Blessing in Disguise (15 page)

Grace stopped typing, and stared at the words glowing on the computer monitor in front of her. There was a tightness in the back of her neck, and behind her eyes. She felt as if she were slogging her way through wet cement. It shouldn’t be like this, she thought. The hardest part was behind her—the endless research, then pushing herself through the first draft. The stage she was at now—going over her manuscript, rearranging paragraphs and sentences, weaving in bits of fresh new information—was a process she’d always enjoyed.

Why was she feeling so wound up?

Maybe because she’d been at it continuously since eight this morning, with only a slapped-together sandwich for lunch, gobbled at her keyboard. Time for a break, she told herself.

She saved the file she’d been working on and switched off the computer. But still the book wouldn’t let go of her.

She thought about her lunch with Nola Emory, a week ago today. Something had been nagging at her ever since. Was it something Nola had said? Or what she
hadn’t
said? Grace couldn’t shake the feeling that Nola had been withholding something. ...

But maybe she was just being paranoid. Lately, thanks to Hannah, her antennae had been tuned in to every word, every little gesture and facial expression that might mean the opposite of what it seemed.

Hannah. Thinking of her reminded Grace that, despite having done all her Christmas shopping early (just the
thought
of plowing through the post-Thanksgiving crush made her claustrophobic), she still hadn’t found a gift for Hannah. Later this afternoon, after her Big Apple dress rehearsal, she and Lila and Chris were going shopping. Maybe Lila would come up with an idea for Hannah. Lila, in her own offbeat way, was great at knowing exactly the right thing for every occasion. Like the time Grace had broken her toe, and Lila had presented her with a single handknit sock.

Grace was heading toward the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea before Chris got home from school when the phone rang. She dashed back to pick it up in her office.

“Ms. Truscott? This is Mrs. Ellerby at St. Andrew’s. I’m afraid there’s a bit of a problem with Chris.” Hearing the unfamiliar voice with its ring of authority, Grace collapsed into the chair in front of her desk.

“Did something happen to him? Is he all right?” She heard her own voice rising in concern. “He didn’t ... he’s not in any kind of trouble, is he?”

Her thoughts flew back to that scare he’d given her shortly after she and Win had separated, not showing up after school for hours and hours while she frantically phoned every one of his friends and classmates—and then the call from the precinct house saying they were holding him for shoplifting. Torn between anger and relief that at least he was okay, she hadn’t known whether to throttle him or to hug him.

“Nothing to get overly alarmed about,” Mrs. Ellerby said quickly. “But I’d feel more comfortable if you would stop by the office so we could discuss this in person.”

With a single stroke, Nola, her book, Hannah were all wiped away. Grabbing her coat and purse, and flying out the door, all she could think about was that Chris, her unhappy son, was once again in some kind of trouble.

With her blunt gray hair and plain scrubbed-looking face, Mrs. Ellerby reminded Grace of the nuns who’d taught her catechism at Our Lady of the Scapular: imperturbable, with a gaze that, though not unkind, had been sharpened by decades of being on the lookout for gum chewers, slackers, and troublemakers. At the moment, she looked apologetic for having dragged Grace down here. But then she said, “Really, there’s no need to panic. Not
yet,
anyway ...”

Grace felt something in her gut downshift suddenly, like a four-wheel drive hitting a rocky stretch of road. She felt guilty somehow, as if
she
were the one being called on the carpet. And maybe it
was
partly her fault, whatever Chris was in trouble for.

She looked about the small, glass-walled office with its lumpy couch scattered with stuffed animals. On the wall above the desk, a corkboard message center was dotted with colored pushpins and crammed with children’s bright-colored drawings, thank-you notes from mothers, Xeroxes and memos about faculty meetings, PTA events, upcoming field trips.

“... a few of the eighth-graders get like this,” Mrs. Ellerby was saying. “A bit early in the year for Chris to be chafing at the bit, but you never know. At any rate, there have been only two incidents.” Grace watched the school counselor shuffle among the neat stacks of paper on her desk and pull out a manila folder from which she extracted two slightly crumpled notes scrawled on yellow lined notepaper. “Is this your handwriting, Ms. Truscott?”

The notes were identical.
Please excuse Chris for yesterday’s absence. He wasn’t feeling well.
They were signed,
Grace Truscott.

Hot fury at Chris rose in her, shocking in its intensity. How
dare
he!

One teacher, on his last report card, had cheerfully described him as “uncooperative at times, but we’re working on it!” She could deal with uncooperative. She
had
been dealing with it for months, years. But
this ...

She handed the notes back to Mrs. Ellerby.

“No,” she said crisply, dismayed to see that her hand was trembling. “I didn’t write these.”

“I thought not.” Mrs. Ellerby sighed. “Oh dear ... and I’m afraid we can expect another one tomorrow morning as well.”

“Then he’s not in school today?” A pulse leaped in one temple.

“I would have called you sooner, but I was just now going through some of these files and it wasn’t until I saw a release form with
your
signature on it that it dawned on me.” Mrs. Ellerby reached over to pat her hand kindly. “There’s no cause for any
real
worry. He’s always gotten home on time, hasn’t he? We can assume he will this time, too. He’s probably just sneaked off to a movie, or one of those video parlors the boys, especially, can’t seem to get enough of.”

Grace tried to absorb Mrs. Ellerby’s reassurances, but her mind was running in frantic circles. Suppose Chris hadn’t gone to a movie, or some video parlor? In this city, with its muggers and drive-by shootings, he could be in danger, maybe even hurt.

She had to fight to keep from jumping up, racing off in search of her son. No, Mrs. Ellerby was right. He’d always come home before, and he would this time. But what then? The problem wouldn’t be solved by her reading him the riot act.

Grace stared out at the now-empty corridor. “Miss Longacre’s Third Grade Class,” read the sign tacked on the wall above a collection of wildly colorful drawings. Pilgrims with their muskets, smiling turkeys. Native Americans bearing baskets of corn. Thanksgiving in just two weeks, a time when families reunited, when people who didn’t see each other often and who might not have a whole lot in common joined hands around the table.

She thought of their being invited to spend Thanksgiving with Jack’s brother in New Rochelle, and suddenly she wanted to cry. Aaron, the insurance broker, whose speech was peppered with Yiddish, with his collection of antique Judaica that he liked to show off. And wide-hipped Dora, mother of their five bright-eyed, impossibly well-behaved children.

“What are you going to do?” Grace asked, feeling something close to hatred toward this kind-faced woman who had been the unfortunate messenger of today’s bad news. She twisted at the straps on the canvas tote bag balanced across her blue-jeaned knees.

“Actually, I was hoping
you
might have a suggestion. If there’s some kind of problem at home, I could recommend someone. I have several names, therapists I’ve referred students to in the past.” Mrs. Ellerby leaned forward, dropping her voice. “All of this would be completely confidential, of course.”

“Chris is already seeing someone,” Grace told her. “He has been for two years now.”

She felt a sinking despair, as if she’d followed all the road signs only to end up nowhere near where she wanted to be. Where should she turn now? To Win? He’d claim that Chris was a different kid around him: happy, outgoing, talkative. And it was
true,
damnit. She’d seen them together, how Chris’s face lit up when his father walked into a room.

Dr. Shapiro? He was doing his best, judging from the sessions she’d participated in. Chris would at least
talk
to him ... though Grace couldn’t help feeling at times that it was like prying nails out of a board with nothing but your fingers.

“Well, then ...” The counselor appeared at a loss.

Grace stood up. “I’ll speak to Chris,” she said, hoping she sounded confident, in control, when in fact she felt as if she were fishtailing all over the road. “I’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

No guarantee, they both knew that, but what else could she say?

The final bell rang, and as she made her way down the path that cut across the small lawn tucked between the school and St. Andrew’s small quarry-stone chapel, Grace felt herself caught up in the stampede. Books and backpacks, pigtails and earrings, jeans and T-shirts emblazoned with rock stars’ logos went hurtling past in a burst of laughing, shouting, shrieking cacophony. Instinctively, her head whipped about, searching for Chris.

But, of course, Chris wasn’t there. Tears welled, and she felt her hands knotting into fists at her sides. On impulse, she stopped at a pay phone on the corner of Hudson and Christopher.

Grace went through a receptionist, a secretary, and a frustrating minute of being on hold before Jack picked up. “Grace!” His deep, hearty voice seemed to flood her like the cup of tea she’d missed having back home. “I was on the other line with London, but when I heard it was you—”

“Jack, I’m sorry to bother you at work,” she broke in. “But something’s come up.” She told him about Chris.

She half-dreaded hearing him say, with a chuckle, something like.
Boys will be boys.
As Win would have. But she could almost see Jack wincing as he said, “Jesus, just what you need right now. Anything I can do to help?”

“I’m on my way home,” she told him. “If he’s not there ...” She left her worst fears unspoken.

“Listen, I’ll meet you at your place. Ten minutes, fifteen at the most if I can’t snag a cab.”

“Jack, you don’t have t—” she started to tell him, but he’d already hung up.

How could she ever have doubted his love? Grace wondered as she hurried out to the sidewalk to catch a cab. Even with his blind spot about Hannah, maybe in some ways
because
of it, he was the most caring man she’d ever known.

She was climbing out of the taxi in front of her building when she spotted him rounding the corner. He quickened his step, hurrying over to meet her.

“You didn’t have to come,” she told him, “but I’m glad you did.”

He wrapped his arms around her, and she buried her face in the folds of his overcoat. Though he didn’t appear out of breath from the two long and three short blocks he had to have run to get here so quickly, she could hear the muffled thudding of his heartbeat.

“Don’t worry,” he told her. “He’ll be okay.”

“Oh, Jack, I know there’s no reason to think he won’t be back. That’s not what I’m afraid of. It’s just ... it feels like I’m losing him, like he’s slipping away from me.”

As she drew back, he brushed a stray hair from her cheek, his fingers warm despite the chill wind that was sending leaves scudding along the sidewalk where they stood. It was one of the things she loved best about Jack—he gave off a heat that was palpable, like one of those old-fashioned wood-burning stoves set in the corner of a drafty cabin.

“He’ll grow out of it,” Jack said. Then, as if realizing it was just the sort of glib reassurance she might have gotten from a magazine article, he added with a sigh, “But in the meantime it’s tough, I know.”

“At least Hannah doesn’t play hooky.”

“Sometimes I almost wish she would. Hannah takes everything so seriously.”

“I wish I could believe Chris was out there having a grand old time. But, Jack, it’s like he’s trying to tell me something ... only he doesn’t know how. Is it my fault?”

“Chris is a good kid,” Jack said, and from the thoughtful way he spoke she knew he meant it. “And you’re a terrific mother. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Tears stung her eyes. “Thanks, I guess I needed to hear you say that.” She blinked, and smiled up at him. “But you could have told me over the phone.”

“Isn’t it better hearing it in person?”

She nodded. “Now I know why I fell for you.”

“You mean it wasn’t my suave charm and my sex appeal?” He grinned, his navy eyes crinkling.

“That, too.”

“I’d ask you in,” she told him, “but Chris should be turning up any minute, if he’s not here already. I think I’d better handle this on my own.”

At the same time, a part of her longed for Jack to say,
Grace, you’ve handled this on your own long enough. It’s time someone else stepped in.

If only Chris were her and Jack’s son, then it would be natural for Jack to talk to Chris. And afterwards she and Jack would discuss it quietly in the bedroom, sharing their frustration, trying to come up with a solution.

But all Jack said was, “Good idea.”

A wave of loneliness swept over Grace. She felt suddenly, and quite inexplicably, abandoned. But that was silly. Jack had rushed away from his desk to come to her aid—how many men would do that? What more could she reasonably expect? Anyway, Chris would sooner listen to a street-corner evangelist than take advice from Jack.

“We still on for dinner?” Jack asked.

She nodded distractedly.

“Why don’t we meet after work at Balducci’s, pick up a few things? Save you from having to try to cook,” he added, looking devilish.

“Sounds good,” she told him, trying to muster an enthusiasm she didn’t feel. “I’ll phone you when I get back from shopping with Lila.”

Riding the elevator up to her floor, Grace, oddly, felt worse than she had before Jack arrived to console her. But as she let herself into her loft, she was met by the throbbing beat of Chris’s stereo. The wave of relief that crashed over her left her weak-kneed.