Page 14 of Silent Echo

I read an article once that said emotional poverty is just as damaging as financial poverty. After five years of working here, I can attest to the truth of that statement. More often than not, I don’t even meet the mothers until parents’ night since the nannies typically drop their children off. Every week there is a slot for a parent to come in and read, do a craft, or be a general day volunteer. I pay special attention to those mothers who can’t find the time. I don’t let the dads off the hook either, but I’m a realist. Most of these women don’t work outside the home, whereas the husbands mostly do.

I’ve always been on high alert when it comes to my students. I closely observe the interactions between the parents andlook beyond the superficial. I’ve had to call DCF several times when it turned out to be unsubstantiated, but better to be safe than sorry. The headmaster got angry and warned me that if I continued to report parents so quickly, he would fire me. I warned him that if he tried to prevent me from carrying out my obligation to report, I’d reporthim, and he would be the one out of a job. After that, he backed off. I wish someone had called DCF when I was growing up.

I can’t remember a time from my childhood when my mother wasn’t drunk. She’d start hitting the bottle the second my father left for his job at the bank. He was what you’d call a functioning alcoholic and didn’t start drinking until he got home from work. Nora, seven years older than me, was the one who made sure I was up and dressed for school so that I could catch the bus on time.

I was eighteen when my parents died in a crash with my drunk father behind the wheel. I won’t pretend I was sad. The insurance money paid for my college, and after Nora and I inherited and sold the house—we couldn’t wait to leave it and the terrible memories behind—we each ended up with a lot more money than we expected. Over two hundred thousand each. I consider it restitution, although the damage those two did to us could never truly be repaid.

Today is the day all three pre-K classes are going to the Audubon Center. We’ve all been looking forward to it for weeks. My one misgiving is having to cross the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. There’s a reason it’s rated the second scariest bridge in the world. It’s always reminded me of those tinker toys—the steel you can see through makes it a terrifying journey. It’s just over 4 miles long and over 350 feet tall.

Everyone is ready to go, but Sebastion isn’t here yet. I’m about to call Charlotte when she rushes in, pulling him behind her. Why can’t the woman ever be on time? I frown when I noticethat he’s bent over, his little hand across his tummy as though in pain. I walk over to her.

“What’s wrong, Sebastion? I thought you were excited to go to the Audubon Center today.”

“Tummy hurts,” he says, looking up at me with those beautiful blue eyes.

“I need to talk to Ms. Watson for a moment. Go play, and I’ll see you later.” Charlotte pushes him in the direction of his friends and in a low voice asks to speak to me off to the side. She brushes his pain off as psychosomatic, claiming he’s been extra needy and that his doctor says it’s a coping mechanism. But I know Sebastion, and he’s not a faker. If he says his tummy hurts, then it does. I do my best to modulate my voice to keep my annoyance from it, but she’s barely looking at me as she checks a text that’s come in on her phone. She’s too self-absorbed and self-important for my facial reactions to register.

“It’s going to be a long day. Are you sure he’s up to it?”

She shakes her head. “Yes, I know he’d regret missing it. Once I’m gone, he’ll be fine.” She looks over to see Sebastion laughing with another boy and seems relieved.

I’m still fuming when she leaves. I call him over to me and put my hand on his head. He’s not warm. I pull out the forehead thermometer just to be safe, and his temperature is normal. Maybe she’s right and it is stress-related, but that makes little sense to me. He’d been looking forward to the field trip as much as the rest of the class, so I don’t think he’d fake an illness to get out of it.

Angela, another teacher, comes into the room and claps her hands. “Time to line up,” she says, and turns to me. “All set?”

I nod and lead the children outside and onto the bus. Usually, Sebastion would sit next to his best friend, Josh, but I decide to sit next to him to keep a closer eye on him.

“I’ll sit by the window, and you can sit on the aisle with Josh on the other side. That way you can still talk. Okay?”

He nods and slides in. I’ll turn away from the window as we go over the bridge, or Sebastion won’t be the only one who feels sick. Everything seems fine at first, but then, a few miles before the bridge, he starts crying and doubles over.

“I have to go potty. My stomach hurts really bad.”

“Okay, sweetie. We’ll stop.”

I motion to Angela to tell the driver. Fortunately, a McDonald’s is coming up in a mile.

She walks back down the aisle. “The driver’s not happy about the unscheduled stop, but he says he’ll pull over if you’re quick.”

When we stop, I usher Sebastion out and notice several more students follow us off the bus. The power of suggestion.

I take Sebastion into the women’s bathroom and wait outside. I don’t want to rush him, but he’s been in there a long time, and I’m getting concerned about the bus driver.

“Honey, are you okay?”

The toilet flushes, and he comes out. He’s as white as a sheet, sweat on his brow. There’s no way he can make it through the field trip. Why hadn’t his foolish mother listened to me? We walk back outside, and the driver stands by the door, his face red, tapping his foot.

“We are way behind schedule here.”

“He’s sick. We need to go back.”

“What? Lady, are you kidding me?”

Angela comes down from the bus. “What’s going on?”

“Sebastion’s sick. Let me call his parents and see if they can come here and pick us up.”

The driver shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “Hurry up.”

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