28. Amelia
AMELIA
Phoebe is gone in a flash, and I finally lock my classroom door. Through the skinny, rectangular window, I catch sight of kids filing toward the lunchroom in uneven waves, kindergarten through eighth grade, each clutching a lunch bag or brown sack.
I drop into my swivel chair, pull from my bag the deli sandwich and grapes I bought this morning, and pop one of the reds into my mouth.
Parker Lane, I repeat in my head, hoping to spark a memory.
I suck on another grape, draining the juice out, gnawing on its crepey skin, eyes fading out of focus and into a trance.
I still can’t figure out what about the name is familiar.
For all I know, it’s the name of a villainous character from a TV show I used to watch.
Or the protagonist in one of the hundreds of books I’ve devoured since birth.
That’s more likely—it’s from fiction rather than real life.
Still, if Phoebe’s right and this man lives on the lake, and the Torys suspect him of being tangled up in whatever happened to Madison… a quick search could abate the query.
I look at the pile of homework waiting on my desk, weekend assignments I should be marking instead of chasing a name that might mean nothing.
I tell myself I’ll give the kids independent work time this afternoon, carve out a block to grade during school hours rather than wasting my scraps of personal time.
I close my eyes, searching for a moment of peace.
Every day here feels like a grind—teaching, talking, grading, testing, emailing, planning, organizing.
It doesn’t ease up. My fifty-minute prep period isn’t enough to complete my tasks each day, and I wonder if I’m the only one.
Mrs. Crowley across the hall is admirably put together.
Mr. Johnson one room over runs his third-grade class like a well-oiled machine.
Ms. Bly oftentimes feels a mess.
The drive back to Blair every afternoon, helping Imogen pack, doesn’t leave room to work from home. There’s no time left over to unwind. Or to grieve the loss of my mother.
I remind myself it’s only temporary. This sinking feeling will pass. I will surface.
When I started teaching, I knew it wouldn’t be easy.
But I didn’t imagine how consuming it could be—how much of yourself you give away, piece by piece.
It’s not reading stories with kids—it’s laying a foundation for the people they’ll become.
It’s being steady when everything else is uncertain.
It’s filling in the gaps when budget cuts loom, spending your own paycheck to make sure the classroom feels alive, positive.
It’s trying to make every day matter, even when you’re barely holding yourself together.
This month, that has felt impossible.
Many of my students come from good homes.
Some don’t. Some lack rudimentary love from their families, a homemade lunch, or a listening ear.
Being attuned to these gaps, filling in where I can—it’s part of the job.
I wouldn’t trade it. Because I get to be the person who notices, who is steady, who is there.
Especially if they have no one else. My own needs slip behind theirs, but there’s an odd grace in that.
To be entrusted with something larger than myself.
The back of my eyes buzz with fatigue anyway.
One minute, I tell myself. Then I’ll address the forsaken, foreboding stack.
I adjust in my swivel chair, unwrap my veggie sandwich, and chomp into it, shredded carrots snapping under my teeth. A smear of hummus coats my lip, which I lick away as I open my old white MacBook, punch in my password, and stare at the blank search bar.
Parker Lane.
“Who are you?” I whisper to the screen.
The name drags me backward, to childhood, to Mom. It pricks something sour, something that feels bad in my chest.
I roll my eyes to the ceiling. I’m never one to nose, or poke, but there’s something about this name that clings.
I type it in, sending Parker Lane into the ether that is the World Wide Web. I’m struck with millions of hits: brands, businesses, cul-de-sacs in faraway neighborhoods. It’s a laughably broad search.
I take another bite of my sandwich and glance at the door.
The hallway has quieted; the students are settled in the cafeteria now.
I grin at the trivial conversations they must be having: planning Halloween costumes, or a sleepover for the weekend, trading snacks. Kids being kids, normal and innocent.
I pluck a slippery slice of avocado off the bread and pop it into my mouth, shifting to the large windows on my right.
Outside, wet leaves blanket the lawn, a sea of fire against the slate-gray sky.
From here on the second floor, the sloping field and distant houses look serene.
I breathe it in, holding on, mentally worshipping its tranquility.
I can get through anything, I remind myself. I’ve got this.
A silly mantra I’ve embraced since beginning my teaching career. For when the world becomes too loud.
Shaking myself back to the task, I tack Seattle onto the end of Parker’s name and hit search. I’m prompted to a digital phone book, a directory of all the Parker Lanes in Seattle. There’s only two. One is in his sixties, with a past residence in Seattle, current residence in Anchorage, Alaska.
The age listed for the other is thirty, currently living in Seattle.
Found you.
Probably.
The page lists phone numbers, past addresses, emails, public records—all locked behind a paywall. All it freely displays is his name, age, connections, and address.
When I copy the address into Google Maps, I lean in closer to the screen. His house is tucked in a neighborhood behind the school. I drive past the road that leads there every day to get here.
I click back to the past page and scroll down to Related To.
Michael Lane, Gary Combs. And then, Meredith Lane.
My heart drops at the sight of the name. No, plummets. Shattering somewhere below the floor. I choke on the saliva pooling in my mouth.
The name aligns with memory, dredging up a faded image I haven’t seen in years.
I know exactly who Parker Lane is.
Suddenly, nothing matters more than getting to that house to prove he lives there… that he’s far from Lake Blair.