Mystic Summer Page 6

  “So how’d you end up back at home?” I asked, finally.

  Cam hesitated. “Yeah, I guess you would wonder about that: I went out west to get my master’s in marine biology. And I came home with a baby.”

  Despite our shared laugh, there was nothing light about it. I listened quietly as Cam filled in the missing pieces to the picture of the boy I used to know.

  “I met Lauren in grad school.” If calling him could have been blamed on the buzz of summer memories, then hearing him say her name sobered me right up. “We sort of fell in together at the university: same friends, same major, same classes. We surfed on weekends, camped in the San Gabriel Mountains. Things were really good. We even talked about a future.”

  “Did one of you have a change of heart?” I wasn’t sure how else to ask how a mother could let both her baby and the father of her only child walk out of her life. Or maybe she’d walked out on theirs. It was the question I needed answered to understand Cam’s new life.

  “It happened over Christmas break, our last year in grad school. We’d both applied for internships up in Alaska, and we were waiting to hear back. Our futures were on the same track and we were almost done with the program. So when Lauren came to me one morning and told me she was pregnant, I figured we could handle it.”

  I thought about this. Cam loved kids. It sounded like he loved Lauren. He’d do the right thing, without missing a beat.

  “What changed?”

  “Up until then, Lauren never sat still; she was always the first one up for a beach run in the morning, the first to hit the books or throw together a last-minute dinner party with friends. But suddenly she was sick all the time. And exhausted. It was excruciating for her to finish out that last semester and take exams.”

  I recalled feeling like I was barely getting through my own grad studies at BC, as it was. “It must’ve been tough on you guys.”

  “It was more than that. Lauren ended up getting the Alaska internship. But I didn’t.”

  “Oh, Cam.”

  “Shortly after, I got an offer at UCLA. It wasn’t Alaska, but it included family housing and it was offered to both of us. That made the decision for us.”

  It was an impossible situation. “What other choice did you have?”

  Cam sighed into the phone. “You know, she never questioned it once. She actually congratulated me. But I remember finding her Alaska acceptance letter in the recycling bin a few days later. At first I didn’t know what it was. She’d torn it to so many pieces, Maggie. Hundreds of tiny white pieces. Just scattered. Like wishes.” His voice dropped away.

  I closed my eyes, feeling suddenly sorry for the girl I’d been silently reproaching.

  “We graduated, she gave birth to Emory, and soon after our friends took off to follow their careers. Yet there we were stuck in faculty housing, struggling to live off our stipends, with a colicky newborn. After one particularly rough night with Emory, I remember Lauren standing at the kitchen sink while I was getting ready for work. She was just staring out the window, and she said that she felt like her life was over, while mine was just beginning.”

  “I’m so sorry, Cam.” My mind wandered to Jane’s own struggles after having Lucy, and that had been in the best of circumstances.

  Cam let out a long breath, and I pictured him running his hand through his hair, something he used to do when worrying. “Emory was only eight weeks old when Lauren told me she was going to visit her parents for the weekend. Alone. She said she was exhausted, and she asked if I could handle the baby for the weekend. I was a little surprised, but she’d been so down, and I figured it’d do her some good.” He paused. “Two days later she called. From Alaska.”

  I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. So it was true. She’d been the one to leave.

  “But we’re good now. Emory and I came back here, and I’ve got my business going. Most important, I’ve got my girl.”

  My eyes filled. “That you do,” I told him emphatically. In the background, I heard a little chirp. A sweet, gurgly “Ah, ah, ah” filled my ear. I pictured Cam bending over Emory’s crib.

  “Hold on,” he told me. “I’ve got to get her bottle.” As I listened, I got the sense that I was peering into the privacy of their late-night ritual. Now there were three of us on the line.

  I let Cam go, telling him that I’d better be getting to bed. Knowing that Emory needed him, even though I wanted nothing more than to keep talking.

  “Listen, Mags,” he’d said before we hung up, “it was good catching up with you tonight.”

  “You, too,” I said, sorry that I had to let him go. Suddenly sorry that I was hours away in Boston. But when I replaced the phone on my bedside table, I knew that our larger conversation was just beginning.

  Now, standing in the overheated teacher’s lounge, Mystic seems a thousand miles away. Especially when I see that there’s already a long line at the photocopier. I grab a water from the fridge and sit down. Sharon comes in and plops down next to me. “Have you decided what you’re wearing to the Gala tomorrow night?”

  My mind ticks through my apartment closet. These events are always a bit of a tightrope. Many of the parents get roaring drunk, and compete shamelessly to outbid one another at the auction, making for plenty of Monday-morning faculty room gossip. But for us teachers it’s a work function.

  “Probably a boring little black dress,” I say, wondering what my eBay Blahniks would look best with. “What about you?”

  She sighs and pats her belly. “Thanks to this baby, nothing with the word ‘little’ in front of it.” Sharon leans closer. “So, are you bringing Evan?”

  I wink. “Maybe.”

  I’ve purposely remained vague about Evan at school. The faculty room lunch table is somewhat sacred ground. It is a place where veteran teachers announce first grandchildren with the same enthusiasm they soon after announce retirements. Where younger teachers debut engagement rings. And where more than a few have disclosed divorce or loss.

  Throughout my time here, we have debated everything from the merits of best teaching practices, to politics, to what everyone really thinks about the PTA president. Everything is fodder for examination. Which is why, as a single girl of a certain age, I’m prudent about what to lay on the table. I’m no fool; I know that the social committee members have been studying me for some time. I have felt the weight of their sympathetic glances when two of the new hirees brandished engagement rings this spring. The veteran teachers are my “other mothers”: well-meaning alpha leaders whose expectations are both sweet and hugely suffocating. Which is why I have kept Evan largely to myself when within these school walls, rather than risk inciting the social chairperson to whip out the bridal shower decorations.

  “He’s a sport for subjecting himself to this crew,” Sharon whispers, just before I elbow her gently. Janice Lavender, the librarian, has tilted a curious ear in our direction.

  By Saturday evening, when our cab pulls up at the Plaza, none of this is concerning me. The night is warm, my dress is sleek, and we’ve already had a glass of champagne at my place. Evan leaps out and holds the door. Walking into the Plaza, I feel very much like we’re in some kind of storybook ball. As we step through the double doors into the Oval Room, Evan stops to look up at the muted mural of sky and cloud on the ceiling.

  “I know,” I whisper, taking his hand, and leading him across the dance floor. “I felt the same way at my first Darby Gala.”

  Evan lets out a low whistle. “Makes you wonder if the school would’ve made more money by just donating whatever it cost to reserve this place.”

  “Wait until you see the auction list.” One of the school secretaries had whispered that it included a weekend stay at Sting’s London flat and a ten-day stint on a yacht in St. Barts.

  We get drinks and mingle. My colleagues and friends surround us, their inquisitiveness heightened by the pre-dinner cocktails. But Evan handles it all good-naturedly, and the late nights without him these past few week
s begin to slip away.

  “You guys aren’t at my table,” Sharon groans in my ear.

  I scan the seating to see which parents we’re assigned to sit by. On the one hand, we are professionals handling the most valuable asset in these peoples’ lives: their kids. Hour for hour, we log more time with their own children than they do. We hear personal anecdotes, sometimes involving shower curtains or curse words, that they probably would prefer we did not. We hold their children’s hands, whether it be through a divorce or a deceased hamster. We cheer for them to write that first sentence as hard as we do to stand up to a bully in the hallway. Most of us love these kids with a genuineness that would cause us to place ourselves between their child and imminent danger without a second thought; we’ve seen it evidenced on the news too much in recent years. But even among the most reasonable parents and most competent teachers, there’s nothing like a social function, fraught with alcohol and high heels, to bring all the cream to the top, whether it be whipped or spoiled.

  While I look longingly over at Sharon and her husband seated in the southern sphere of the room, Evan wastes no time in introducing himself around our table. There are the Curtises, seated to the left of us; I teach their son, Will, who is a bright, sweet kid. Next to them is David Artrek, with a suspiciously young date, whose son is a fourth-grade piano prodigy. Across from us are the Merrills, who both work in Boston’s theater district, he as a playwright, and she as a producer. It’s a lively bunch, and they seem to have started early on the drink orders. I’m grateful that Marion Tolles, our art teacher, is also seated with us. She winks at me when David Artrek’s date asks our server for a chocolate milk.

  “So, what kind of work are you in?” Glen Curtis asks Evan.

  “I’m working on a new crime show for NBC. Maybe you’ve heard of it? First Watch.”

  “An actor,” David says, appraising Evan over the top of his wineglass. His chocolate-milk-drinking date pipes up, “Like, seriously?”

  David Artrek frowns but recovers quickly. “I think I just read something about that show in the Globe,” he says.

  David’s date has still not recovered, however. “Wait. You mean the one with Angela Dune?” she shrieks.

  “Yes, we work together,” Evan says, with a smile. “Angie’s great.”

  She elbows David. “He calls her Angie. Did you hear that, David?” A fact that I, too, make mental note of.

  I listen intently as Evan responds to the onslaught of questions that follow. The Merrills want to know about the show’s director. And Marion has questions about his character. They’re still firing away when the salad course is removed, and despite the fact his plate has not been touched, Evan answers each question politely, which only endears him to me more. Later, I slip my hand on Evan’s knee and give it a squeeze. “Am I doing okay?” he whispers.

  I kiss his cheek, not caring anymore what parents may say. “You are great. Period.”

  Sated with dinner and drinks, the guests spill onto the ballroom floor for dancing. I notice that the clipboards on the silent auction tables are filling up, and I’m happy. I only wish I had that kind of cash to bid.

  Evan returns from the bar with two gin and tonics. “Sorry that took so long. I had to check on an auction item,” he says.

  “You’re my guest, you don’t need to bid on anything. Besides, these things go for crazy amounts.”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry to say I couldn’t quite swing the Bali getaway.”

  I laugh. “What’s that one up to?”

  Evan smirks, pulling me onto the dance floor. “Not much. Just eleven grand.”

  We dance for a few songs until the music fades, and a parent I recognize as the head of the fund-raising committee, Bitsy Whitmore, approaches the podium in the front of the room. She sweeps her hair back and raises a glass of champagne.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please join us for my favorite portion of our evening. The live auction of classroom items is about to begin!”

  This portion of the night makes my stomach churn. As enticing as the silent auction prizes are, it’s always the crafty classroom items that garner the highest bids. It’s amazing what parents will pay for something that their children made. Enhanced greatly by the added competition with fellow parent bidders. And martinis.

  Sharon finds us standing in the back of the crowd. “This should be good. My bookshelf isn’t even finished.”

  “What do you mean? Your bookshelf looks great,” I tell her.

  “Well, they better not turn it around to the backside. We forgot to paint it!”

  I chuckle. Poor Sharon. The larger her belly grows, the smaller her ability to focus seems to become. “No one will notice.”

  She gives me a look. “Did you forget what happened last week?”

  I cringe. Last week Sharon sent the much-anticipated end-of-year reading assessments home with the wrong students. Scores, and all. Needless to say, that did not go unnoticed. “Look at it this way. At least the bookshelf isn’t filled with classified information.”

  The crowd presses tightly around the stage to get a better look. This year the second graders built birdhouses, which dazzle in a palette of rainbow colors. The third graders decorated a set of Adirondack chairs, which are clearly hand-painted. Complete with swirls, brushstrokes, and fingerprints, the overall effect is both amateur and adorable.

  I have to say, biased or not, our fourth-graders’ Harry Potter–themed bookshelves look pretty impressive. The largest items on the stage, they wow in both size and color. Like Sharon, I’m dismayed to see a small bald spot in the corner of my shelf that somehow got overlooked. But I’m glad that I took the extra time to help the kids outline the characters in black permanent marker to make them stand out. Even from where I’m standing, Hedwig the Owl practically pops!

  John Hartman finds us in the crowd. “Well done, ladies. Everything looks great this year. Should bring in some interesting bids.”

  We all clap as the kindergarten mural of five-year-old-sized handprints goes for twenty-five hundred dollars. The next two classes sell quickly, the bids falling just short of the kindergarten’s amount. I wink at Sharon. In spite of ourselves, each team of teachers revels in the rivalry and hopes that their students’ work goes for the highest bid of the night. It’s one of the few times we get competitive. We can’t let the kindergarten win again.

  “Which brings us to fourth grade,” the auctioneer announces.

  Parents glance over at us and Sharon and I force bright smiles.

  “This year the classrooms have designed bookcases. Hand-painted and made with love, these fanciful childhood designs are both inspiring and practical. Just picture these in your children’s bedrooms. Because, remember, folks, childhood memories have no price!” He’s really laying it on thick.

  The auctioneer claps his hands. “Let’s begin!”

  The opening bid for Sharon’s shelf is five hundred dollars. She lets out a low breath. “That’s being optimistic.”

  But quickly it’s up to seven hundred fifty, then eight. By the time it’s reached one thousand, our heads are swiveling back and forth between the two final bidders. A paddle flashes to our right, and I get a glimpse of our tablemate, David Artrek. But the sleek woman to our left is not to be outdone.

  “Who is that?” I whisper. She’s minimalist chic in a white tunic dress, her black hair pulled in a low ponytail. A thick gold armband is her only adornment.

  “That’s Leslie Cryden, one of my students’ moms. She works in the valuations department at Christie’s.”

  We share a chuckle. Kid-art it may be, but Leslie Cryden will be hard-pressed to put a low price on this piece. By the looks of it she’s not giving up without a fight.

  Again and again she raises her paddle as the bidding wages on. Until, despite the pouty look on David’s date’s face, he is outbid. “Sold, for two thousand one hundred dollars!” the auctioneer cries.

  Leslie Cryden is already storming the stage steps.

  Shar
on leans in. “Glad that’s over. But we still didn’t beat kindergarten.”

  “I never realized how cutthroat this cultivated crew could be,” Evan jokes.

  “Makes me long for a real drink,” Sharon says, wistfully eyeing my glass.

  “Let me get you another club soda,” Evan offers.

  I glance at Sharon’s husband, who is staring distractedly off in the distance. Does he have Baby-Brain, too? “Don’t be gone too long. My bookshelf is coming next,” I remind Evan.

  “Don’t be discouraged, folks,” the auctioneer booms. “If you had your heart set on that last bookshelf, there is still one left!” The spotlight moves from the auctioneer to my bookshelf, which suddenly takes on a garish greenish hue under the beam of the stage bulbs. The bald spot glows. “Fresh from Miss Griffin’s fourth-grade classroom!”

  The spotlight swivels to me, and I tuck my drink behind my back and force a smile in the blinding glare.

  “Since that last one was such a success, let’s start the bidding high on this one. Who has one thousand for this lovely piece of artwork?”

  There is a beat of silence and for a second I fear no one will bid at all. That’s too high! Quickly I glance over my shoulder for Evan. Did he have to get Sharon a drink now?

  Finally, someone raises their paddle. The auctioneer looks as relieved as I feel. “Right here! One thousand! Who has one thousand one hundred?” And like a sudden wave approaching shore, the paddles rise.

  “One thousand two hundred. One thousand three hundred!” In seconds we are up to two thousand dollars. Sharon squeezes my hand.

  The auctioneer is on fire. “Come on, folks, this is not just a shelf. It’s a work of art! A childhood keepsake. Don’t let it get away!”

  Soon we’ve passed Sharon’s bidding amount. “Two thousand two hundred dollars!” I crane my neck to see who is holding the paddle at the front. To my dismay it is Ainsley Perry.

  “Impressive,” Sharon whispers. “I didn’t think she liked anything about fourth grade.”