Page 8 of Broken Blood Ties

“I’d send another note home or give the parents a call. You’re at a private school, hun. Many of these parents are impossible to get ahold of,” she says, attention on one of her first graders digging in the rubber mulch with his chin. She scrunches her nose and shakes her head.

“Aoife says her nanny had the form, but I think it’s policy they can’t sign it, right?”

Mark nods, his pointy nose raising a little as he says, “Section 54.23a of the Ardenbrook Parent/Student Handbook: all permissionsmustbe signed by the legal guardian of each student. Ardenbrook prohibits the use of nannies, chauffeurs, or lawyers from acting as a signature or guarantor. Frankly, it’s annoying. Most of the kids have a nanny or driver that drops them off. I get the legal reasons, but it’s impractical.”

I blink. Both for his regurgitation of the field trips section of the handbook, and because leave it to the richest private school in Boston to have a section about nannies, chauffeurs, and family lawyers for sending their kids to school.

Unfortunately, it’s nothing new to me.

“Aoife O’Donnell?” Shelly asks.

I nod, capturing a piece of my hair that’s stuck to my eyelash. Even after seven years I’m still not used to my short hair hovering above my shoulders. It was one of the first things I did when I got to Boston—chop it off.

“Mr. O’Donnell usually lets his nanny handle everything. But boy is he dreamy.” Shelly fans herself. “Only wish his personality reflected those looks. The man is a complete A-S-S.”

Fisting the cheetah-print skirt at my knees, I fight the urge to make comments about my students’ parents. Especially the ones who have checked out of their kid’s lives, investing time with them when it behooves their agenda. I had one of those once.

I glance down at my watch, noting the five minutes until dismissal, and mentally add a sticky note reminder to call Tommy and Aoife’s parents. Not the nannies. The parents.

Clouds roll in and block out the sun. I shiver and pull my white cardigan, freshly saturated with the snack time grape juice, around to my middle and hold it shut. Guess the warmth of the day decided to give way.

The first bell rings, indicating it’s time for the preschool and kindergarten pickup. Our school separates both grades from each other because the parents have to walk in to get the students versus the ever-convenient pickup line.

I move to the doors with my hand in the air, watching my students dart toward me. They each grab their backpacks, and we walk into the main foyer. With the students overly excited, their voices echo between the marble columns.

Several of the office admins are there to help facilitate dismissal and twenty whirlwind minutes are over in a blink.

Slinking back to my classroom, I spend the next thirty minutes tidying and getting ahead for Monday morning. I pull out our read-aloud books for next week—most are books on aquatic animals to coincide with our field trip to the aquarium.

Tasks complete, I power down my computer and pack up my desk, ready for the long trip home. But before I make the cold walk to the MBTA red line, I pick up my desk phone and make two phone calls, leaving voicemails for both.

* * *

I live an hour outside of Boston. It’s an unassuming suburb at the end of one of the commuter rail lines. Unfortunately, I need to walk from school to the subway and take the red line until I can transfer to the Worchester line.

I jog down the subway steps, my flats nearly slipping on the wet and icy stairs. Typically, I change into my boots before heading home, but I was running behind for the four o’clock train and had to forgo those. Instead, they’re shoved under my armpit as I wrestle my bag over my arm.

The rattle of a passing train thunders through the tunnel and I inhale the stagnant air that blows through my hair. The muddy brown square tiles under my water-logged flats are chipped, the pieces teetering on loose gravel. I lean against a concrete pillar waiting for the next train, instantly smelling, then subsequently dodging, a piece of mint gum stuck to the side.

I still remember my first time on the subway in Boston. I’d spent most of my life sheltered and didn’t grow up in a major city, so the subway was foreign. It took me over an hour to figure out how to purchase a CharlieCard, and I ended up taking the blue line when I should’ve been on the green line to my first cleaning job. It was my only warning from my boss at the motel, and luckily, I was a quick learner after that.

Well, I should say I learned the hard way. It wasn’t long into my first cleaning job I realized how far my paycheckwouldn’tgo. I’d gone from never having to worry over money to overspending and misjudging costs daily. Who knew grapes were four dollars and ninety-eight cents per pound and there’s such a thing as seasonality price factors? I had to break some pretty gnarly spending habits, and when I was late on my rent for two consecutive months, I ended up getting my second job as a waitress. It was at a chain restaurant and the money was abysmal, but it worked well opposite my cleaning shifts.

I sigh, remembering the daily emotional drain the financial stress had on me, or not having any basic life skills. I fought the urge to call my parents daily—to throw in the towel and accept whatever fate waited for me back with them. But I told myself I deserved this: the nights spent staring at an empty fridge or juggling which bill I’d get around to paying first. Told myself it was karma; I was struggling, and this was my penance, the universe handing me exactly what I had coming.

But now, looking back, those first couple of years forced me to become someone I never imagined. I turned out grittier, learning how to claw my way through life.

The red line comes barreling in, and the horde of people trying to get home for a relaxing weekend all push toward the yellow line, waiting for the doors to open.

While being corralled and herded forward, I peek over my shoulder to the flickering lights and freeze.

Is that?—

I avert my eyes, swallowing. It can’t be them. There’s no way they’d know to look for me in Boston. The air seems to thicken around me, my legs falter, and I stumble into the middle-aged man ahead of me. He turns and I force a smile, hoping I didn’t draw attention to myself.

Sweat prickles at the base of my neck while a chill races down my spine despite the heat from my coat and bodies urging me forward. My fingers curl to fist the boots tucked under my arm, and my stomach twists.

It’s the same as years past. Seven years of shadows and constantly looking over my shoulder. Each year has been better; I’ve breathed easier.

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