Page 4 of Ghosts Don't Cry
“It was a long time ago. We were just kids.” I marvel at how detached I sound. How the words dismiss what happened back then as something unimportant to me.
Jenny pours the beads she collected into the sensory bin, then straightens. “I better go back to the office. Are you sure you’re okay?”
I nod, and she hurries away. Probably to share the news with others before class starts, with people who will remember different pieces of a story they think they know. They will speculate and whisper and create their own version of what it means that he’s back.
Why is he back?
I shove the memories of a dark-haired, dark-eyed boy with bruises under his eyes back in the mental box I keep them in.
Giving the room one final check for stray beads, I stop to reach a handful from under my desk. Each one I pick up is cool against my fingers, solid and real. I focus on that instead of the way my chest has gone tight, the lump in my throat, the burning behind my eyes, and the sickly feeling in my stomach. But then my eyes catch on the calendar pinned to the wall.
Seven years.
I’ve spent seven years building a life that has nothing to do with him. College, where I learned how to sleep through the night again. A teaching degree that gave me purpose. This classroom, where I’ve created something meaningful. This version of myself that doesn’t flinch at names, and memories. Who doesn’t wake up crying in the night, or wonder about might-have-beens.
And now …
I shake my head.
Reaching back to press my palm against the small of my back where an ache has already started to settle, I return to the sensory table. My hands are shaking as I pour the remaining beads into the bin. Water sloshes over the edge, soaking my sleeve, and I’m reaching for a paper towel when there’s a knock on the door that makes me jump. Heart in my throat, I turn. But it’s just Claire, another teacher, coffee in hand.
Who did you think it would be?
Steam rises from her mug, and she’s already wearing the paint-stained apron that means she’s been setting up art projects in her own classroom.
“This looks great!” She eyes the ocean theme. “Although … you might want to move that jellyfish mobile higher. Do you remember last month when Tommy tried to jump and grab the planets?”
I laugh, and I’m surprised by hownormalit sounds. It’s scary how easily the teacher slides back into place.
“It’s already on my list. Along with ‘jellyfish don’t actually look like umbrellas,’ thanks to Zack’s marine biologist mom.”
But even as I finish setting up, as parents drop their kids off, as I smile and greet each small face, the knot tightens in my stomach.
“Ms. Gladwin?” Tommy’s mom appears in the doorway, her son’s hand in hers. Concern creases her forehead. “Are you feeling okay? You look pale.”
My hand goes to my cheek. “I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep well.”
“Well, make sure you get some rest this weekend.” She gives me that mom-look, the one that says she’s not entirely convinced.
I nod and smile until she leaves Tommy with me and heads out. Then I have to grip the edge of my desk to steady myself.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter.
I tell myself it’s been seven years.
I tell myself I don’t care.
And in return, my heart tells me I’m a liar.
The morning crawls by in a haze of small hands and big questions. I help Tommy tie his shoelaces three times, my fingers fumbling with loops that should be automatic. I guide Sophie through her fear of touching water beads, though my hands shake as I show her.
“But what if they’re fish eggs, and they hatch while I’m touching them?”
“They’re just plastic, sweetie. See how they bounce?” I drop one into her palm, and watch as her face changes from fear to wonder. It happens so quickly, the way it always does with children.
If only adult healing worked the same way.
I break up two arguments over who gets to wear the sparkly fish hat during dramatic play. I referee a dispute over crayon ownership that escalates to tears before I can redirect their attention with promises of extra art time. I help Zack spell ‘octopus’ for the third time.
