The Good Mum. Cathryn Parry
CHAPTER THREE
“BRANDON, HURRY UP, we’re going to be late!”
If there was one thing Ashley could take heart in, early on this Friday school morning, it was that her almost-thirteen-year-old son wasn’t in the bathroom preening. There were no girls in his classes at St. Bartholomew’s, unlike in his public school. He seemed to be taking that fact in stride, though. Sometimes nothing appeared to faze her happy-go-lucky kid.
She found him in his bedroom, typing swiftly into his smartphone. He kept a social media account that Ashley monitored as best she could. He shared photos mainly. And his friends commented, in their weird kid-speak that was totally different from the kid-speak that Ashley and her friends had used too many years ago.
She put her hand on her hip. “Brandon, we need to go.”
“Okay.” He gave her the lopsided grin that was already slaying female hearts from the North Shore to the Cape—wherever the Sunshine Club donation appeals were broadcast.
Thankfully, though, her scary-smart kid still liked school. Ashley had been a middling student—not like her reclusive genius of a younger sister.
But Brandon was neither reclusive nor middling. No, he’d gotten the best of the LaValley family genes—not that that was saying much. It was as if they’d saved up all the good ones for this amazing kid. God, she was lucky.
Brandon grabbed his backpack. His blazer was looped through the top—it was still warm outside—but every day this week she’d watched as he’d put it on, looking natty, as he entered the school archway.
With a bottle of juice in his hand, he said to her, “You don’t have to walk with me.”
They’d been through this. “I know I don’t have to most days,” she said, “but today I need to.”
He cocked his head. “That note is probably no big deal.”
He was referring to the letter that the school had sent home, requesting Ashley’s presence at a meeting in the headmaster’s office this morning. “It’s standard, Mom,” Brandon had already explained. “In schools like this, they send notes to parents all the time. All my friends probably got them, too.”
Frankly, she trusted his judgment when it came to St. Bartholomew’s more than her own. He’d been there a week already, and he came home happier each day.
“I’ll see the headmaster and find out what he has to say,” she told him.
“I know I’m doing well in my English class. There are, like, these kids in my class, they’re from Mexico and Korea, and their English isn’t that great yet.”
“That’s a long way from home,” she remarked.
“It is. I wouldn’t want to be them. I’m only a few miles from home. I can still see my old friends on weekends.”
“True,” she murmured, grabbing her purse from the closet she kept it locked in. Old habits. Their previous apartment had been broken into twice, and she’d learned not to leave her valuables out where thieves could see them. Then she motioned Brandon toward their front door and locked it behind them.
“So, what does the headmaster do when he wants to talk to your Korean friend’s parent?” she asked as they headed toward the street.
“Cho,” Brandon said. “His name is Cho.” He ran his hand through his shaggy bangs.
“Okay, Cho. What happens? Do they get his parents on a video call? Or send them an email?”
“Cho’s father uses an interpreter from their embassy. I think he’s an ambassador, with an office down in Washington. Or something like that.”
Not for the first time Ashley marveled at the company her son was keeping. It made her heart swell. She felt weepy with all the opportunities he was getting.
“So this is just a normal check-in with parents,” she repeated, for probably the tenth time, wishing she had more experience with private schools.
“Don’t be nervous, Mom.” Brandon shot her a grin. “We’re good.”
“Right.” She nodded, averting her gaze as they walked past the package store that had made her so nervous yesterday. “Good.”
Brandon reached in his backpack to put on his earphones and music, but she grabbed his hand. “Can we just talk, please? It’s only a few more feet to walk with your mom.” She smiled as easily as she could. “Humor me.”
He rolled his eyes in mock good humor. “We’re okay, Mom.” And then he added something she hadn’t heard before. “If something was really bad, they would have called Mrs. Sharpe.”
Vivian Sharpe? She eyed her precocious son. “Why would they call her? She’s not your mother.”
He smiled faintly. “Nope. You are. And everybody knows it.” Then he took out his smartphone and skimmed through it. Ashley said nothing because it was what all his friends did.
But his comment still bothered her.
“Has Vivian Sharpe contacted you lately?” she asked.
“No, Mom. You know she hasn’t.”
Okay. She shouldn’t worry, then. Maybe she should make a pact with herself to stop worrying.
They fell into an easy pace while she shook off the bad feeling and tried not to worry any longer. This early in the morning, the streets weren’t very busy. Brandon scrolled with his thumb while he walked, one eye on the screen in front of him, one eye on the street.
When they got to the school, Brandon paused and glanced up at her. For a moment, he was her little boy again, instead of this more complicated preteen. Still skinny, with a smattering of acne across his nose, he leaned over and gave her a hug.
“I love you, Mommy,” he whispered. Her heart lodged in her throat, and she felt close to tears, wanting to hold on to this moment, wishing it could last longer than it did.
And just as quickly, they were walking on. Up the stone steps, passing a group of four men who seemed to be teachers. They greeted Brandon warmly. One of them—Dr. Prosser—the English teacher—directed her to the corridor where the headmaster’s office was located. Ashley hadn’t been inside since Brandon’s admittance interviews last spring.
The receptionist looked up as Ashley entered. Glancing over the top of her eyeglasses, she, too, smiled warmly.
See, nothing to worry about, she told herself. All these nice people cared about her son’s welfare. So why was she so jittery?
She sat, folding her hands and placing her purse on her lap. For the millionth time, she wished her sister was here. This was Lisbeth’s world, not hers. But it couldn’t be helped. Ashley would have to handle this alone.
* * *
AIDAN WASN’T EXACTLY sure what he was doing, standing with his grandmother outside the dining hall at St. Bartholomew’s. Curiosity, maybe? Secretly hoping for a glimpse of Ashley, his pretty hairstylist?
He must be nuts. He should be back at his condo, getting it ready for a quick sale.
Ding! Another text message hit his inbox. He glanced at his smartphone.
We would like to call on Saturday. What time is good? the message from Albert Sanborne read.
Saturday was tomorrow. And Gram was right; he needed to deal with this.
Noon, Aidan typed back.
There, it was done. One more step in moving on.
He glanced up and realized that his grandmother was moving on, too, doggedly forging ahead with her cane. He saw that she was having difficulty with the uneven stone floor, so he jogged ahead and gave her his elbow, helping her walk past the open doors