Brunch at rubys, p.10
Brunch at Ruby's, page 10
I'm lost, standing in the middle of the model unit. I had hoped that Golden Rays would be the answer for me−for him, but it just doesn't feel right. I'm disappointed. I feel so selfish, wanting to put him here.
He shows me out of the apartment, locks the door behind us, and joins me in the golf cart. He points out different areas of the property—the Commons, where they eat meals, have dances and social functions; the Gardens, where all the ladies and gentlemen with hobbies gather. There is a sewing circle and knitting klatch and arts and crafts twice a week. I'm sure my father doesn't want any part of glue and string and paper towel rolls.
“You're handling an awful lot,” Ron says, as we settle back in his office with bottles of cold water. “Even with help, taking care of Bernard night and day and worrying about him is probably giving you gray hair.”
I absentmindedly run my hands through my hair. I don't mention the Dark & Lovely session to Ron. Maxine will surely let me know that it's time to color.
“I wish I could just put him somewhere,” I admit. “I feel guilty for thinking that and tell myself that I can handle it. And then he screams at me because he can't find something or can't remember something, and I want to run away. But I can't. I'm all he has. It's hard to handle, but I can't break down. I have to keep going.”
Ron reaches for a post-it note and a pen. He scribbles some information on it and hands it to me. I take it and read the amazingly legible doctor's handwriting. Alz-Connect, it reads, with a web address listed underneath. “It's a support group, completely made up of people like you, people who understand where you're coming from. It might help you handle this period where your dad is pretty much okay, but you're not.”
I thank him and tuck the piece of paper into my purse, already knowing that I will not sit in front of some group and complain about taking care of my father. That would be too much like therapy, and I'm not crazy. I'm just tired.
I head back to my car after promising to think it over and give Ron a call. I pass a few people out for an afternoon walk. One of them, a woman who seems entirely too young to be a resident, sees me and gives me the biggest, brightest smile.
“Are you Jenny?” She asks.
“No ma'am,” I answer. “I'm Renee. Who are you?”
“I'm Gloria.” Her smile fades, replaced by a confused half frown. “Jenny was going to come see me. I don't know when she's coming.”
“Come on, Glo.” One of the Resident Assistants, dressed in scrubs with a name tag, slides an arm around her shoulder. “Sorry,” she says, giving me a small smile.
“It's no bother,” I tell her, watching the small group shuffle along the sidewalk. I wonder if that was what it would be like for my father, wandering around this place, asking everyone if they're Lorraine.
I feel like I am being punished for wanting some relief. Is this what karma feels like?
Chapter Fourteen
Debra
* * *
To the outsider, my life hasn't changed. I appear to do the same things I did before. I still have to show up at school every day, be a leader, a boss, an administrator, a mentor. I still have budgets to review and purchases to approve, skirmishes to settle and disciplinary problems to handle. And those are just the daylight hours. That's the biggest misconception of the job, one that didn't take long to impress itself upon me. This is a twenty-four-hour-a-day job. I solve school problems in my sleep.
The momentum has kept me going.
By 8am, the day is in full swing. I try to stay in the hallway and greet students, teachers and staff to avoid having a throng of people in my office. The secretaries have been in since 7am and the phones are ringing off the hook. I've already worked with the custodian on an urgent plumbing issue in the east wing boy's restroom. Once the bell has rung, I head to my office and address the blinking phone, the stack of pink While You Were Out message slips and the towering pile of paper in my inbox.
At 8:15, I pick up the voicemail messages. “Debra, this is Bernice. Call me in my office this morning, please. I'll be in all day. Thanks.” The recording makes her silky voice rich, but I hear the stiff professional tone.
Bernice Johnson is the Superintendent of Public Schools for Gwinnett County. She's also a friend, so her messages normally have a conversational tone, like “girl, I need to talk!” Following would be a two-minute description of what she needs to talk about, ending with “call my cell!” To hear her use a tone she might reserve for strangers and people she doesn't like strikes a dagger through my heart.
Come on, Debra. It could be nothing. She could have just been busy. It was early for her to be calling. I reach for the phone and punch in the numbers I know by heart. I've made many a call to the Superintendent's office in the past two years.
“Superintendent Johnson's office.”
“Hi, Sandy. It's Debra Macklin at Morningside. Bernice left me a message to call her. Is she in?”
“One moment.” A few seconds later, the hold music is interrupted by the familiar voice of my friend.
“Debra, thanks for calling.”
“Hi Bernice,” I'm hoping she'll pick up on my light tone. “How are you? Your boys aren't already crazy this morning, are they?”
Her twin boys, Jordan and Jason are Kendra's age. They're cute with wide-set brown eyes and lanky frames. They're on the basketball team at Tucker Junior High—Morningside's rivals. They are also holy terrors. Identical twins with wicked senses of humor, they like to gang up on teachers, pretend to be each other and switch.
“They are going to have me in an insane asylum. If they're this bad at twelve, imagine when they're fully fledged teenagers! I won't survive it.”
“Kendra will be thirteen in March and she is already emotional. When the hormones kick in? I'm not ready, Bernice. Why can't they stay little?”
“This is what we get for wanting to bring something beautiful into the world.”
We both laugh though, because as much heartache as our children give us, we wouldn't trade them for the world.
“Well, I know you're busy, so I'll get down to the reason I called you.” Here we go. “I think you might already know what's going on.”
I nod my head, though she can't see me, and bite down on my bottom lip. “I have an idea.”
“So it's true?”
“What… exactly are you asking about?” I'm not willing to fall on my sword. If she's only heard part of the story, I'm not going to confess to all of it.
“I had a visit last week from one of the parents, who heard from one of your students that… well, that you were in your office, shall we say… behaving inappropriately with another member of your staff. Does that ring any bells?”
“It does.”
“How long has this been going on? Is it still going on?”
“It's over. It's been over. It was off and on during the last school year and I ended it and…”
“And?”
“And he wanted to rekindle. And I… I didn't fight him on that. But the incident that was reported happened after hours. No one was in the building.”
“Except your witness. And you. And…” I hear paper shuffling. “David Loren. He's Director of Athletics, isn't he?” She clicks her tongue. I feel her eyebrows rise over the phone line. Had we not been discussing my affair and the possible ending of my career, she would have a lot more to say about David.
“Can I ask who made the report?”
“That's confidential, I'm sorry.”
I attempt to unclench my fist before I crush the receiver in my hand. “Okay. So, what happens now?”
Bernice breathes an audible sigh. “I'm trying to keep this in-house, because I know you, Debra. I know this job means a lot to you and you're doing great. Be that as it may, this is expressly forbidden, something we stress during the kickoff meeting every year. That you signed the agreement acknowledging these policies and blatantly disregarded them — for two years — disappoints me. You know what's going on in Atlanta. Gwinnett doesn't want that kind of attention, Debra.”
The Atlanta School District has been under scrutiny for years, most recently because of a cheating scandal that has been splashed all over the front page of the Atlanta Journal Constitution. Principals and teachers have been fired, and the Superintendent is facing charges. Gwinnett has been quietly smug about its spotless reputation. The school board won't like being compared to Atlanta. Not one bit.
“I know, Bernice. I'm sorry to disappoint you. I really am.”
“Do Willard and Kendra know?”
“Willard knows. I told him after we got caught because I wasn't sure how fast it would hit the wires. I don't think Kendra knows.”
“Well...” She hesitates. “I'd want Kendra to get it from me. And from what I hear, she's going to know about it sooner rather than later.”
My heart skips a beat and I'm having trouble getting in enough air. The space in my skull seems to expand until I feel like my head might pop off my neck and float to the ceiling. I drum up enough courage to ask, “What do you hear? What's going on?”
“My guess is that a concerned parent has locked arms with the PTA, who we know don't like you and would be happy to see you removed.”
“Makes sense.”
“I can almost guarantee that this is racing through the halls at Morningside like wildfire. Forget about Kendra finding out. If things get out of control, the school board will have to step in. You don't want that.”
“I sure don't.” I shove a thumbnail into my mouth and nervously chew on it. My leg bounces incessantly, knocking against the desk and creating a staccato rhythm in the otherwise quiet of my office.
“I want to see what I can do to keep this quiet, but I'll be honest. I've already received a follow-up call asking when you're going to face disciplinary action. Watch your back.”
My lung capacity drops, as does my stomach. I must have made a noise, because I faintly hear Bernice asking if I'm alright.
“No. I am not alright!” I bite out. “My life is a mess. My husband isn't talking to me, someone wants to destroy my career and now I have to sit my twelve-year-old down and tell her about how I love her dad but I made a mistake and she might hear some things about her mother and to not get caught up in defending me! No… I'm not okay, Bernice.”
“This has got to be tough, but stand strong, Debra. I know people make mistakes, and I'm not inclined to level any kind of punishment. Like I said, though, it's not just up to me.”
“You'll let me know if you hear anything?”
“You'll be the first to know. Hang in there.”
“I'll try,” I choke out before I hang up. I immediately drop my head onto my folded arms and stop trying to fight back tears.
A little after 5pm, I swing into the driveway and press the button to lift the garage door. I am surprised to find Willard's Lexus parked in his spot. My mind races with reasons why Willard might be home before six o'clock. Hell, before sunset.
I try to hide my shaking hands and questioning eyes as I walk into the house, lugging my work bag, my purse and a few books. The house is quiet as I unload onto the kitchen table, kick off my shoes and pad through the living room, my pointy Nine West hanging from my fingertips. The den is empty, the 52-inch TV that I bought Willard a few Father's Days ago a yawning dark hole in a corner of the room.
Willard and I share an office on the main floor of the house. I hear the irregular rhythm of Willard's fingers pounding on a keyboard. Give him an adding machine and his fingers fly so fast, you can't see them move. A keyboard is another beast. He is a ‘hunt and peck' typist, so even a short, two paragraph letter would take him an hour to type.
Two desks are wedged into the room and butted up against each other so that Willard and I are staring right at one another if we're both in the office. I use a laptop; Willard prefers an old IBM desktop that, despite grinding noises from the fan, still works. My side is a study in ordered chaos, with files and papers and check stubs everywhere. Willard's side is neat and utilitarian. Not a speck of dust out of place.
He sits in his office chair, a burnt orange number covered in vinyl so old that the arms are cracked and the stuffing is stained from years of exposure. He's in his normal typing stance—glasses perched on the edge of his nose, two forefingers out and banging letter keys, his head intermittently rising to view the flickering monitor in front of him.
I duck my head in and paste a smile on my face. “Anything I can help you with? You know you get frustrated trying to type things yourself.”
Willard tips his head up, stares at me over the rims of his eyeglasses, and drops his eyes back to the handwritten page. “No,” he grunts eventually, before his fingers tap out another word. “I think you've done quite enough.”
I step into the room and lean against the doorjamb. “Are we going to talk, eventually? Or just keep moving around each other, communicating through email and post-it notes? Our daughter is asking me what's going on, what's wrong with Dad–”
“Oh?” Willard straightens and pulls his glasses away from his face. “Is she really? Asking what's wrong with Dad? And did you tell her, Debra? Did you tell her what you did, so she would know what was wrong with Dad?”
I don't answer. Willard glares for a moment, puts his glasses back on and goes back to his document. “I have something I'd like to complete this evening, so if you'll excuse me.”
I had thought about offering to make him some dinner, but with his attitude, I don't care if he starves. I walk back down the hall, past the den and the living room to the kitchen where I pick up my bags and books to take them upstairs.
The front door opens and closes as I make my way to the rear staircase. “Kendra?”
“Yeah.” I hear her bounding through the living room, her nylon backpack swishing against her light jacket. I come around the corner to meet her before she can go upstairs.
“Hey, baby. How was your day?”
“Fine,” she answers with a shrug. “I got an ‘A' on my algebra quiz and my science project, and Mrs. Locke said if I continued to do good–”
“Do well.”
“Do well… in my science classes, she would consider letting me join the Science Team. Isn't that cool?”
The Science Team is a special interest group at Morningside, created to target those students gifted at mathematics and science and put them on a track to success. The group meets weekly to put together projects and hold friendly competitions. At year end, there is an exhibition.
“That's wonderful, sweetheart! I'm proud of you. That's using the old noggin, isn't it?” I playfully tap her temple with the tips of my fingers. She beams and leans into my hand.
“I need to talk to you,” she whispers. My heart drops to my feet. Has she already heard? Is this the moment I don't want to have with my daughter?
“Okay,” I whisper back. “Right now?”
“I'll come up later,” she says, letting her bag slide from her shoulder. “I saw Daddy's car.”
I watch her walk away and turn the corner, hear her say hi to Willard. Get jealous over how happy he is to see her. Hear his accolades and kind words over her math test and her science team possibilities. I sigh, my heart heavy, and turn to climb the stairs to my bedroom, which has become my new prison.
Willard moved out of the bedroom a few weeks ago. His clothes, shoes, toiletries, cologne have been moved to the smallest bedroom and bathroom in the house, just to not have to share with me. He leaves for work early in the morning and comes home late at night. He goes straight to his room and if I don't try to see him, I won't.
I change out of my suit into comfortable yoga pants and a t-shirt. Pull my twists back, remove my jewelry, and wash my face. I settle on the bed or the wingback chair with some paperwork or, on rare occasion, a recent novel.
Having a best friend that owns a bookstore has the best of privileges. Anything I want to read, Renee will loan to me for a few weeks, so long as I don't damage the book or crack the spine. Usually I buy it from her with our unofficial friends and family discount. It's been awhile since I felt carefree enough to kick back with a trashy novel.
Tonight, I can't focus on anything. My conversation with Bernice rolls through my mind over and over. I can't imagine what I could have done to make someone so angry that they would attempt to ruin my career. I don't have the best relationship with everyone, but I can't think of anyone who would dislike me this much.
My eyes flicker open, blinking and squinting from the sudden burst of light. The fog of sleep rolls away as I realize the overhead light is on. A shadow stands over me and an envelope drops into my lap.
“That's for you. Read it. Let me know what you want to do.” Willard stalks out of the room and nearly slams the door behind him.
I pick up the plain white envelope with my name scrawled across the front. I flip it over, pull the flap open and draw out a single page. Unfolding it, my eyes skip down the page.
Separation. Custody. Alimony. Divorce.
What?
‘Debra,’ the letter reads. I half expect him to refer to me as Ms. Macklin or even worse, Ms. Reid, my maiden name.
‘Some time ago you made me aware of your infidelity. While I was angry and hurt, I believe that I could have eventually come around to realize that this was a problem between us and with our marriage and not just me and not just you. All I needed was some time to think.
You're obviously still seeing this man. You have continued to choose him over me, over our daughter, over our marriage. You have continued to show me where your priorities lie, so I'm forced to take this step.
I feel that we have one option, and that is to make our separation quiet and painless for Kendra. I need to know if you plan to move out or if you would like me to obtain other housing for Kendra and me.’
Kendra and–what? I sit up. “You are not taking my daughter anywhere,” I mutter aloud.
‘If you are leaving, I think it would be best for you to be gone by Thanksgiving. That way we don't have to pretend to be a family for either set of parents. Once you are settled we can discuss a parenting plan and divorce. I have no intention of leaving my daughter to be raised by a woman who stepped out on every promise she made to this family. I will not consider joint custody, however we can discuss visitation.’
