized there’s more to me than plain, happy-go-lucky Bryony.
And to be completely honest, it looks like I’ve just gained some sort of respect.
“Wherever will you be going, with your mysterious money and your mysterious plans?”
“You know, Gran,” I say, opening the door, “I’m not entirely sure myself. But I can guarantee one thing: I’m going to loathe
every minute of it.”