Текст книги "On the island"

Автор книги: Tracey garvis graves

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Chapter 52 – T.J.

My mom was sitting in the living room drinking coffee when I walked in the door at 9:00 a.m. on New Year’s Day.

“Hey Mom. Happy New Year.” I hugged her and sat down. “I stayed at Anna’s last night.”

“I thought you might.”

“Should I have called?” Other than going out with Ben, or to the appointments my mom had scheduled, I’d spent every minute since I got home with my family. I knew they’d understand my wanting to see Anna, but it hadn’t occurred to me to let anyone know I was going to be out all night.

“It would be nice if you did. Then I wouldn’t worry.”

Shit. I wondered how many sleepless nights she’d had in the last three-and-a-half years, and I felt like an even bigger asshole for not calling. “I’m sorry Mom. I wasn’t thinking. I’ll call next time.”

“Do you want some coffee? I can make you breakfast.”

“No thanks. I ate at Anna’s.” We sat in silence for a minute. “You haven’t said anything about me and Anna, Mom. How you feel about it?”

My mom shook her head. “It’s not what I would have chosen, T.J. No mother would. But I understand what it must have been like for the two of you on the island. It would be hard not to form a bond with someone under those circumstances.”

“She’s a great girl.”

“I know she is. We wouldn’t have hired her if we didn’t think so.” My mom set her coffee cup down on the table. “When your plane went down, part of me died, T.J. I felt like it was my fault. I knew how angry you were about spending the summer away from home, and I didn’t care. I told your dad we needed to vacation somewhere far away so you’d concentrate on your schoolwork, without any distraction. That was partly true. But mostly it was because I knew when we got home I’d lose you to your friends. You were finally healthy and you wanted nothing more than to go back to the way things were before you got sick. I was selfish, though. I just wanted to spend the summer with my son.” My mom’s eyes filled with tears. “You’re an adult now, T.J. You’ve been through more in your first twenty years than most people endure in a lifetime. Your relationship with Anna is not something I’m going to fight. Now that I have you back I just want you to be happy.”

I noticed for the first time how worn out my mom looked. She was forty-five but a stranger would probably guess her age as ten years older. “Thanks for being cool about it, Mom. She’s important to me.”

“I know she is. But you and Anna are at very different stages in your lives. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“I won’t.” I kissed my mom on the cheek and went to my room. I stretched out on my bed and thought about Anna, pushing everything my mom said about different stages right out of my head.

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Chapter 53 – Anna

T.J. and I rode the elevator to his parents’ apartment on the twelfth floor. “Do not touch me. Do not even look at me inappropriately,” I warned him.

“Can I think super dirty thoughts about you?”

I shook my head. “That’s not helping. Oh, I feel sick.”

“My mom’s cool. I told you what she said about us. Just relax.”

Tom Callahan had called Sarah’s cell phone on New Year’s Day. When the name showed up on the caller ID, I thought it was T.J., but when I said hello, Tom greeted me and asked if I’d like to come over for dinner the next night.

“Jane and I have a few things to discuss with you.”

Please don’t let one of them be that I slept with your son.

”Sure, Tom. What time?”

“T.J. said he’d pick you up at 6:00.”

“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

I spent the twenty-four hours since Tom’s call feeling like I was about to throw up. I couldn’t decide whether to bring Jane flowers or a candle, so I brought both. Now, in the elevator, my nervousness threatened to overtake me. I handed the gift bag and bouquet to T.J. and wiped my damp palms on my skirt.

The elevator doors opened. T.J. kissed me and said, “It’ll be fine.”

I took a deep breath and followed him.

The Callahan’s Lake Shore Drive apartment was tastefully decorated in shades of beige and cream. A baby grand piano sat at an angle in a corner of the vast living room and Impressionist paintings hung on the walls. The plush couch, loveseat, and matching chairs – piled high with tasseled pillows – surrounded a large, ornate coffee table.

Tom poured pre-dinner drinks in the library. I sat in a leather club chair holding a glass of red wine. T.J. sat in the chair next to me. Tom and Jane were across from us on a loveseat, Jane sipping a glass of white wine and Tom drinking something that looked like scotch.

“Thank you for inviting me here,” I said. “Your home is beautiful.”

“Thank you for coming, Anna,” Jane said.

Everyone took a drink. Silence filled the room.

T.J. – the only relaxed person there – took a swig from the beer he’d helped himself to and draped an arm over the back of my chair.

“The media have asked if you and T.J. would be willing to hold a press conference,” Tom said. “In exchange, they’ll stop bothering you.”

“What do you think, Anna?” T.J. asked.

The idea filled me with dread but I was tired of fighting my way past the reporters. Maybe if we answered their questions, they’d leave us alone.

“Would it be televised?” I asked.

“No. I’ve already told them it would have to be a closed press conference. They’ll hold it at the news station, but they won’t broadcast it.”

“If the reporters agree to back off, I’ll do it.”

“So will I,” T.J. said.

“I’ll set it up,” Tom said. “There’s something else, Anna. T.J. already knows this but I’ve been on the phone with the attorney for the seaplane charter. Because the death of the pilot caused the crash but the supplier of the life raft didn’t provide the Coast Guard-mandated emergency beacon, there’s comparative fault. Both parties are considered negligent. Aviation litigation is very complex and the courts will have to determine the percentage of liability. These cases can drag on for years. However, the seaplane charter would like to settle with you both and then subrogate against the other party. In exchange, you’ll agree not to file a lawsuit.”

My head spun. I hadn’t thought about negligence or lawsuits. “I don’t know what to say. I wouldn’t have sued anyway.”

“Then I suggest you settle. There won’t be any trial. You may need to give a deposition, but you can do that here in Chicago. Since you were in my employ when the crash occurred, my attorney can handle the negotiations for you.”

“Yes. That would be fine.”

“It will probably take several months, or more, before it’s finalized.”

“Okay, Tom.”

Alexis and Grace joined us for dinner. Everyone had relaxed considerably by the time we sat down at the dining room table, helped in part by the second round of drinks we all said we didn’t want but drank anyway.

Jane served beef tenderloin, roasted vegetables, and au gratin potatoes. Alexis and Grace snuck looks at me and smiled. I helped Jane clear the table and serve a warm apple tart and ice cream for dessert.

When we got ready to leave, Tom handed me an envelope.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a check. We still owe you for the tutoring.”

“You don’t owe me anything. I didn’t do my job.” I tried to give the envelope back to him.

Gently, he pushed my hand away. “Jane and I insist.”

“Tom, please.”

“Just take it, Anna. It will make us happy.”

“Okay.” I slid the envelope into my purse.

“Thank you for everything,” I said to Jane.

I looked her in the eye and she met my gaze. Not many mothers would welcome their son’s much older girlfriend into their home so graciously and we both knew it.

“You’re welcome, Anna. Come again sometime.”

T.J. took me in his arms as soon as the elevator doors closed. I exhaled and rested my head on his chest. “Your parents are wonderful.”

“I told you they were cool.”

They were also generous. Because later that night, when I opened the envelope they’d given me, I pulled out a check for twenty-five thousand dollars.

***

The press conference was scheduled to begin at two o’clock. Tom and Jane Callahan stood off to the side, Tom holding a small video camera in his hand, the only one allowed to tape anything.

“I know what they’re going to ask,” I said.

“You don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to,” T.J. reminded me.

We sat at a long table facing a sea of reporters. I tapped my right foot up and down and T.J. leaned over and pressed down gently on my thigh. He knew better than to leave his hand there for very long.

Someone had taped a large map on the wall showing an aerial view of the twenty-six atolls of the Maldives. A public relations representative for the news channel, assigned to moderate the press conference, began by explaining to the reporters that the island T.J. and I lived on was uninhabited and likely sustained significant damage due to the tsunami. She used a laser pointer and identified the island of Malé as our starting point. “This was their destination,” she said, pointing to another island. “Because the pilot suffered a heart attack, the plane crash-landed somewhere in between.”

The first question came from a reporter standing in the back row. He had to shout so we could hear him.

“What went through your minds when you realized the pilot was having a heart attack?”

I leaned forward and spoke into the microphone. “We were scared he would die and worried that he wouldn’t be able to land the plane.”

“Did you try to help him?” another reporter asked.

“Anna did,” T.J. said. “The pilot asked us to put on life jackets and go back to our seats and buckle in. When he slumped over, Anna unbuckled and went forward to start CPR.”

“How long were you in the ocean before you made it to the island?”

T.J. answered that question. “I’m not sure. The sun set about an hour after we crashed and it came up after we made it to shore.”

We answered questions for the next hour. They asked us about everything from how we fed ourselves to what kind of shelter we built. We told them about T.J.’s broken collarbone and the illness that almost killed him. We described the storms and explained how the dolphins saved T.J. from the shark. We talked about the tsunami and our reunion at the hospital. They seemed genuinely in awe of the hardships we faced, and I relaxed a little.

Then a reporter in the front row, a middle-aged woman with a scowl on her face asked, “What kind of physical relationship did you have on the island?”

“That’s irrelevant,” I answered.

“Are you aware of the age of consent in the state of Illinois?” she asked.

I didn’t point out that the island wasn’t in Illinois. “Of course I am.” In case not everyone knew, she decided to enlighten them.

“The age of consent in Illinois is seventeen, unless the relationship involves a person of authority such as a teacher. Then the age is raised to eighteen.”

“No laws were broken,” T.J. said.

“Sometimes victims are coerced into lying,” the reporter countered. “Especially if the abuse occurred early on.”

“There was no abuse,” T.J. said.

She addressed me directly with her next question.

“How do you think Chicago taxpayers will feel about paying the salary of a teacher suspected of sexual misconduct toward a student?”

“There wasn’t any sexual misconduct,” T.J. yelled. “What part of this are you not getting?”

Though I knew they would ask about our relationship, I never considered the possibility that they’d accuse us of lying about it, or think I somehow forced myself on T.J. The seed of doubt the reporter planted would undoubtedly multiply, fed by rumors and speculation. Everyone that read our story would question my actions and my integrity. At the very least, it might be difficult to find a school district willing to take a chance on me, effectively ending my career as a teacher.

When my brain finished processing what her questioning had done, I barely had enough time to scrape my chair back and run for the women’s restroom. I flung open the door of a stall and leaned over the toilet. I’d been unable to eat before the press conference and my empty stomach dry-heaved but nothing came up. Someone opened the door.

“I’m okay, T.J. I’ll be out in minute.”

“It’s me, Anna,” a female voice said.

I came out of the stall. Jane Callahan was standing there. She opened her arms to me and it was so like something my own mom would have done that I threw myself into them and burst into tears. When I stopped crying, Jane handed me a tissue and said, “The media sensationalizes everything. I think some of the general public will see through it.”

I wiped my eyes. “I hope so.”

T.J. and Tom were waiting for us when we walked out of the restroom. T.J. led me to a chair and sat down beside me.

“Are you okay?” He put his arm around me, and I rested my head on his shoulder.

“I’m better now.”

“It’ll all work out, Anna.”

“Maybe,” I said. Or maybe not.

The next morning, I read the newspaper coverage of the press conference. It wasn’t as bad as I’d expected, but it wasn’t good either. The article didn’t question my teaching ability, but it echoed some of the points the reporter made about the likelihood of a school district agreeing to hire me. I handed it to Sarah when she walked into the room. She read it and made a disgusted noise.

“What are you going to do?” Sarah asked.

“I’m going to talk to Ken.”

Ken Tomlinson had been my principal for six years. A thirty-year veteran of the Illinois public school system, his dedication to the students and his support of the teachers made him one of the most respected men in the district. He didn’t spend a lot of time worrying about things that didn’t matter, and he told the best off-color jokes I’d ever heard.

I stuck my head into his office a little after 7:00 a.m. a few days after the press conference. He pushed his chair back and met me at the door.

“Kiddo, you don’t know how happy I am to see you.” He hugged me. “Welcome home.”

“I got your message on Sarah’s answering machine. Thanks for calling.”

“I wanted you to know we were all thinking about you. I figured it might be a little while before you could make it in.” He sat down behind his desk and I sat in a chair across from him. “I think I know why you’re here now.”

“Have you had any calls?”

He nodded. “A few. Some parents wanted to know if you’d be returning to the school. I wanted to tell them what I really thought about their supposed concerns, but I couldn’t.”

“I know, Ken.”

“I’d love to give you your old job back, but I hired someone two months after your plane went down, when we’d all lost hope of you ever being found.”

“I understand. I’m not ready to go back to work yet anyway.”

Ken leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on the desk. “People want to make things into something they’re not. It’s human nature. Lay low for a while. Let it blow over.”

“I would never do anything to harm a student, Ken.”

“I know that, Anna. I never doubted you for a minute.” He came out from behind the desk and said, “You’re a good teacher. Don’t let anyone tell you you’re not.”

The halls would fill with teachers and students soon, and I wanted to slip out unnoticed. I stood up and said, “Thanks, Ken. That means a lot to me.”

“Come back again, Anna. We’d all like to spend some time with you.”

“I’ll do that.”

***

The details of the press conference spread like wildfire and it didn’t take long for our story to reach a worldwide audience. Unfortunately, most of the information was incorrect, embellished, and not even close to the truth.

Everyone had an opinion about my actions, and they discussed and debated my relationship with T.J. in chat rooms and on message boards. I provided many late night talk show hosts with monologue material, and I was the punch line of so many jokes that I stopped watching television altogether, preferring the solitude and comfort of the music and books I missed so much on the island.

T.J. took his share of ridicule, too. They laughed about his tenth grade education but said that maybe it didn’t matter considering the other things he must surely have learned from me.

I didn’t want to go out in public, worried that people would stare. “Did you know you can buy almost everything you need on the Internet?” I was sitting on the couch next to T.J., typing on Sarah’s laptop. “They’ll ship it right to your doorstep. I may never leave the house again.”

“You can’t hide forever, Anna,” T.J. said.

I typed ‘bedroom furniture’ into the Google search box and hit enter. “Wanna bet?”

The insomnia started a few weeks later. First, I had trouble falling asleep. With Sarah’s blessing, T.J. spent the night often, and I’d listen to his soft breathing, but I couldn’t relax. Then, even if I managed to fall asleep, I’d wake up at two or three in the morning and lay there until the sun came up. I had frequent nightmares, usually about drowning, and I’d wake up drenched in sweat. T.J. said I often cried out in the middle of the night.

“Maybe you should go back to the doctor, Anna.”

Exhausted and fraying, I agreed.

“Acute stress disorder,” my doctor said a few days later. “This is actually very common, Anna, especially in women. Traumatic events often trigger delayed onset insomnia and anxiety.”

“How is it treated?”

“Usually with a combination of cognitive behavioral therapy and drugs. Some patients get relief from a low dose antidepressant. I could prescribe something to help you sleep.”

I had friends who had taken antidepressants and sleeping pills and they’d complained about side effects. “I’d rather not take anything if I can help it.”

“Would you consider seeing a therapist?”

I was ready to try anything if it meant getting a full night’s sleep. “Why not?”

I made an appointment with a therapist I found in the yellow pages. Her office was in an old brick building with a crumbling front step. I checked in with the receptionist, and the therapist opened the door to the waiting room and called my name five minutes later. She had a warm smile and a firm handshake. I guessed her to be in her late forties.

“I’m Rosemary Miller.”

“Anna Emerson. Nice to meet you.”

“Please have a seat.” She pointed at a couch and sat in a chair across from me, handing me one of her business cards. A lamp burned brightly on a low table next to the couch. A potted ficus tree stood near the window. Boxes of Kleenex were scattered on every available surface.

“I’ve followed your story in the news. I’m not surprised to see you here.”

“I’ve been suffering from insomnia and anxiety. My doctor suggested I try therapy.”

“What you’re experiencing is very common, given the trauma you suffered. Have you ever seen a therapist before?”

“No.”

“I’d like to start by taking a full patient history.”

“Okay.”

She droned on for forty-five minutes, asking me questions about my parents and Sarah and my relationships with them. She asked about my prior relationships with men and when I told her the bare minimum about John, she probed further, asking me to go into more detail. I fidgeted uncomfortably, wondering when we were going to get to the part where she fixed my insomnia.

“I may want to revisit some of your patient history in the coming weeks. Now I’d like to discuss your sleep habits.”

Finally.

”I can’t fall asleep or stay asleep. I’m having nightmares.”

“What are the nightmares about?”

“Drowning. Sharks. Sometimes the tsunami. Usually there’s water.”

Someone knocked on the door and she glanced at her watch.

“I’m sorry. We’re out of time.”

You have got to be kidding me.

”Next week we can start some cognitive therapy exercises.”

At the rate we were going, I might not get a good night’s sleep for months. She shook my hand and walked me to the lobby. Once outside, I dropped her business card in a garbage can.

T.J. and Sarah were sitting in the living room when I got home. I plopped down on T.J.’s lap.

“How did it go?” T.J. asked

“I don’t think I’m a therapy person.”

“Sometimes it takes a while to find a good one,” Sarah said.

“I don’t think she’s a bad therapist. There’s just something else I want to try. If it doesn’t work, I’ll go back.”

I left the room and returned a few minutes later, dressed in running tights and a long sleeved T-shirt layered under a sweatshirt and nylon windbreaker. I pulled on a hat and sat down on the couch to lace up my Nikes.

“What are you doing?” T.J. asked.

“I’m going for a run.”

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