Folie à Deux (23 page)

“I basically did. I really wanted to hear it. Plus it was the least that I could do since you put all that time into making it,” she says, embarrassed for her excitement.

The frequency with which we text increases in tiny, almost imperceptible increments. She asks random questions about movies or music or homework and they all lead to lengthy conversations. It’s not until the message appears on my phone notifying me that my inbox is full twice one Saturday that I realize how out of hand this is. As I go through and individually delete each message I calculate that I have spent more time in contact with her than anyone else throughout my day.

Finding the opportunity to text however, is a challenge. I fabricate nonexistent excuses to go to the shed in my backyard. I take multiple trips to the bathroom, when I read a book I place my phone inside its open pages. I hide it behind the open newspaper or in my lap. Only seldom, does my wife ask me who I’m texting, forcing me to make up a random person as well as a topic needing to be discussed. Although she knows something is amiss she is unable to ascertain just what.

Before I realize how exponentially the texting increases I step back and admit to myself that it seems to never stop. She texts me
first thing in the morning and she is the last person I text before I go to sleep. Right as the school year ends she takes a trip cross country to visit relatives, despite the impetus being her family, we communicate just as frequently.

She begins asking serious questions about my past and the present status of my marriage. She asks about my sex life, past sexual experiences, and my personal sexual preferences and still none of it seems out of place, nothing too personal. My judgment is clouded by the fact that I feel important and she is taking an interest in me. She cares about things that most other people do not or have not for a long time and I am swept completely away from conscious and moral thought.

I answer her dishonestly whenever I fear that the real response will accentuate the chasm that factually exists between us, telling her only what sounds good. I answer her with the intent of sounding attractive outweighing the truth. Reality is what I’m afraid will scare her. In different places of my mind I’ve yet to explore and with which I doubt I could even connect, she holds a special place. The inquisitive text messages have the undertone of flirtation, yet never address the tension we successfully evade.

We converse so much that when I don’t hear from Talia for an extended period of time I wonder why. Two weeks prior to the end of school she tells me about a Portuguese festival in Newark she desperately wants to attend. Her father being half Portuguese intrigues her, “I’m dying to learn more about their culture.”

Her dilemma is that her mother will not take her, leaving no way to go. She alludes to wanting me to take her but I cannot entertain that possibility. Shortly after leaving school I receive a text bubbling with excitement that her friend Corinna’s family is going to take her.

My response is simple, “Have fun. Be careful. Newark is not the safest place.” And with that I enjoy an evening with Dana and my children.

At ten o’clock the message on my phone reads, “Im atthe bar. Danbing and so drunk.”

Her inebriation shocks me – Where are the adults?

“Are you ok?” I send back.

For the rest of my evening none of my questions are answered. All of my text messages receive responses but not in the context of anything I ask. “I luv dancing”, “Sangia is so gooood”, “You ttally shold have comeeee.”

I cease to respond only because I don’t want anything misconstrued when she reads my texts tomorrow morning. She tries
to tell me what she eats and the names of bars that she bounces in and out of but her drunken Portuguese is unintelligible. The last text I read before I turn my phone off for the night reads, “I’m so tried from dancig. cant wait t show u whjat I learnd.”

I don’t take notice until sometime around noon the next day that my phone is silent. I assume she is recovering and let her alone. After we eat dinner I wonder if maybe she lost her phone or more likely, if her mother grounded her. I don’t send any texts in the event that someone else has her phone, a veiled attempt to avoid suspicion.

Saturday night comes and goes but before I go to bed I play back my day, realizing that I checked my phone semi-hourly, noticeably missing our contact. I wonder now not only if she is safe but also selfishly, if our communication has been cut off because her mother suspects something. It scares me to think about the unknown quality that my life has taken, having put such small dilemmas in the hands of a fifteen year old girl and perhaps the irrational reactions of her mother.

As I’m returning home after a trip to the supermarket late Sunday afternoon, sunburnt, and smelling of gasoline from a day of yard work, my phone sounds. Natalia is the only person who texts me so as soon as I hear the beep I put the bag of groceries down and rip the phone from my pocket. Warm relief washes over me. I have two options with this and all texts, “View Now,” or, “View Later.” Something unexpected lights my screen, “Can you talk?”

My immediate reaction is fear. Talia has never requested an actual conversation. I snap the phone shut in a panic. I imagine any topics that she could want to discuss to prepare responses. I know that I haven’t done any more than carry on a multitude of conversations on topics that would be, at worst, considered
immorally candid. But everything being over-analyzed, I’m afraid how they may be interpreted.

After I bring in the groceries and put them away I tell Dana that I’m stepping out to return a call to my mom. That story should buy me twenty minutes before raising suspicion. I walk back outside and call Natalia. As soon as she greets me with, “Hello,” I ask, “What’s wrong? You sound like you’ve been crying.”

Her voice is weak and tired. I hear a faint whimper on the other end of the phone then audible sobs.

“Hey, Talia, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?” softening my tone. She sniffles hard, pulling everything into the back of her throat before exhaling deeply.

She speaks uninterrupted as I listen intently, “When we were at the bar, Corinna’s step-father, Jared got up to dance with me. Because of the loud music he put his face right to my ear. So we were talking for a few minutes about nothing really and when he was done he leaned in and kissed me. Our lips locked for a few seconds but I pulled away and just looked at him. I was shocked. I played it off and didn’t make a big deal so nobody got upset. I didn’t want to ruin the rest of the night because I was having such a good time and nobody else saw.” She goes on to describe hopping from bar to bar, drinking Sangria and eating ethnic food.

She continues, “Still far from home, we got a flat tire. Corinna’s mother called AAA because nobody wanted to be out on the highway changing it. By the time we got home, it was three thirty in the morning. Everyone walked into the living room and passed out either on the couch or the floor.” She starts to cry again. I heard her cry the morning she told me about her father but that was an explosion of emotions. This sobbing is from a wound.

I refuse to say, “It’s ok,” because I don’t know yet how this ends.

“Talia, just relax. You’re doing fine. Get it off your chest.”

She sniffles hard again, clears her throat and says, “I woke up right as the sun was coming up to Jared’s hand down my pants. I fucking freaked out and rolled over onto my stomach. He pressed his whole body up against mine and whispered, ‘Oh, so that’s how you want it?’ and all I could do was cry. Thank God, someone’s cell phone rang and Corinna’s mother jumped up. As soon as he heard, he rolled away and pretended to be asleep. I think she just turned the ringer off though and laid back down. I didn’t move until I heard him start to breathe kinda loudly. Once I knew he was asleep, I got up and ran out. Corinna lives in the same condo complex as me but on the other side and I didn’t want to run all the way home. I just ran to the closest neighbor I knew and knocked on their door. They called the police, then my mom. Oh, so when I ran out, I left my cell phone and I didn’t get it back until today when the police gave me all of my stuff back.”

After I’m out of questions and she has told me all of the details, I remember that Dana thinks I’m still on the phone with my mother. My mind wanders briefly to what story I’ll make up to explain my prolonged conversation. I’m snapped back to Natalia when she tells me that she has to hang up because the police are at her house to ask more questions. She ends with, “I’ll text you later. Thanks for listening. See you tomorrow.”

I find myself more affected by her story than I should be, lost in the sadness that she had to endure that fear. I’m left wanting to know more, unwilling to leave the conversation. Instead, I just say, “I hope you feel better. Goodbye,” and hang up. I collect myself for a moment before I resume my own life.

After our first phone conversation there are thousands upon thousands of text messages exchanged all hours of the day and night, with an endless variety of topics. Everything carries on quite seamlessly until the one irreversible conversation that unfolds shortly after school ends. Natalia innocently texts, “I wish I could stay in Alabama because I like it soooo much better.” Her sadness and perceived solitude pains me despite its root in typical teenage angst.

She continues, “Nobody misses me at home anyway.”

I respond, “Don’t be silly, that’s not true.”

“Who misses me?”

I list several names of friends ending with, “And of course you know how I feel.”

The combination of my ability to manipulate a conversation and her desire to play along prompt, “No, how do you feel about me?”

“Well, I love you,” and hit send.

I have never said those words without feeling the full gravity they convey and as I sit at my kitchen table feeling my heartbeat in my ears, I feel the gravity this time too. I don’t necessarily regret sending that, resigning to the contingency that if she has a negative reaction I will explain it as platonic, familial love.

Although the feelings are from a twisted place, they register as real as any feeling I have ever felt. The authenticity of these emotions makes them impossible to deny despite the impropriety that unmistakably swells. I want to stop, wish I could go back and undo what has been done to make her feel as though our relationship is acceptable. But the veracity that I sense every time I see her name on my phone brushes that feeling back down and allows me to continue on the same self-destructive path. The quest for her happiness lies somewhere intuitively intertwined with my own.

“Say it again,” I see on my screen.

I snub the escape she provides and pause to wonder. Did she accidentally delete it? Is she saving it to show her mother or the authorities because I have crossed the line? Does she not believe me?

“I love you. Why did you ask me to resend?”

“Because I wanted to make sure that you really meant it,” she fires immediately.

“Yes I mean it Natalia,” I send after three attempts to spell her name correctly using her full name for final emphasis.

My mind races all night. Neither of us sends another text, perhaps both digesting the disconnected conversation. As I lay in bed I remark for the first time that I’m a French teacher who told a student I love her. The irony existing only on a plain of coincidence, not an omen.

With school done for the year we become creative in the ways we see one another. When Talia asks me if we’ll be able to get together one Saturday my first reaction is, “How will you get out of the house?”

“I’ll tell mom you are going to help me with the summer assignment for your class,” immediately back. Talia tells her
mother that I’ve offered to help her on weekends. Unheard of, inappropriate and so transparent it’s laughable. I’m amazed how easily she can leave her house with a story so close to the truth, yet avoiding suspicion.

“I’ll tell her that I’m going to watch one of your bike races,” she very naturally suggests as an alibi. Natalia knows that I ride my mountain bike every weekend so she asks what kind of bike I have and where races are held. She asks to better know me but has also committed the information to memory to use as a pretense in her excuses.