A Different Kind of Summer. Caron Todd
anything!” His carrot broke, sending the tomato wedge across his plate. “She wants to see you.”
Gwyn stopped eating. “Did she say why?”
“Nope.” He stood up and dug around in his pockets, then handed Gwyn a crumpled envelope. She slipped a finger under the flap and tore. The paper had been folded neatly to begin with, but Chris’s pocket had added lots of wrinkles.
Dear Mrs. Sinclair,
Do you have time for a quick chat tomorrow? Before school, during recess in the morning or afternoon, at lunch hour or after school all work for me. Please call.
Five options. The only way Ms. Gibson could have made a parent-teacher meeting sound more urgent would have been to show up on the doorstep. Gwyn was off work the next day, so any of the times would suit her. She could walk to school with Chris and meet with the teacher before afternoon classes.
“Does she say why in there?” Chris asked.
“Not even a hint.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong. Least I don’t think so. Other than not dancing. Elliott danced but he kept kicking Drew on purpose. That’s worse, isn’t it?”
“Maybe she wants to tell me about something you did right.”
Chris looked surprised at the possibility. “I don’t think I did anything right, either.”
CHAPTER FOUR
GWYN BACKED INTO the child-size seat her son’s teacher offered. Her knees wouldn’t fit under the table, so she sat sideways, hands folded on her lap.
Across the table Ms. Gibson arranged a file folder, a piece of paper and a pen. She gave a bright, cool smile. “What a day! And it’s only half over.”
Gwyn smiled back cautiously. “Busy?”
“It’s an energetic group. Don’t misunderstand me—we like that! Energy is good. But with end of the year excitement added, and all our special activities, some of the children get a little out of hand.”
Gwyn wondered if Chris had got out of hand. It was hard to imagine.
“Of course, we don’t need to worry about that with Christopher. He’s a very serious little boy.” She paused for an unamused smile. “I’m concerned about that swelling on his arm. A mosquito bite, he says.”
He says? Didn’t she believe him? “It’s infected. I’ve started using an antibacterial ointment. It should clear up quickly.”
“That’s good to hear.” Ms. Gibson moved one corner of the paper an inch to the side, then back again. She looked up with an expression of polite inquiry. “Is everything all right at home?”
The nervous fluttering in Gwyn’s stomach, active since she’d arrived at the school, intensified. “I think so.”
“Chris seems tightly wound lately. More than usual.”
More than usual. He always had something on his mind. Did that mean he was always tightly wound? More than the other kids? Enough that it was a problem? “He’s never been a lighthearted child. That’s just the way he is. Right now he’s worried about the weather.”
“Climate change,” the teacher said. Her tone reminded Gwyn of a television psychiatrist or detective, skeptical, leaving the door open for the truth. She turned the folder in front of her around so Gwyn could see it upside up, and spread out the papers it held. Drawing after drawing of Earth, seen from space. “This is how he’s spending his time. He hasn’t even been interested in playing at recess.”
Gwyn pulled the file closer. Chris liked drawing planets and rocket ships at home, but there were at least fifty pictures here, all the same. An uneven circle, an approximation of the continents, blue water, green land. “There’s no white for ice.”
“I don’t think this is about ice.”
“He didn’t tell you he’s afraid there’s going to be an ice age?” Gwyn explained about the movie again, feeling even guiltier this time. “Then he saw a video at the museum about the continents moving and changing over aeons. He didn’t like it—the idea that things haven’t always been the same.”
“Children need security. Consistency.”
Gwyn nodded, but her uneasiness grew. “He told me he was avoiding doing some of the lessons.”
“That isn’t my main concern. The term is nearly over but we have next year to consider. We want Chris to have a good start in the fall.” They both watched Ms. Gibson’s pencil tap one of the drawings. “I know you’re a single mother.”
Gwyn tensed at the teacher’s tone. “I’m raising my son alone.”
“Yes,” Ms. Gibson agreed. She smiled. “It must be very difficult.”
“Raising a child can be difficult for anyone.”
The teacher nodded. She kept nodding, with a concerned frown, biting her lip thoughtfully. Then she made her point. “I wonder…if you might be relying on Chris a bit too much?”
“Relying?”
“Without another adult in the house to share the responsibility. Maybe you lean on your son. It happens.”
Gwyn hadn’t realized she’d stood up until the teacher did, too. “It doesn’t happen in my house.”
“Mrs. Sinclair, I only want to help.”
Gwyn tried counting to ten, but she didn’t get further than three. “I’ll tell Chris to dance when you want him to dance and color when you want him to color. But the next time you want to discuss what’s going on with him, don’t call me in here and then presume to tell me about us. You don’t know anything about us.”
“I understand this is tough, but we need to think about Chris’s best interests.”
“We?” It was all Gwyn could say. The past six years crowded to the front of her mind. Ms. Gibson wasn’t anywhere in them. Not when Chris was born, not when he cried with colic, not when he took his first steps or read his first words or suffered through chicken pox or cut his head on the banister and needed stitches. Not when he blew out birthday candles, either, and not when his face lit with wonder at finding a full stocking on Christmas morning.
Her anger began to fade. Ms. Gibson hadn’t imagined the problem. Hadn’t caused it, either. “I appreciate your concern for Chris. You’re right, he is tightly wound.” At the moment, so was she. She had to stop and catch her breath. “Other than that, you’re completely wrong. You need to learn not to jump to conclusions about people.”
“Then let’s discuss what you think the—”
“Thank you, Ms. Gibson, but I’ll take care of my son.”
THOSE LAST ANGRY WORDS followed Gwyn out of the school and down the sidewalk. In the middle of the night with an hours-old baby sleeping in the cot beside her bed she’d whispered that promise. I’ll take care of you, sweetheart.
She would have been lost without Iris. Iris had known the significance of the car in the driveway and the uniformed officers who’d come to the door. Before that day they’d been polite neighbors; after, firm friends. Iris had helped get the nursery ready and driven her to the hospital when the labor pains began, did the laundry, rocked the baby so Gwyn could get some sleep.
But Gwyn had found her balance. Learned how to get through the days and nights. How to take care of this whole new mysterious human. How to make room for aching, bursting love when she was already full of gnawing grief.
Lean on Chris? On a five-year-old? Rely on him for what?
There was that comment in Johansson’s about running out of money. He’d looked worried then. She’d have to be careful about that sort of thing—thinking out loud, especially about ideas