More Like Her Page 20

  “You’re next,” Sam yells to Martin as he navigates the slippery transition from ladder to sitting just above a tank of freezing hose water. Another group of kids, another set of treats. I replenish our platters and unload more containers of goodies from the wagon. I am quick to get back to the business at hand. I watch as Sam settles his big body on the tiny, perilous crossbar. His face contorts in an annoyed tangle. He can’t stop shaking his head in disbelief.

  “This most certainly was not in the job description,” Sam yells, finally settling in. Martin and the other architects howl with laughter. A little girl steps up and cocks her arm back, the softball almost as big as she is.

  “Come on, darlin’. Let me have it,” Sam says, gripping the crossbar and forcing a smile. The little girl throws; Sam watches the ball soar through the air and fall short of the target. The crowd reacts. The little girl deflates slightly. Martin quickly hands her another softball, giving her a quick lesson in throwing. He models the throw for her, his hand pointing at the target. Sam’s face just looks . . . amused. Martin nods. The little girl stands a bit taller. I take a quick peek over at Jill. She’s watching, too. Martin with the little girl is swoon-worthy. This is definitely a moment for Jill’s pantheon—although, knowing Jill, I have no idea which moments she values and which she pays no mind at all. I always thought she wanted kids, but that’s contrasted with her seeming not to have one maternal bone in her body. In the past, when Jill’s talked about kids it’s always been about what she should do. What’s expected of her. The next chapter. I wonder if Jill has ever thought about whether or not she actually wants kids.

  “Okay, darlin’. This is the one!” Sam cheers, clapping his hands. He’s still shaking his head and pursing his lips, probably due to the impending hypothermia.

  “This is like Chinese water torture,” Jill says, watching the action at the dunk tank.

  “I know. Poor thing,” I say, watching as the little girl throws another shot and misses. One more opportunity.

  “No, I mean we want him to get dunked, right? That white T-shirt is going to be completely see-through once it’s wet. Although, who am I talking to? You’ve already seen everything,” Jill says, bending down to pick up another container of fudge out of the wagon.

  “Yes, I have,” I say, sighing, my body being pulled toward him.

  “Okay, sweetheart—here’s the one. This is the one!” Sam says. Martin hands the little girl another softball and tells her, once more, to keep her eyes on the prize. He points at the target. I look at Sam. Eyes on the prize indeed.

  The little girl throws the softball and hits the target, wrenching it back just millimeters. I can hear the sound of the target moaning as it causes a creaking reaction in the tiny crossbar that’s just under Sam. And then time stands still. Sam looks from the target to the little girl, across to me and then . . . down. He plunges into the water below. The waves splash over the sides as the crowd roars. Sam is a swirling mass of lanky limbs and navy blue swim trunks in the clear water. I see him set his feet on the bottom of the tank and then he bursts through the surface. His silken blond hair is swept back from his face, the white T-shirt transparent, revealing everything for all to see.

  “I told you,” Jill says, slapping me on my shoulder. She’s nodding her approval. I just nod.

  “I don’t have the right to him. I don’t get to sit here and act like he’s anything to me,” I say, almost to myself. For once, Jill is quiet. Her newfound discretion is not appreciated.

  Sam rests his hands on the side of the dunk tank and smiles at the little girl. She hops up and down and gives him a high five. The tiny crossbar has been flipped back in place. Sam pulls himself up, whips around and sits on it once more. His face is flushed. I can’t take my eyes off him. The outline of his chest, the T-shirt sleeve hitched up and caught on the rangy muscles in his arms, the glistening skin. It’s too much. Catalyst, my ass. I don’t want him to be a stepping stone in my life. However terrifying this is, what’s even more terrifying is the idea of not having him in my life at all.

  Sam tucks a leg underneath him and stands, navigating off the crossbar and down the ladder. Martin offers him a huge beach towel as he touches down. Sam pulls it around himself tightly, teeth chattering, his lips a nice soft shade of blue. The crowd gives him a round of applause; he raises his hand high and bows low.

  “Ms. Reid. Mrs. Fleming,” Pamela says, standing front and center at our booth.

  Jill and I immediately respond—I’m jolted out of my reverie, and Jill’s probably just stunned she wasn’t caught saying something X-rated this time. A fresh start with a new headmistress. It just . . . it just doesn’t feel right. I see Sam walk into the school with a duffel bag, the beach towel hanging across his broad shoulders.

  “Headmistress Jackson,” we say in unison.

  “You remember my husband, Paul?” Pamela says, presenting her husband. A huge roar from the crowd. Martin has been dunked. He bursts through the surface with a splash, not unlike Shamu, and drenches the first three rows of bystanders. The kids laugh and shriek. Their parents? Not so much. Jill claps wildly and gives him an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Sam has yet to reappear and Ryan has been staring at me all afternoon.

  “Sure, good to see you again,” we say. Paul partakes in some of our fudge and cookies.

  “Frannie, have you been up to see HR yet?” Pamela asks.

  Oh, shit.

  “Uh, no,” I say, my face draining of color. Pamela picks up on it immediately.

  “That’s fine then. Why don’t you come see me after the fund-raiser then?” Pamela says, giving me a quick smile before moving on to the next booth. Another group of kids. More fudge and cookies. More tickets in jars.

  “What was that about?”

  I’m unable to stop myself from licking a napkin and wiping the face of David, one of my students. That and I’m stalling. Poorly. Jill watches my every move.

  I tell David, “You’ve got chocolate everywhere, sweetie.”

  “Ms. Reeeeeeeeeeid,” David says. Jill. Still watching. Intent.

  “Just a second,” I say, leaning over the counter that separates me from the little towheaded boy. He’s holding cotton candy in one hand and a goldfish swimming around in a plastic bag in the other.

  “Groooooooosssssss,” David mews just as I’m finishing.

  “Go on,” I say, mussing his hair and sending him on his way. Jill tucks the napkin filled with cookies and fudge into his cotton-candy-laden hand.

  “Frannie?” Jill says again.

  Just rip the Band-Aid off, Frances.

  I clear my throat.

  “I got the job. The head of department,” I blurt.

  “What?”

  “I got the job. Emma told me I got the job right before . . . ,” I say.

  “That’s amazing!” Jill lunges into me for a hug. And it’s genuine; she’s not trying to stab me or anything.

  “Really?”

  “Really,” Jill repeats, squeezing tighter.

  “I thought you’d be mad,” I say as she pulls out of the hug.

  “Why would I be mad? Would you have been mad if I got the job?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right, because you’re a competitive little shit, but not me. So see? The best man won,” Jill says, ducking below the table to pull out another container of fudge.

  “You really aren’t mad, are you?”

  “No, I said I wouldn’t be.”

  “Wow, you are officially a better person than I am.”

  “Right.”

  “Right.”

  I look up as Sam walks over to our booth. My heart races. My face flushes. My hands get clammy.

  Jill continues. “I’d better go see if the . . . uh, those other napkins are available. Hey, Sam.” Jill ducks under the table and trots off. Sam’s wet white T-shirt isn’t the only thing that’s transparent.

  “Fudge and cookie?” I ask, holding up a little pink napkin filled with homemade treats.

&
nbsp; “I would love it,” he says, taking the napkin. His cold fingers brush against mine.

  “You look freezing,” I say.

  “I am freezing,” he says.

  “How much longer do you have to stick around?”

  “Just for another half hour,” Sam says, checking his watch—a stainless steel diving watch that’s as big as my head and was on my bedside table not forty-eight hours ago.

  “Good.”

  Sam pops the piece of fudge into his mouth. “This is amazing,” he says once his mouth is no longer full.

  “Easiest recipe in the world.” My entire body aches. A gasping ache that reinvents the word yearn.

  “Really good.” Sam bites into Jill’s chocolate chip cookie. Then finishes it. “Your fudge is better,” he says.

  “I expect you have to say that.”

  “You expect?”

  “Yeah, I—”

  “You trying to talk like me now?”

  “No, I—”

  “I’m only kidding.”

  “You’re funny.”

  We are quiet. Sam is looking around. As am I. I clear my throat. He folds up his napkin into a billion little fractional parts.

  “I’d better be heading out,” Sam finally says.

  “Good seeing you,” I say.

  “You too.” He reaches across the table with what I think is going to be an awkward handshake; I extend my hand. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. An earth-shattering night has been downgraded to an uninspired handshake across a card table at a fair.

  “Oh, are we doing a handshake now?”

  “No, I . . . uh . . .” Sam drops the little balled-up napkin into my hand.

  Oh my god.

  “Oh, right,” I say, curling my fingers around it.

  “I just—”

  “Nope. I got it,” I say, throwing the little napkin into the trash with all the vim and vigor of the scorned woman that I am. Of course, it floats effortlessly in the wind. Downright graceful.

  “Okay, well . . .”

  “You’d better be going!” I yelp as a couple of teenagers approach the booth. I motion to them to step forward and yell “Customers!” just as Sam is walking away. The kids get their fudge and cookies and back cautiously away from me.

  “That went really well,” I say to myself, shoving three pieces of fudge into my mouth.

  Later that day after cleaning up, I make my way to Pamela’s office to talk about the promotion. I didn’t see Sam again. I avoided Ryan. I didn’t fight with Lisa or Jill again. And I ate my weight in fudge. All in all an okay day, considering.

  “Hello, Dolores. I’m here to see Headmistress Jackson?” I say, resting my hand on her desk. She eyes it. I don’t move it. I raise my eyebrows. I’m broken inside, Dolores. My hand shall stay put!

  “I’ll let her know,” Dolores says, her eyes boring into my rebellious hand. I take a step back and slowly peeeeeel my hand away with a flourish.

  “Ms. Reid here to see you? Yes, ma’am,” Dolores says, hanging up the phone. She motions for me to head in. “Motions” meaning looks at me, looks at Pamela’s door, then sniffs.

  “Thank you, Dolores,” I say with a huge smile. I open the wooden door and step inside Emma’s old office. Pamela’s things are in boxes, canvas bags and wicker baskets on the floor. The office is already warmer. A decorative throw here, a picture of a smiling family there. So many clues.

  “Ms. Reid, thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice,” Pamela says, motioning for me to have a seat. I oblige. I approach the wingback chairs and once again I see there’s a stranger in our midst. A woman this time. I vow that if I ever plan on creeping up on someone, a must-have prop will most certainly be a wingback chair.

  “Frances Reid, I’d like you to meet Clara Grey. Mrs. Grey is Emma’s sister,” Pamela says. My stomach drops.

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Grey,” I say, extending my hand to the woman. Judging by her appearance, she’s no longer playing the role of black sheep. She’s tall and lithe, wearing a linen tunic that on someone less fashionable would look like a tablecloth. Her hair is a golden blond and cut stylishly, hanging to her shoulders. Her blue eyes are . . . well, Emma’s. I’m staring at her. I’m now actively staring at her.

  “I know. We look a lot alike,” Clara says.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, breathless. I tear my gaze away from her and look to Pamela. “How can I . . . I’m confused.” I look from Pamela to Clara and back to Pamela.

  “I hadn’t spoken to Emma in around eight years and then all of a sudden she calls me three days ago out of the blue. And now she’s dead. You’ll have to excuse the straightforward nature of this, but . . . I want answers. I want to know what happened. She mentioned you, Frannie. Talked about you. I thought maybe . . . maybe you could tell me something about my sister. I just . . . I just need to know what happened,” Clara says, choking through tears.

  I am struck dumb. Quieted. Clara. The woman I heard about in passing is sitting here now asking me about her sister. Her dead sister. As if I know Emma. As if I have answers. As if. . .

  “Clara, you’ll excuse us, but we’re all still dealing with what happened. And piecing together information without tapping into the trauma of the event might be a bit difficult for Frannie,” Pamela says, her voice calm.

  “I understand,” Clara says, sniffling. “Thank you for your time.” She bends down and gathers the leather straps of her purse in one hand.

  “She said she thought you were strong. She admired that in you,” I say. Clara crumples back down into her chair, her breath ragged, her sobs instantaneous. I continue. “We were brought together because one of my kids was being bullied. He’d stood up for himself and Emma took the side of the bully at first. Said that my boy had provoked it. Deserved it. Deserved no safe harbor. And I fought her. I thought she was a bitch who just didn’t understand what it was like to be bullied, you know? She was so perfect. So perfect. How could she understand?” The tears are streaming down my face now. Pamela offers me a tissue.

  “She was always perfect, you know? Even when she was little,” Clara says, smiling.

  “There was this mixer at her house for the heads of department and the board of directors. I went and of course her house was lovely and she was lovely. And I think that was where we started to become friends. You know? She talked about you. She was beaming. God, she loved you,” I say, reaching out for Clara. She clutches my hand, unable to look at me. I can’t look at her. I hear Pamela sniffle in the distance.

  “I thought I embarrassed her,” Clara says, her voice a whisper.

  “No, no way. She admired you. She talked about painting and choosing academia. I could tell she regretted it, choosing academia,” I say, finally looking up.

  “She got me into painting in the first place. She painted in oils—skill, patience . . . she had it. I have some of her paintings at home if you want . . . if you want to see them,” Clara says, coming alive.

  “I’d like that,” I say.

  We’re quiet as the weight of it hangs around us like a poisonous gas. We’ve celebrated Emma. Her life. Her loves. It’s time. . .

  “Had you met Jamie?” Clara asks, her voice ice cold.

  “Yeah,” I say, my eyes set elsewhere.

  “Before that night?” Clara asks.

  “I met him at Back-to-School Night and then again at that mixer,” I say, becoming detached.

  “And?” Clara’s voice is loud, catches Pamela and me off guard.

  “And he was exactly what you think he would be. A mincing, beak-nosed weakling,” I say, my mouth curling in disgust.

  Clara is quiet yet buzzing with anger.

  “Mr. Dunham was the worst among men,” Pamela adds, her chin held high.

  We are quiet.

  “Emma has a dog,” I say, my voice soft.

  “What?” Clara asks, confused.

  “Had. Emma had a dog. I’m sorry,” I say, feeling stupid.

  “What . . . why are
you telling me this?” Clara asks, edging closer.

  “Because he was the love of her life and I’m sure she would love it if you could give him a proper home. With the girls,” I say.

  “I don’t . . . I . . .” Clara starts and stops, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  “His name is John Henry and he’s beautiful. And he’s lost without her. Please,” I say. “Please,” I say again.

  “You . . . I . . . I have to think about it. I can’t . . . she . . . I have to think about it,” Clara says, tugging on her purse straps once again. She stands. Pamela and I stand.

  “Here, please. I know it’s a lot all at once, but take my phone number. And . . . just think about it. I’d love to see Emma’s paintings and . . . well, just think about John Henry. Please?” I ask, scribbling my phone number on some Markham card stock on Pamela’s desk. Clara takes my phone number and nods. And nods. And nods. She sniffles and wipes the tears from her cheeks.

  “If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to call,” Pamela says, passing Clara her business card. Clara takes it. She stacks it in her fingers next to mine.

  “Here’s the memorial service announcement. It’s in Mill Valley. This weekend. I haven’t decided whether or not I’m going, but you’re welcome to. I’m sure it’s just going to be some ridiculous farce put on by my parents. It’d be nice to have someone there that Emma actually liked,” Clara says with a sheepish smile. Then she lunges into me for a hug. It catches me off guard at first, but then I wrap my arms tightly around her. She whispers, “Thank you. Thank you.” She breaks from me violently and races out of Pamela’s office, her sobs urgent as she closes the door behind her.

  I look at the memorial service invite.

  Emma Jane Dunham passed away on September 14 at the age of 35. Emma was a loving daughter, a devoted aunt and patient sister. She will be greatly missed by all of her family and friends. A celebration in her memory will take place on Saturday, September 24, at the Marin County Country Club’s Crystal Ballroom at 10 A.M.

  Nigel and Jane Stanforth

  Floral tributes may be sent

  Passed away? Passed away?