CHAPTER 17

At the writing center on Tuesday, I had four students, each scheduled for half hour sessions. My first two appointments came on time and both wanted help writing personal essays for comp classes. The third wanted to talk over a sociology essay and the last needed me to proofread his resume. These tasks were fairly straightforward and I felt confident that I’d been reasonably helpful. Packing up, I heard Joel’s voice and felt a lump grow in my throat. This was it.

He was on the phone but when he saw me standing in his doorway, he hung up and motioned me in. Leaning back in his chair, he began rubbing his chin. I tried not to look into his bloodshot eyes.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call you back,” I said. “I was out of town for the weekend.”

He lifted his hand from his chin and waved, dismissing my apology. Then he frowned. “Tell me about the student you saw last week.”

“I couldn’t seem to explain how to support her thesis,” I said. “I got flustered. It was my fault. I should have been more patient. I feel terrible that I didn’t help her.”

He began rubbing his chin again. Behind him a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, jammed with paper and books, reminded me of my mother’s office at home. I wasn’t a patient person anymore, I decided. I panicked. If I’d been able to take home the woman’s paper, where I could slowly and quietly work, where I had time and people weren’t staring at me and expecting so much, then maybe I’d have been able to save her. I mean help her. Little dots of sweat broke out across my upper lip.

“I appreciate your willingness to take responsibility,” he said. “Students come here seeking help for a variety of reasons. They want a fresh set of eyes or a quick fix. Others have some kind of writing block or disability. In other words, it’s not always the tutor’s fault for not being able to help.”

“Oh.” I hadn’t thought of this.

“I suggest trying to keep your composure. You can also bring up this case at a writing center meeting. Others might have suggestions. Okay?”

“Thank you.”

I stumbled out of his office, down the stairs, and out onto the street. Then I leaned against the building and sighed loudly. The air was damp and heavy and the sun was hidden behind soupy gray clouds. I felt the heat rise up through the pavement and into my feet and the sweat gather under my arms and in the small of my back. And yet I felt cooler somehow, maybe because I was done with the writing center for today. And because I was relieved that Joel hadn’t yelled at me. I didn’t know why I always assumed I was wrong, but I was grateful for the confidence boost. I’d need it. I was on my way to a private tutoring session that Mr. Donahue, my dad’s best friend, had asked me to do, and I wasn’t looking forward to it.

I straightened and began to walk but stopped and turned when I heard my name. Lucy, her big black bag swinging on her shoulder, hurried toward me.

“I thought that was you.” She stopped in front of me, her droopy eyes squinting and her yellow curls extra frizzy in the humidity. “I’m glad I ran into you. So, did you give my letter to your mom? What did she say?”

It had only been five days since she gave me the letter. No normal person would expect a response this soon. “I was out of town for the weekend and haven’t seen her yet.”

Lucy’s lips dipped into a frown. “There’s no urgency if I’m not threatening legal action. Am I right?”

“She was out of town, too,” I said. “You know, people can read into things and believe that there’s something there when there isn’t and—”

“This is my story.” Her voice was louder, more forceful. “My brother came home from Vietnam completely shattered and I tried to help him. I read to him. I took him on walks. That girl in the story? Phoebe? That was me!”

I felt my nostrils flare and a pain shoot down my jaw from where I was clenching my teeth so tightly. No, I’m Phoebe!

I took a deep breath. Thank God I didn’t say this out loud. I needed to get it together and not let her confuse and anger me. I needed to think about what to do.

“It’s all in the letter,” she said. “You should read it. If you still have it.”

“Of course I still have it. But my parents are traveling and I don’t know when I’ll see them again. It might be weeks.”

I forced myself to hold her glare. Then she nodded as her shoulders fell and her mouth curved again, this time into a pout, and she looked every bit like a wilted sunflower. I felt myself soften, embarrassed that I’d reacted so poorly to her comments about Phoebe. I should dismiss her as an opportunist who merely wanted something—like the others—from my mother. But there was such sadness about her. And when I thought of my mother’s hesitation the other night in Chicago and her reluctance to ever offer any background information on Listen, I felt uneasy.

“Why didn’t you ask someone else’s opinion about your story?” I asked. “Why did you let my mother’s reaction stop you from writing?”

“Your mom meant everything to me! And she liked me, too. I had entire passages of Paradise Lost memorized and she said I was the only student ever to do this. When I told her about how terrible my family was being to me, she said she’d help. No other teacher was that nice! I used to think how lucky I’d be to have an actual mother like her. You know, so smart but also warm and nice.”

Were we talking about the same person? Just how close were they? Did they see each other outside of class and office hours? What did they do and talk about? I’d never heard anyone describe my mother this way. I felt anger building as I stood there, trying to make sense of it all.

“And then she stole my story.” Lucy pushed her yellow hair out of her face and frowned. “So, you’ll give her the letter?”

“Yes!”

I started for the T, in the opposite direction, anger pulsing in my cheeks. I knew my mother better than anyone did. I didn’t care how much of Paradise Lost Lucy had memorized; my mother wouldn’t friend students nor did she steal this woman’s story. But I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Because if I knew my mother so well, why didn’t I know where the story of Listen came from?

* * *

Marta Volkov was a brown-haired, green-eyed fourth grader who lived with her dad, the superintendent of Mr. Donahue’s building, her mom, her sister, and about thirty other people. At least it seemed that way when I stood in the entrance to their cramped, windowless, basement apartment. The people, who seemed to be stuffed into every crevice of the room, were watching The Price Is Right on a small TV resting on cardboard boxes in the corner.

As Mr. Volkov, a big, hulking man with a thick accent told me we could work in the girls’ bedroom at the back of the apartment, I stole a glance at his daughter. Two red circles burned into Marta’s cheeks, her eyes glued to the floor in front of me. I felt her embarrassment and immediately liked her.

“Please make sure you tell them that I’m not an elementary school teacher,” I’d told Mr. Donahue when he called to ask if I’d help. Marta was falling behind, struggling with reading and writing, and her parents—newly arrived from Russia—couldn’t afford tutors. I didn’t want to do this. What did I know about teaching fourth graders? But when Mr. Donahue, who lived on the sixth floor of the building, said that he’d pay me, the situation was that desperate, I agreed to give it a try—but only on the condition that I do it for free.

I followed Marta to her bedroom and closed the door behind us. I could still hear voices from the TV and smell whatever was cooking on the stove (cabbage?) but at least it was private. The room was sparsely furnished and everything, from the skimpy pillows to the pockmarked bureau, felt second or thirdhand. Marta sat on the bed, her pudgy legs dangling over the edge and her head hung. Her little sister grinned at me as she bounced around the room and showed me her new Barbie, her latest drawing, and her Blowpop lollipop that she’d won at the second-grade spelling bee that day.

I put my backpack on the floor and sat in a folding chair near Marta. I was sweaty and still bothered by my conversation with Lucy. But I had to get through the next hour. As I watched the two girls, so different in looks as well as personality, I instantly saw the dynamic between them.

“So, Anna, that’s your name, right?” I asked the grinning sister. She nodded and giggled. “You want to go out to the other room so Marta and I can work?”

“No.” She shrugged. “Mamma and Poppa say I get to be here.”

Great. I glanced at Marta, who still wouldn’t look at me. “So, Marta, did you bring home work we can look at?”

She shrugged. Anna giggled and I shot her a look that she completely ignored.

“Did you bring home any books?”

She shook her head.

“How about any assignments?”

She shook her head again.

I sighed and looked around. I had to take a different approach. “So, do all those people out there live here, too?”

“No!” Anna giggled.

“Really? I thought they did. I thought maybe they all slept in the living room, you know, stacked on top of each other like Pringles potato chips.”

Anna burst out laughing. Marta smiled, although cautious, and looked up at me. She had a mouthful of white teeth and a nice smile. I grinned back at her.

I glanced at a plastic pink backpack, covered in pictures of Dalmatians, on the linoleum in the corner. “How come you guys don’t have a dog?”

“We want one!” Marta said, her voice quick. “But our parents won’t let us.”

“We’re not responsible enough!” Anna cried.

I shook my head. “Keep working on it. I had a dog. She was the best friend I ever had. I used to dress her up in doll clothes and pretend we were in the circus.”

Now both girls laughed. It didn’t matter that I was lying—my mother was afraid of dogs and would never allow one—because I was on my way. When I pulled out a book I’d found on the T last week, The BFG, by Roald Dahl, they settled into the bed and stared at me as if I’d just promised them a dog if only they’d listen.

Later, after I finished a few chapters and Marta was able to answer the questions I asked, I realized that she was smart. Next time, I said to her, I’d read more and then maybe we’d work on her homework together. She nodded. By the time I walked into the dark living room, the light of the TV providing a path to the door, I felt better than when I’d arrived.

As I walked to the T, I thought about my fourth-grade year. I remembered it well, maybe better than almost any other time, because it was the year my mother was in between. She’d taken a sabbatical from the university and Listen had been written, although not yet published, and she was more relaxed, more calm and pleasant to be around, than at any other time I could remember. The four of us ate dinner every night in the dining room. We watched TV and read by the fire. And that spring, my mother and I began walking all over town every night after dinner and sometimes stopping for ice cream on our way home.

I liked that year not only because the craziness with Listen had yet to begin. It was also a magical time, as I saw with Marta, when you’re not yet jaded or worried about boys or friends or whether you’re a good person or not. You just are. You got excited by a dog or a lollipop. You could lose yourself in a novel.

Maybe I shouldn’t be tutoring adults but teaching children.

But I cringed, thinking how my mother might respond. And what would I say to Ben (oh, God, we hadn’t talked at all about the marriage thing he brought up the other night)? Maybe I’d just blurt it out. Guess what? I’d decided to change careers.

Yet again.