Just Teach: Chapter 8, Anchovies

Angela has been absent all week. I start worrying on Wednesday, but it takes me until Thursday to call her mother and see if she is sick. She picks up after several rings. I explain that I am calling to check up on Angela. I do not expect to hear her say, “Angela, she try to kill herself.”

The words cannot be real. They are euphemism, or hyperbole. An eight year old does not commit suicide. All I can say is, “What?”

“Last Friday she tell me she want to die, and take the knife and threaten to cut herself. I take the knife, lock her in the closet, and call the police.”

I cannot breath. I am not breathing. I am not speaking. So her mother continues, “The police come and they take her to the hospital.”

“Wow, I’m so sorry. Where is she now?”

Angela’s mother tells me the name of the hospital, her ward and room number, the visiting hours. They haven’t told her yet when her child might come home. “For now, we just waiting.” There is acceptance in her voice. Or maybe it is relief. The baby is crying in the background.

The next morning I explain at Morning Meeting that Angela is sick and in the hospital. Her classmates have questions.

“Why did she go?”

“When will she come back?”

“Does she have kidney stones? My grandpa had kidney stones.”

“Can we make her Get Well Soon cards?”

They are very knowledgeable about hospitals.

“Most people go to the hospital to have babies. I bet she will get to see the babies.”

“My brother was in the hospital for like two weeks. They have really good snacks there but only healthy ones.”

“You can get candy sometimes. That’s not healthy.”

There is a vigorous debate about whether or not candy is healthy and if they sell it at the hospital.

We spend an hour of the afternoon writing Get Well Soon cards and reading about the different jobs you can have in hospitals. I am thankful that Mr. Wright and Dr. Moore don’t pop in, although I have a plan of how to spin this as an “integrated literacy lesson” if necessary.

At dismissal Ana pauses before going to meet her father at the corner and says, “I miss Angela.” Angela who pulled her hair at recess just last Tuesday. “Me, too,” I tell her. Angela who dumped every trashcan in the classroom on the floor before dismissal last Friday. Yes, it’s been a quiet week. But it’s eerie. Like Times Square with no lights on.

That afternoon I join the mass Friday Afternoon Exodus and leave just after the kids. I bring a few puzzles, coloring and workbooks, my most prized comic books from the classroom, and the Get Well Soon cards. The hospital is in the city, and more or less on my way home, but I have never been there before. I text Angela’s mother that I am coming. The reply comes instantly. “ok.”

It takes me a while to park, sign in, get a visitor’s pass. I find the psychiatric unit, and am buzzed through the doors without a second consideration by the nurse at the duty desk. There is a living room area with couches and a couple of large screens. Two teenagers are sitting on the couch watching television. Another child, also nearly grown, is sleeping curled in the fetal position in an easy chair. I pass by what appears to be a classroom with a man sitting behind a teacher’s desk and several children working on computers, or reading, or just talking. This must be Hospital School. At the end of the hallway, behind a closed door, someone is screaming.

I wonder what it would take to break her out of this place.

I find Angela in her room, perched on a nest of pillows, watching something on an iPad. At school she fills the room like a thousand gulls, but in contrast to the teenagers in the hallway, in the glare of the fluorescent lights, she is a timid house finch.

Suddenly, I am not sure how she will react to seeing her teacher, emissary from school, the Land of Rules and Conflict. I knock softly.

When Angela sees me, she jumps up from her chair and throws her body on mine with a wringing hug. She looks at me with open eyes that say, Take me with you.

I pry myself from her grasp, and kneel down. “Hey, there! You feeling better?”

“Yeah,” she assures me. “They have ice cream here.”

“That’s cool. I brought you some things.” I show her the books and puzzles. We put one together and talk about what her days are like. “Mostly doctors and teacher people. There are a lot of rules here, too. I don’t like the other kids. One girl just cries. They tell me I can go home when they know I will be safe.”

“Will you? You need to always be safe, Angela.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s the important part. To be safe.”

Do I see a hint of the dark cloud? It has gone.

After a few minutes, Angela’s mother appears in the doorway with a can of soda and a bag of chips.

“My teacher came!” Angela tells her. Her mother looks tired, but manages to smile. Angela retreats to the table by the window with a coloring book and a fresh pack of crayons.

“Thank you for coming,” Mrs. Downs says as she settles into the vinyl armchair. “Angela, she’s doing better. They have her on some medication. She has her therapy every day.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I tell her. “She looks good. How long will she have to stay here? This place is… intense.”

“The doctors won’t tell me, but it better be soon. I been coming every day. They won’t let me bring the baby yet, so I have to leave her with my neighbor.” She perches on the bed and watches her daughter from a safe distance, looking tired. I sympathize with her fatigue. “Well, we miss her at school.” I take out the Get Well Soon cards and cross the room to sit with Angela at the table. “Angela, your friends made you these.” I bring her the stack of construction paper hearts and drawings and we look through the stack together. Cynthia has illustrated a full hospital scene including a girl undergoing some sort of gory surgery with lots of blood and tears. Angela is delighted. “Your friends miss you,” I assure her.

The classroom has been calmer since Angela left. Without the combustible ingredient, our days are less explosive. Sure, Hope and Faith had an argument that nearly came to blows on Monday and spent the afternoon in the principal’s office. Timothy had a nosebleed at recess. The internet shut down for a full day and I had to improvise the math and reading blocks. But without Angela, the volume has been turned down. I almost feel like I could take out my earplugs.

I tell them I have to get home to the family, to walk the dog and make dinner. It’s late, and traffic will be bad on a Friday evening.

“Get well soon,” I wish her, with a final hug.

“You, too,” she tells me, and goes back to watching her iPad.

“Thank you, teacher,” Mrs. Downes says. “We appreciate you coming.”

When I get to the car, I check my texts. I must not have had service in the building. Now the phone blows up. Three are seven missed calls and a string of text messages, all from Mark.

- can’t pick up/ have to work late

- ETA?

- Can you get the kids?

- I can’t

- Home by 7

- Donde estas?

- It’s almost 5:30. Call me if you need me to leave.

- Kids yes????

- where the hell are you

I call him right away.

“Shit, I didn’t get your messages. No service. I’m still at the hospital.”

“What? It’s after 5:30. Pick up ends at 5:45 on Fridays.”

“Where are you? You didn’t say you were working late.”

“I have a six o’clock call with a client on the west coast.”

“Goddamnit.”

“I texted you at 4:30.”

“I didn’t see it.”

“I called you.”

“Whatever. I’m out now. I can get there. I may be late.”

“Why didn’t you pick them up before going to the hospital? You know they hate being the last -”

I hang up. Yes, I know they hate being the last ones at aftercare.

As if I would take my children to a psych ward.

I scoop up Iggy from his school first, right before they close, and get to Louise’s aftercare just before six, all apologies and deference. She is sitting on the bench by the door by herself. She’s the worst sort of quiet pissed. I give Roberta a twenty dollar bill and I don’t tell her to, but I hope to god she pockets it and doesn’t enter the late payment into the computer. This is the fourth time this month.

“Hey, who wants pizza for dinner?” I ask in the car.

Iggy cheers, but Louise says, “Again? We had pizza on Tuesday.”

“Yeah, but everybody loves pizza.”

“Ok, but not Hot and Ready. I want real pizza that doesn’t taste like cardboard.” The sound of a child telling me what to do flips my switch. I want to stop the car and turn around and slap her. I hate that I have raised a spoiled child. I want to scream, At least you are getting pizza, you little wench! At least I picked you up at all. Do you know how many children your age aren’t eating tonight? Do you know that Ana’s mother is all the way back in El Salvador? Do you know that Angela has to eat whatever arrives on her tray? But my poor parenting, so far, stops at neglect.

I call the new woodfired place down the street from us on the way home and pay a criminal price for two large pies, one double cheese and one with olives, mushrooms and anchovies.

Mark hates anchovies.