Chapter 9
A lex
Mid-October
I hate when I know I’m wrong, but I can’t bring myself to apologize. It’s not that I can’t ever admit I’m wrong. I’m stubborn, but not that stubborn. No, in this instance, it’s to whom I owe an apology.
The day Ben came home and told me he was moved to the new teacher, I immediately knew it was Natalie. I wanted to call the school and demand he be moved again, but Ben was so excited about the “vibe” he got from Natalie. His word, not mine. He claimed he knew Natalie was going to challenge him better than any other teacher, and he could barely wait until the next day. I tried to remain optimistic, that is, until the first packet of extra work came home. Ben worked for two hours, and only finished a few pages. When I looked at the work, it was well above a fourth-grade level. Granted, Ben is smart, but it seemed intense, and over the top. How are all the kids handling this?
As soon as Natalie said she assigned work based on interest and ability level, I knew Ben was behind it all. Don’t get me wrong, I want my son to be happy. But I also want him to enjoy his childhood by just being a kid. Nine-year-olds shouldn’t already be mapping out college preparatory classes, and which extracurricular activities will look better on their applications. I love that he has big goals and dreams, but I don’t want that to be the only thing that drives him.
Needless to say, Ben has been thriving under Natalie’s tutelage. I think he finally has someone who recognizes how he thinks, and understands ways to tap into it. Our pediatrician called it higher order thinking. It isn’t just being smart enough to memorize something. Ben can see the problem. I’ll watch him look off in the distance, his mouth moving as he works through a complicated math problem that I definitely wouldn’t be able to solve without a calculator, and then his eyes will light up when he finds the solution.
I hate that Natalie is the one behind all of this, but I love that my son is being both challenged and supported.
And now I have to tuck tail between my legs, eat crow, or whatever other ridiculous saying can be said here. I have to go into the parent-teacher conference with Natalie and tell her that I think she’s doing a great job with Ben.
Usually I bring my kids with me to conferences, but this time I chose to drop them off at my mom and dad’s house. It’s totally a strategic move, in case our conversation diverges into anything but Ben’s education. I’m also hoping I don’t lose my cool and kiss her again.
I can’t do that again.
So when I roll into Natalie’s classroom, I should be relieved when I find her vomiting into a trash can. Instead, I put my foot in my mouth — again, because I can’t seem to hold my tongue around her — and blurt out, “Did you come to school with a stomach bug?”
Rightfully so, Natalie glares at me. “Do you ever think before speaking, or do I just bring out the best in you?”
Wiping her face with a handful of tissues, she takes a deep breath. I notice her hand shaking subtly as she carefully removes the lined bag within her trash can, and ties a knot in the top. “Um, I’ll be right back. I need a moment.”
“Sure. Yeah, okay. That’s fine,” I murmur. Head down, Natalie quickly walks past me, and I turn away. I usually have an iron stomach, but I’m not the best with vomit. I’d rather not add to her misery by requiring my own walk of shame with a barf bag.
I slowly meander around the room, noticing how bright and colorful it is. When we did the back-to-school night with Ben’s original teacher, it was stark and boring compared to this. In just a few short weeks, Natalie has livened up the place. Artwork lines one wall, and large posters chronicling important world events cover another. What appears to be a class library with cozy pillows sits in the corner, and I notice a stack of handmade books on top of one shelf entitled “My Family.”
Rifling through, I find Ben’s, and immediately whip it open. There are pictures of my parents, his cousins, all his aunts and uncles, and a whole page devoted to his sister. What I don’t see is anything about me, or Sara.
“What the fuck?” I mumble.
“I assume you’re wondering why neither you, nor his mother, are featured in there,” Natalie says suddenly, jarring me from my focus. Turning, I see her standing awkwardly in the doorway. Her face is quite pale, but not as sickly as a few minutes ago. “I asked Ben about that. He said he always talks about you, so he wanted to feature other people in your family.”
“That’s an interesting explanation,” I murmur, staring down at the photos in his book. “How did he get these pictures? He never told me about this project.”
“I believe your mom was assisting. Ben said he goes to her house fairly often after school, due to your work schedule.”
Oh. That makes sense.
“I guess I’m surprised. Ben usually loves to tell everyone about me being a cop, and about his mom …” I trail off. How do you tell someone that your kid enjoys talking about his dead mother?
“That’s something I wanted to talk to you about, actually. Can we sit down?” Natalie asks, gesturing for me to take a seat at a table shaped like a semi-circle. Once seated, she places her hands over a folder, and I notice she’s gripping her fingers together tightly. “First of all, let me just say that Ben is an absolute delight. He has the most unique imagination I’ve ever experienced, and I love watching him work through problems. He is excellent at helping his peers, and he is usually quite good at finding things to do when he finishes his work early … which is pretty much every day.”
I chuckle. “That sounds like Ben. Alright, hit me with the negatives. ”
Natalie cocks her head to the side as she studies me. “Excuse me?”
“The shit he does wrong. I know how this works. You’re doing the whole positive-negative-positive thing. You’ve told me a bunch of good things, then you’ll tell me where he’s not doing well. You’ll finish up with positives again. This isn’t my first conference, Natalie.”
Her lips purse as her eyes narrow. “I believe we discussed that we would not be on a first-name basis in this capacity, Mr. Santo.”
I sigh, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “Fine. Tell me what he needs to work on, Ms. Jackson.”
“I’m just going to rip off the Band-Aid, okay?” When I nod, she continues. “All the notes from previous years talked about how Ben brought up his mom all the time. He hasn’t talked about her once this year. A couple of times I’ve tried to broach the subject, and he’s either shut down and refused to talk at all, or he’s had a meltdown. I’d like for him to begin seeing our school psychologist.”
I stare at her incredulously. “How the fuck does his dead mother equate into a parent-teacher conference? And where the hell do you get off thinking you have any right to talk about this? We fucked once, Natalie. Get the fuck over yourself.”
“There are children in the building, Mr. Santo. I suggest you be more respectful, or I’ll let the principal know that you need to be barred from the school,” she responds with a glare. Those beautiful green eyes that I’ve spent way too many nights thinking about seem to have an eerie glow, casting a wicked aura to her stance.
“Fine,” I hiss. “But you’re out of line.”
“No, I’m not,” she responds. “I will not apologize for looking at my students from every angle. I’ve spoken to his second and third-grade teachers. They both agree that his behavior is different this year. I’m not saying anything is wrong with him, Alex. I just want to give him an opportunity to talk to an adult if he needs one. Now, if I suggest you should speak to a therapist, then I’m crossing a line.”
“Is that what you’re saying now? You think I need to see a therapist?” I explode, standing up so quickly I tip over the tiny kids chair. I grab one leg, standing it upright, and slamming it down against the floor. In contrast, Natalie calmly rises before crossing both arms under her breasts. Not that I noticed them. Really.
“You know what? Yes. I am saying that. Because this reaction isn’t okay. It’s not normal. Knowing the little I know about you, I can tell you’re ready to bite my head off because you think I’m emasculating you. But that’s not it at all. I can’t even begin to comprehend what you and your kids went through. It’s completely unfair that they’re growing up without their mother, and you’re living without your wife. It’s okay to allow others to help. You have no problem asking your parents or siblings for help, whether it be picking Ben up from school, or attending an event when you’re working. How is it different to ask someone for help with your heart?”
The fight swooshes out of me in one exhale. What the hell am I doing? I have no reason to be taking any of this out on Natalie. I fall back into the tiny chair, stretching my legs out in front of me, and my foot rests on some kind of blue stool. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve any of that. I don’t even know why I reacted that way.”
Natalie slowly sits, leaning toward me. Only then do I notice her hand trembling, and I realize I must have frightened her. God. I’m such a fuck-up. She clears her throat, before quietly stating, “I can’t answer that for you. I can say, however, that if I were in your shoes, I’d probably assume the woman had ulterior motives. I can see where you’d automatically think that about me. But I promised you that I would keep things professional here. This is about Ben. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Except the part where you said I needed a therapist,” I comment wryly, lifting an eyebrow at her. One corner of her lips tip up in a smile.
“Okay, so maybe that was a teeny bit unprofessional of me. I’m a big advocate of mental health, and I will always suggest seeking out the assistance of a therapist. They may just help you continue through the grief process, or uncover some trauma you don’t know you’ve buried. Or they’ll help you find closure — wait, let me finish,” Natalie puts up a hand when I open my mouth to interrupt her, “because closure isn’t necessarily moving on to another relationship. Closure can be just closing that chapter of your book. It doesn’t mean your story is over. Every chapter can be whatever you want it to be.”
“Wow,” I blurt out, making Natalie giggle. It’s a melodious sound that hits me right in my core, a sensation I haven’t experienced in so long. “I’m sorry. I’ve never thought about it like that. When Sara died I felt like my life was over. Honestly, I’ve been going through the motions.”
“I really think therapy might help, Alex. It’s definitely helping me,” Natalie says softly, her cheeks showing a hint of embarrassment as she looks at her lap.
“You’re in therapy?” I ask.
She nods. “My last relationship did a number on me. I knew I needed some help before I could possibly trust another man again.”
“That’s why you were okay with it being one night,” I comment, the sudden realization hitting me square in the chest.
“I’m not saying my trauma is worse than yours.”
I nod. “I know. Trauma is trauma. Grief is grief. I guess we’re all suffering on some kind of fucked up spectrum.”
She giggles again, and I feel weirdly proud of eliciting that sound from her lungs. “The grief spectrum. It’s probably a real thing.”
When Natalie casts a glance at the wall, I follow her gaze and see we’ve gone twice the length of my allotted parent-teacher conference time. “Shit, I’m sorry. Do you have anyone waiting?”
“No, you’re the last for the day. I’m pretty sure I would have stopped the conversation from getting so off track if I’d had another parent coming in.”
“You’re only pretty sure?”
“Well, you were on a roll. You’re lucky you apologized,” she says with a vindictive gleam in her eyes.
“You sound like you’re oddly disappointed at that fact.”
She shrugs. “Ask your sister if I forgive and forget.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Oh. Well,” she says, scratching the side of her face with a peculiar expression covering her face, “I’m not sure what I should tell you. It may make me look bad as your child’s teacher. Suffice it to say I have no problem committing a misdemeanor to support my friends.”
“Did you really just tell a police officer you’ve committed some crimes?” Just when I think I understand Natalie, she throws me a curveball.
“Technically I said I didn’t have a problem with it. I never said I had already committed a crime. And hypothetically, any crime would be out of your jurisdiction, since I’ve only lived here for a couple of months.” Natalie looks at me triumphantly, assuming she’s bested me.
“That’s cute you think I don’t have contacts all across the Denver metro who would help me out. You got any warrants, Nat? Should I do a quick search for you or my sister?”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “You wouldn’t dare turn your sister in.”
“Depends on what the crime was.” I totally wouldn’t go searching for Arianna’s name, mostly because I’m scared of what I might find. My baby sister was a terror when she hit adulthood. I’m lucky Stone was around to keep an eye on her when I wasn’t. I certainly didn’t know he was fighting his feelings for her at the time, but considering they’re married with a toddler now, it all ended well.
And now that I know she was running around with Natalie, and their other friend Claire, I wonder what trouble they got into.
“I’ll admit, I’m intrigued by what my sister might tell me about you, but I like knowing you’ve always had her back,” I admit.
Natalie’s face softens. “She’s like a sister to me. I can’t imagine not supporting her.”
“I hope my kids are like that one day. I can’t see it happening anytime soon. Abbie hates everyone right now.”
“My brother and I were like that growing up, too. Now he’s one of my best friends. Give her some time, Alex. Puberty and hormones are awful. I can still talk to her if you want someone who isn’t a family member,” Natalie says quietly.
I take a moment to think about her offer. Abbie bit my head off this morning because I took longer than a second to respond to a question about her hair. Then she burst into tears and refused to eat breakfast. Her question referenced some person I’ve never heard of, and a YouTube tutorial for a special type of braid. She’s lucky I can handle a simple ponytail.
But the thought of letting Natalie into my home, into my family, is scarier than any teen hairstyle I’d have to learn a billion times. “Thanks, but I’m sure we’ll be fine.”
A flash of something akin to hurt crosses Natalie’s face, but she schools her expression quickly. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
I nod, tapping twice on the table before awkwardly rising to my feet. “Is there anything else you need from me? For Ben, that is.”
“No. He’s doing a great job. You should be really proud of him, Alex. You’re raising a great kid,” she says warmly. After standing, she gestures to me to walk toward the door.
“And, uh,” I stammer as I turn to face her, “I appreciate your thoughts on the help. The therapy. The therapy help?”
“I get what you mean,” Natalie says, giggling. The sound again makes my heart skip a beat, and I’m incredibly weirded out by the sensation. Avoiding her gaze, I look back where we were sitting, and again notice the odd blue stool.
“What is that thing?” I ask, pointing to it.
“The blue stool?” When I nod, she continues. “It’s a chair. Technically it’s called a wobble chair. It’s designed to help children focus, but also allows some constant movement. It’s really great for kids who struggle with ADHD, but everyone can benefit from it.”
“That’s pretty cool,” I comment. “Why do you only have one?”
“Because they aren’t cheap, unfortunately,” she sighs. “As much as I’d love to buy them, I use my classroom budget for other things that I need more.”
“Like what?” I ask. “Doesn’t the school give you a budget?”
“A small one, yes. But it’s nowhere near enough for what I’d love to have in my classroom. Take Ben, for example. He loves all kinds of building toys, and anything that requires him to creatively manipulate variables to build new items. I’d buy all the kits I could find to have on hand for him, because he also enjoys showing his peers how he’s built things. But extending my classroom library takes precedence. And when I need to get more dry erase markers, or colored pencils, or loose-leaf paper, I need some budget left for those things. I still end up paying out of pocket for a lot, though.”
“Seriously?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Education isn’t a lucrative field, and the schools aren’t raking in the dough.”
“That’s fucked up.”
Natalie laughs sardonically. “Trust me, I know. I’m not in it for the money. I’ve always wanted to be a teacher, and I love it. But the politics at play drive me bonkers.”
“You should send home a list of things you’d love to have for your classroom. A wish list. I bet parents would buy stuff, or even give you gift cards,” I offer.
She shrugs. “Maybe. But I’m new here, and I don’t want to ruffle any feathers.”
“Think about it, Nat. You shouldn’t be spending your own money on classroom supplies.”
“I’ll think about it,” she replies. Before I can respond, a shrill sound comes from a different table in the room. Casting a quick glance, I see a phone on top of a stack of folders, the screen lit up with an incoming call. I recognize the sound, and immediately know who is calling Natalie.
“You seriously have the ESPN NHL theme song as your brother’s ringtone?” I tease, my face breaking into a wide grin. Her mouth drops open.
“I can’t believe you recognize that tune!”
“I played as a kid, and my brother played with your brother growing up. And I’m a guy who loves hockey, so yeah. I recognized it.”
“I need to answer or he’ll assume I’m dead in a ditch somewhere,” Natalie says with a laugh. I didn’t know Shawn all that well, but I know how I react to things with my sisters. I’m sure she’s not too far off on what her brother would think.
I nod quickly as she walks across the room to get her phone, then leave. It’s only when I reach the car that I realize she never confirmed her brother was the one calling. I’m even more irritated when it dawns on me how much that fact bothers me.