Page 35 of The Drowned Woman
Ms. Driscoll glanced up from her computer, its screen bathing her face in an orange-yellow light. No wonder the kids called this place the dragon’s den, Leah thought as she almost turned to flee. But her anger squashed the impulse and she held her ground.
“Mrs. Wright,” Ms. Driscoll began before Leah could say anything. “I was not expecting you. Did you make an appointment?” Her tone implied that if Leah had, then Leah must have gotten the time or date wrong, otherwise she would have been expected.
“You made a mistake. You called my mother in today, instead of me. If there’s a problem concerning my daughter, I expect to be called.”
Ms. Driscoll said nothing, merely arching an eyebrow of disbelief as she clicked on her computer. She read down a screen, taking her time—and leaving Leah standing, rain dripping from her coat, feeling more and more like a child waiting to be disciplined rather than an adult. Power games meant to manipulate. Everything in the office was arranged to intimidate, from the lack of chairs to the wall filled with framed diplomas to the bookcases filled to the brim with officious-looking volumes. What kid wouldn’t immediately be cowed into obedience?
Leah smiled. Any kid, except her Emily.
Finally, Ms. Driscoll looked up from the screen. “It appears you made the mistake, Mrs. Wright. Usually your husband, Dr. Wright, was our primary contact for events concerning Emily.” She gave an arch smile, as if Emily was so out of control that she caused such events on a daily basis. “Dr. Wright was always readily available when we needed his presence to… intervene and modify Emily’s behavior.”
“I—” Leah was about to protest. Ian was a regular fixture at the school, volunteering with Emily’s class, and he’d also sometimes taken Emily out of class early to work on their father–daughter computer projects, but he’d never mentioned any occasion when Emily had required discipline.
But the vice principal cut her off before she could even start. “I see here that you called to change the primary contact from Dr. Wright to your mother, a Miss Ruby Quinn. So, no mistake. At least not on our behalf.”
“No,” Leah fought to keep her voice calm, “I called to add my mother to the pickup list and emergency contacts. I should have remained primary contact.”
“But, Mrs. Wright.” Ms. Driscoll’s smile widened, showing even more teeth. “You were never a primary contact. Only Dr. Wright.”
Leah forced herself to count to ten, but made it only to four. “Please correct the error immediately. And explain to me how your school allowed my daughter and her friend to be both physically and psychologically abused by two of their classmates?”
There was click as the lights in the outer office shut off. Leah glanced at the clock: four o’clock. Ms. Driscoll closed down her computer, stood and brushed past Leah to retrieve a trench coat and old-fashioned umbrella from a coat stand beside the door.
“I’d love to, but I’m afraid we’ve run out of time for the day.” She stood in the doorway, one hand on the light switch, her body angled in an invitation for Leah to either leave or remain in darkness. “However, feel free to call and schedule an appointment to discuss Emily’s behavior and potential consequences. At your convenience, of course, Mrs. Wright.”
“It’sDr. Wright,” Leah said as she stalked past, already wondering how difficult home-schooling might be.
Satisfied that at least she’d gotten the last word, she fled to her car and started driving. Rage simmered through her, but there was little she could do about it. On the surface, any objective evaluation of their conversation would reveal only that the vice principal was acting in a professional manner. But Leah understood the truth of the matter: Ms. Driscoll was as much of a bully as the Homan brothers.
Seething, the encounter replaying in her mind, she was startled when she realized she’d turned onto Jefferson and was only a few houses away from her old home. As she pulled into an open space across the street, a queasy feeling swamped her. She couldn’t do it.
But Luka needed Ian’s copy of his work for Risa. Leah had to go inside sooner or later, if only to grab her and Emily’s personal belongings and retrieve the boxes of evidence the police had returned to the house a few weeks ago. If she kept giving in to her fear and anxiety, they would only fester and build. Best to face them now.
Still, she sat, her gaze fixed on the brick Victorian divided into two townhouses, all thoughts of Ms. Driscoll forgotten. The azaleas beside the front stoop had gone from naked branches to budding, the rain making their green appear otherworldly. Had they been so green and alive this morning when she’d stopped after dropping the kids at school? Honestly, she had no idea, she’d been so trapped in a haze of grief. She thought of the day when Ian had planted them. She’d been working on the hydrangeas on the other side of the walkway, Emily plopping small containers of annuals in between, more dirt covering her than made it into the ground.
A good day. One of many that this house had gifted her.
Hanging onto the happy memory, she left the car before her courage could desert her and crossed the street. Her fingers were numb—from the cold, not from fear, she lied to herself—as she fumbled her key into the lock. The door swung open and Leah stepped into the house, feeling like a stranger in her own home. It was cold, so physically cold that she shivered. And the smell… nothing horrible, no scent of blood, but stale with the faint underlying tinge of chemicals.
She shut the door, the thud echoing through the house before dying into silence. It was the quiet that made Leah falter. Her house was never quiet, not like this, not this soundless vacuum devoid of life.
She hugged her arms around her chest. She couldn’t focus beyond what was right in front of her: her good wool coat, the one she saved for church and special outings, hanging from the coatrack. She brushed her fingers against its sleeve, trying not to remember the last time she wore it—coming home from church, her and Ian arguing about something the priest said. Well, she’d been arguing, and Ian, as always, treated their difference of opinions as an opportunity for debate. It was the one thing that drove her mad about him, the way he became excited when they argued, as if it was some kind of intellectual exercise, stimulating, fun. So much so that he’d often end up arguing her side for her, which, of course, only infuriated her more.
And now, she couldn’t even remember what they’d been arguing about. All she remembered was at one point yanking her hand away from his, her need to gesticulate, hammer home a point, more important than her need to keep hold of his hand.
Hanging onto her coat with one hand, she reached for Ian’s herringbone coat beside it, raising the sleeve, inhaling his scent. She tucked the cuffs of both coats into the pockets of Emily’s pink jacket hanging between them, creating a family.
Only then did she turn to face the rest of her home. Evidence boxes were stacked on the coffee table. She’d asked the police to deliver them here instead of to Nellie’s house, because she hadn’t wanted Emily asking questions. And because she hadn’t had the strength to deal with what was inside them. She still didn’t.
Several were small and flat, sized for computers, the other two were larger, and on top was a small plastic envelope that held Ian’s wedding ring. All were marked with a case number scrawled in a thick marker.As if Ian’s entire life—and death—could be contained by an anonymous seven-digit number.
Leah wove her way around the armchair and coffee table, past the sofa and basket of Emily’s toys, until she ended up at the fireplace with its mantle full of photos. She stretched a hand out, yearning, but immediately pulled it back, afraid to contaminate memories so precious and pure with the despair of her current reality. Her breath came quick and gasping. Her lips were numb, her face tingling with pins and needles, and the pressure on her chest had a stranglehold on her breathing.
She knew it was a panic attack, but no amount of logic could ease the overpowering sense of impending doom. She whirled, ready to bolt, but some last strand of rational thought had her grabbing the laptop boxes and envelope as she fled to the door. Arms full, she almost dropped everything as she struggled to turn the knob.
And then she was outside, stumbling down the steps. She made it to her car, and threw the boxes into the back, closing the hatch and collapsing against it, rain streaming down her face and hair, rivulets of cold seeping between her parka and her skin.
Had she locked the door? She dug into her pocket and found her keys. No. Her hands had been full.
