Chapter 21
Nick
Every morning when I get home from a long firefighting shift, the first thing I check is the fridge. And every morning, I read the little note that Abigail left for me.
Today, the note is sweet and simple:
LOVE YOU DADDY!
A stick figure drawing of Abigail and me accompanies it. Or maybe it’s a cow and a goat.
You can never quite tell with Abigail’s drawings—she definitely has a future in STEM, not in the arts.
But I smile nonetheless. I treasure each note that Abigail leaves for me and save them all in an old cigar box.
Someday, I think, I’ll put them all together in a scrapbook or an album and give them back to Abigail. I plan to give it to her when she graduates from high school.
For every note she leaves me, every truly horrible drawing she makes, I’ve written a little letter.
All of those together will go in the scrapbook, and I’ll give it to her as a reminder of how precious she is to me.
Today, there’s also a sticky note beneath Abigail’s drawing, in my mother’s neat handwriting.
It’s written in Spanish, because that’s my parents’ first language. They immigrated from the Dominican Republic a few years before I was born. Though they speak English fluently, Spanish always has been and always will be their heart language. And mine.
Nicolas,
Homework is done.
She had a full breakfast.
Fresh pot of coffee ready for you.
The principal called last night. Wants to speak to you. I’ll ask why when I drop Abigail off today.
Love you! Get some sleep.
-Mamá
I frown, taking the sticky note off the fridge and folding it absently.
Abigail’s principal has never called home before, and Mamá didn’t text me about it yesterday.
I check the time on my phone. It’s almost eight o’clock, which means Mamá would’ve just dropped Abigail off at school.
I pour myself a cup of coffee and give her a call.
“Hello?” she answers.
“Mamá, are you at Abbie’s school?”
“Yes, Nico. Did you get my note?”
“Yes, I’m looking at it right now. Did you talk to the principal? What did she say?”
“I only met with her briefly. She said that Abigail had a panic attack on the playground yesterday.”
I almost drop my coffee. “What?! Is she okay?”
Mamá has a wonderfully rich voice, a voice that soothed me many times when I was younger. Now, it provides me with a sense of reassurance now when she explains the situation.
“Yes, yes, my love, she is fine. Mrs. Winchester let me into the school to talk to Abigail after we spoke, and Abigail said she was embarrassed about it and didn’t want to tell me yesterday.”
“Agh, Mamá, do you know why she had a panic attack?”
I’m pacing in the kitchen, gripping my phone tightly.
“No, she didn’t say. You should talk to her later today. And Mrs. Winchester is wondering if you can come in to meet with her.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll call her at once.”
“You should come over for dinner tonight.”
“I will. Love you, Mamá!”
As soon as I hang up, I dial Mrs. Winchester’s, the principal’s, number.
It rings three times before I hear, “This is Dawn Winchester.”
“Mrs. Winchester!” I say, affecting a brightness to my voice that goes against how exhausted I am. “This is Nick Gutierrez, Abbie Gutierrez’s father. Her grandmother told me you called, and about what happened yesterday at school.”
I hear a school bell ringing in the background.
“Mr. Gutierrez, thanks for returning my call. I know that you’re a busy man and work long hours with the fire department, so I appreciate you taking the time to invest in your daughter’s education and well-being.”
I frown slightly.
I’m Abigail’s father. Of course, I take the time to invest in her education and well-being. That’s why I’m paying for her to go to one of the best private schools in the city.
It costs way more than my firefighter salary would let me afford, but I had another life, a life in finance, before I found my calling as a first responder, and most of the money I made then, I saved for Abigail’s education.
Plus, she gets a scholarship because she’s in a single-parent household.
The other parents, and the staff too, at Rochefoucauld Academy sometimes treat Abigail and me differently.
They make assumptions about her because her mother isn’t around.
Or because she looks different from the other kids in her class, most of whom are lily-white WASPs, or good tartan-clad Catholics with last names like Morris and Benedict and Kennedy.
They don’t know what to make of Abigail, and certainly don’t know what to make of me.
I’ve seen the looks they give me when I drop her off. Almost pitying.
Oh, look at that poor single dad. Oh, look at the poor girl on scholarship here.
Mamá has told me what she’s heard the moms whispering when she goes on field trips instead of me.
Did you know that Abigail’s mom isn’t around? Probably a teen pregnancy situation. You know how it is.
I’ve always told Abigail to ignore the comments.
“They don’t know us,” I told her, the first time she came home and told me that some of the girls in her class asked her where she was from, and refused to believe her when she told them “Haight-Ashbury.”
“They don’t know us, and you don’t have to explain yourself.”
Now, on the phone with Mrs. Winchester, I tell myself to listen to my own advice.
“Thank you, Mrs. Winchester,” I say through my teeth. “That means a lot. I’d like to meet with you today to discuss what happened. Do you have any availability?”
“We’ve got a busy day here. Are you free to come in at two?”
I close my eyes.Two is when I’m supposed to meet Tristan for coffee, something that I’ve been looking forward to since he agreed to meet. But my daughter unquestionably takes priority.
“I’ll be there.”