36. Isostatic Rebound
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
ISOSTATIC REBOUND
Claire
A horse snorts somewhere beneath my window. I blink awake and stare at the unfamiliar water-stained ceiling, waiting for my surroundings to make sense. Only then do I remember I’m at Lucy’s.
My phone sits dark on the nightstand. I reach for it and there are no new messages. The sent email catches my eye instead.
Subject: Personal Leave
Sometime after midnight, I’d emailed my supervisor requesting a leave of absence and copied Marisol.
I lower the phone onto the nightstand and close my eyes. Right now, I’m barely holding myself together. The thought of helping anyone else feels impossible.
For the first time in a long time, I have nowhere to be.
A little after eight, Lucy lets herself in, bringing with her the smell of coffee and bacon.
She sets a plate on the table. “You should eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’ve been saying that all weekend.”
“I’m still not hungry.”
She slides a warm, flaky cinnamon roll in front of me anyway. “That’s unfortunate, because I’m not leaving until you’ve taken at least three bites.”
I sigh and tear off a small piece.
“How are you holding up?” she asks.
My gaze drifts to the tractor crawling across the pasture in the distance. “You know how Ethan always says you have to pull permits before demolishing something?”
She nods.
“Turns out affairs don’t require permits.”
A surprised snort escapes her before she catches herself.
“Seems like an oversight.” One shoulder lifts in a half-hearted gesture as I stare back out the window.
The morning drags on until lunchtime, when I escape to the main house in search of a change of scenery. Lucy is busy answering emails, her fingers moving quickly across the keyboard, while I spend the next hour staring at the same page of a book without taking in a single word.
Every few minutes, my thoughts return to the conversation waiting for me with Ellie.
A little while later, the front door downstairs slams shut, rattling the pictures on the wall in the foyer.
Lucy and I exchange a look. “That sounds promising,” she says, a wry twist to her lips.
Footsteps pound up the wooden stairs, shaking the floorboards. Ellie storms inside, her riding boots dusty and her cheeks flushed.
“Mom.” The single word carries more anger than greeting.
I set down my book. “Hi, sweetheart.”
She drops her backpack and riding helmet onto the floor. “Are we staying here again tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It’s just for a little while.”
Her eyes narrow. “That’s not an answer.”
“No,” I admit quietly. “It isn’t.”
“Then tell me what’s happening!”
I glance toward Lucy, whose movements suddenly become very purposeful. “I just remembered I need to check on the horses.”
Traitor.
“Mom.”
I rub my forehead. “Things are complicated right now.”
“That’s not an answer either.”
“Your dad and I had a serious disagreement. I just need some time.”
“Time for what? Nobody will tell me anything!” Her voice rises, breaking on the last word. “Grandpa, Lucy, Jensen—everyone’s acting weird.” She swallows. “Can’t we just go home?”
“We just need to stay here for a little while,” I say, my attempt at a casual tone feeling thin and false.
She stares at me, then her expression changed. “But what about Dad?”
Children notice more than we give them credit for. “What about Dad? You can call him anytime you want.”
“Because every time I mention him, your face gets all weird. Like you’re trying not to cry.” She steps closer, her shadow falling over my lap. “What did you fight about? You guys don’t ever fight.”
The simplicity of the question stings. “I’m not ready to talk about it just yet.”
She exhales. “Oh, my God.” I know that tone. I’ve been hearing it since she was eleven, and I have a feeling I’ll be hearing it until she moves out.
“You guys always do this.”
“Do what?”
“You have these adult conversations and then pretend nothing is happening.”
I can’t even argue with that.
Before I can respond, she grabs her phone. “Anyway, I need to leave in an hour. Grandpa said he’ll take me to rehearsal.”
“No.” The word is out before I can stop it, sharp and definitive.
She freezes, her hand still hovering over her phone. “What?”
“No.” My voice is firmer this time, an unyielding wall.
Confusion replaces her frustration. “No, what?”
“You’re not going to rehearsal tonight.”
For several seconds, she just looks at me, her expression blank as she processes my words. “Good one.”
“I’m serious.”
The smile disappears, as if wiped clean. “What do you mean?”
I already regret this, the weight of the decision presses down on me. “You’re staying here tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
The reaction is immediate. “Seriously?”
“Ellie—”
“No.” She throws both hands into the air. “No. Absolutely not. Opening night is in less than two weeks.”
“Ellie.”
“I have rehearsal.”
“I know.”
“You can’t just decide I don’t get to go.” She turns, storms downstairs and I hear a door slam.
A few minutes later, Lucy cautiously reappears. “Am I allowed to come back now?” she asks quietly from the doorway.
I drop my head into my hands. “That depends. Are you here to tell me I handled that badly?”
“Oh, you handled that badly.”
I groan, a low sound of defeat. “Thank you for the support.”
“Anytime.” Her expression softens. “You can’t avoid the conversation forever.”
Once I tell Ellie the truth, I can’t take it back. Whatever she feels for me now will be replaced by something I can neither predict nor undo.
At dinner, Ellie’s silence is a weapon. She gives Lucy monosyllabic answers, and stares at her plate whenever I speak.
Sloane’s attempt to lighten the mood with a meme backfires.
After dinner she disappears upstairs into one of the spare bedrooms, carrying her phone and enough frustration to power an entire city.
I wait a few minutes before stepping outside. I settle into one of the chairs on the back porch. Beyond the yard, a few fireflies drift through the darkness.
The screen door creaks open behind me, and my father lowers himself into the chair beside me with a quiet sigh.
“You know, when your daughter inherited your stubborn streak, I thought it was hilarious.”
“Lucy told you?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“I have to tell Ellie something.”
He grows quiet, lost in thought. “You don’t have to decide everything tonight.”
“The not-knowing is hurting her, too.”
His thumb sweeps across my knuckles. “I know.”
I bite my lip to keep from crying. “No, you don’t.”
“Oh, sweetheart. Every parent understands what it feels like to know your child is about to get hurt and be powerless to stop it.”
“What if she hates him?”
He exhales. “Maybe she will for a while.”
“What if this changes everything?”
“It will.”
“Then how am I supposed to do this?”
He gives my fingers a reassuring squeeze. “The same way you’ve survived every difficult thing you’ve ever faced. One step at a time.”
Eventually, he stands. Before heading back inside, he kisses the top of my head. Then his expression hardens. “One more thing.”
“What?”
“I’ve spent more than two decades treating Ethan like a son. Right now, I’m considering a return policy.” The unexpected statement, delivered with a wry twist of his lips, makes me laugh.
“That’s the first sensible reaction I’ve heard.”
He squeezes my shoulder and then turn toward the door. The screen door slams shut behind him.
I find Ellie at main house the next morning. She’s half-heartedly poking at a bowl of cereal. She never came over to the apartment last night.
Lucy and Jensen, sensing the tension, move around the kitchen with an exaggerated quietness.
I sit at the kitchen table and open my laptop, finding my inbox overflowing. My eyes stop on an email from Ellie’s school. I click the message. It’s professional and cautiously worded.
Subject: Important Update Regarding Alice in Wonderland Performance
Dear Parents and Guardians,
Due to unforeseen circumstances, Ms. Brooke Whitmore will be stepping away from her position at Juniper Ridge Middle School effective immediately. We appreciate her dedication to our students and wish her the very best.
Please be assured that the Alice in Wonderland performance will continue as scheduled. The administration is actively working to identify leadership for the rest of the production. Additional information will be provided soon. Thank you for your patience and support.
Sincerely,
Gerald Harrington, Principal
I read the message several times.
Good.
Now I don’t have to worry about running into Brooke. After Friday night, she can’t remain at the school. In a town this size, rumors spread quickly.
A few minutes later, I hear hurried footsteps followed by Ellie rushing into the kitchen with her phone clutched in her hand.
“Did you see this?” she asks.
I close my laptop with a soft click. “Yes.”
Her face, usually so open, is a storm of confusion and palpable concern. “What does ‘unforeseen circumstances’ even mean?”
I know what it means, but I can’t tell her.
“I’m not sure,” I reply.
She slumps into the chair opposite me. “Who’s going to direct the play?”
“I don’t know.”
“Opening night is the end of next week.”
“I’ll see what I can find out.”
She grabs something from the refrigerator before stepping out onto the porch.
My phone, resting beside my laptop, lights up with a frantic chorus of notifications. I notice the flurry of messages from parents. The explosion of speculation is like a digital wildfire spreading through the community.
The school’s chosen words— “effective immediately,” “stepping away”—are designed to reveal as little as possible, while still explaining her sudden disappearance.
I should feel vindicated, but the satisfaction doesn’t arrive.
A chair scrapes against the tiled floor. I look up to see Lucy on the other side of the kitchen island.
“What?” I ask, my voice edged with suspicion.
Before she can respond, the back door swings open and Sloane walks into the kitchen carrying an iced coffee the size of a small child. She wears oversized sunglasses, and struts like she’s about to walk a red carpet instead of into Lucy’s cozy kitchen.
“Morning,” she announces, her voice a theatrical whisper.
“I sense plotting,” I say.
She drops into a chair next to me. Whenever those two agree on something, the rest of us usually suffer. “Oh, she knows we’ve discussed her.”
“Of course, she knows us well,” Lucy says.
“Do I even want to know?”
I drop my head onto the surface of the table. “Whatever you two have concocted, I want no part of!”
“We haven’t said a thing,” Sloane says.
“You don’t have to.”
Lucy folds her arms. “Claire.”
“This is a fascinating conversation because we’re all taking part, and nobody is introducing any new information.”
“We know you’re on leave… and you directed the drama club at our old high school for two years. The kids are panicking, the teacher who was supposed to direct just quit, and, frankly, you’re the only person I know who knows how to run a rehearsal,” Lucy says.
Sloane straightens, eyes bright. “Good, we can discuss it openly now.”
“I don’t have the emotional capacity right now to take on directing a school play. Stop looking at me like that. Why do you two seem thrilled?”
“Because ‘no’ is not your final answer,” Lucy replies.
“It is.”
Lucy hesitates before continuing. “The production opens in less than two weeks. That’s not a lot of time, and it would mean a lot to Ellie.”
“Mr. Harrington is panicking. You remember what he was like when we went to school there,” Sloane says.
“Also, not my problem.”
Sloane throws her hands in the air. “Hah! I think you’ve already thought about it.”
She has a point. I’ve been thinking about the play ever since I opened the email—not because of Brooke or Ethan, but because of Ellie.
“You know those kids are worried. Look what you’ve accomplished for Juniper House,” Lucy says.
“That’s not the same thing as directing a play.”
“No,” Sloane agrees. “It’s much harder. But children are easier than adults. They’re shorter, and you can bribe them with snacks.”
I laugh.
“Oh good. The first sign of life we’ve seen in days,” Sloane says.
“For three days, you’ve done nothing except think about Ethan,” Lucy says, her voice firm.
Across the table, even Sloane has become serious, her earlier playfulness gone. “This will help you not wallow in self-pity and give you somewhere to put your energy.”
“What if I fail?” Both women smile at my question. “What?”
“You’ve never failed at anything in your life,” Lucy states, her voice resonating with certainty.
“Good, it’s settled. Not only was it not a ‘no,’ but it was practically an application,” Sloane says.
“It was not.”
“It absolutely was.”
The possibility of focusing on something other than my own heartbreak for a few hours a day is appealing.
“Excellent—because you have an appointment with Mr. H at 2 pm today to discuss your new role,” Sloane tells me.
Lucy snorts. “Only you can get away with calling him Mr. H.”
“That’s because I frighten him,” Sloane replies with a smirk.
I naively convinced myself I would never see Brooke again.
I’m so focused on my upcoming conversation with Mr. Harrington when I step into the administration building, the last thing I expect is to round the corner and run right into her.
She has a folder clutched against her chest like a shield.
I hate that she has the power to affect my day.
The secretary behind the desk glances between us then appears to find something fascinating on her computer screen.
Brooke visibly swallows.
“Claire.”
I should keep walking, continue to the principal’s office. But I stop, my shoes squeaking on the floor, because pretending I don’t see her feels immature.
“Brooke.”
She shifts her weight, the folder rustling as she clutches it a little tighter, her thumbnail pressing a crescent into the cardboard edge.
“I’m—I’m glad I ran into you. I’d like to apologize.”
Ah. The apology everyone seems to think will somehow make this better.
“Oh, I don’t doubt you’re sorry.”
“I never meant to complicate anyone’s life. Sometimes people just connect.”
Somewhere down the hall, a locker slams, and we both recoil. A group of students passes at the far end of the hallway.
“Do you know how fast rumors spread in small towns?”
I watch her pale face.
“Claire—”
“It’s Mrs. Bennett. Ellie is thirteen, and by the end of this week, all of her classmates will know. The entire community will know. Did either of you think about Ellie at all? She’s the one who has to walk through these halls after you’re gone.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t!” She looks at me, her eyes wide and glistening. “You were her teacher. You were someone I encouraged her to look up to. I smiled every time she talked about you because I thought she had a teacher who cared about her.”
“I do care about her.”
“Then that makes this situation even worse.”
I turn and walk toward the principal’s office, not looking back.