Page 5 of Ghosts Don't Cry
I should be fully present and engaged. These kids deserve my undivided attention. Instead, I keep hearing Jenny’s voice in my head.
Mitchell’s Law offices … he was seen walking inside. Why? What would he need to see a lawyer about?
And why here?
During circle time, I mess up the words to our lunchtime song—a song I’ve sung a thousand times before. The children look at me, confused, their small faces scrunched in concentration as they try to follow along with my jumbled lyrics. I force a laugh, and turn it into a game so they have to correct me. They giggle and sing louder, delighted to catch their teacher making mistakes.
When Jackson asks why octopuses have three hearts, I have to ask him to repeat the question twice before I can focus enough to answer.
“Ms. Gladwin?” Emma tugs on my sleeve, her face serious. “Why do you look sad?”
“I’m not sad. I’m just thinking hard about all the amazing sea creatures you’re drawing.”
She studies me for a long moment, head tilted to one side, with that unnerving perceptiveness some five-year-olds have. Then she hands me her marker-stained masterpiece covered in wild swirls of purple and gold that could be anything the imagination wants it to be.
“Here. It’s a rainbow fish. They’re magic, you know.”
“Thank you, Emma.” My voice shakes a little. “It’s beautiful.”
She beams at me and takes a fresh piece of paper, satisfied that she’s fixed whatever is wrong with my world.
If only it were that simple.
By nap time, I’m grateful for the dimmed lights and quiet. Twenty small bodies are sprawled on their mats, breathing soft. I sit at my desk, supposedly reviewing next week’s lesson plans, but my head is pounding and I can’t concentrate. My pen hovers over the paper, while Jenny’s words from this morning repeatlike a drum beat in my head, mixing with older memories I’ve tried so hard to bury.
Claire stops by, creeping into the room, two fresh cups of coffee in hand. “Rough day?”
“Just tired.” I accept the coffee, wrapping my hands around the warm cup, and breathing in the rich scent.
She leans against my desk, and keeps her voice low so she doesn’t disturb the sleeping kids. “Jenny told me about …” She waves one hand. “You know, if you need to talk …”
“I’m fine.” The words come automatically, a reflex developed over years of practice. “Really.”
She doesn’t believe me. It's clear in the way she frowns, how her gaze lingers on my face. “Lily, I’ve known you since we were three. I know what ‘fine’ looks like on you, and this isn't it."
I take a sip of coffee, buying time. The liquid burns my tongue. “What did Jenny tell you?”
“That he's back. That Mitchell's receptionist saw him.” Claire pauses. “I remember senior year. How you used to look at him. How devastated you were when?—"
“I was eighteen. We all did stupid things at eighteen.”
“Loving someone isn't stupid.”
I set down my coffee before my shaking hands betray me. “I need to start waking the kids up.”
Claire watches me for another moment, then squeezes my shoulder. “I'm here if you need me. I mean it.”
After she leaves, I stare at the wall until the painted pictures pinned to it blur together.
The last hour of the day is spent cleaning the art stations, while the children chatter, voicing whatever enters their head.
“Butwhycan’t they walk on land?” Aiden wants to know, his four-year-old logic insisting that if whales can jump, then sharks should be able to walk.
I help clean paint off faces and hands, and by the time the last parent picks up their child, my smile feels brittle and thin. The muscles in my cheeks ache from the effort of appearing normal, of being the teacher the children need me to be. I wave goodbye to Jackson and his mom, and watch them walk across the parking lot until they disappear around the corner.
The building empties slowly. Voices fade down hallways. Car engines start. The silence left behind is too loud.
I start my end-of-day routine—straightening tables, organizing Monday’s supplies, and updating parent communication logs. The familiar tasks should be grounding,soothing.
