Drenched in Light (33 page)

“Well, maybe not all of us do, Peter Pan, but for me it was time.” I focused on Mr. Beaman’s computer and the lesson plans. “Change of seasons, you know—a time to dance, a time to move on. It was time for me to move on. I’m OK with it.” And for the first time, I could tell that I really was. Somewhere between passing out on the dressing room floor and showing Keiler the algebra lesson plans, I had grown up and found myself.

It was a good feeling.

“I can see that about you. You’re really solid about who you are.” When I looked up, he was smiling slightly. “It shows.”

I found myself smiling in return—from the inside out. It was the most affirming thing anyone had ever said to me. No compliment about my dancing, or my looks, or a performance in some show could have equaled it.

B
y Thursday, I no longer had a handle on the meaning of life, and I was beginning to wonder if school administration was for me. Stafford was still out with the flu. Dr. Lee and Mr. Fortier were busy covering for sick teachers at the high school, attending yearly budget meetings at the central office, and dealing with the fact that the campus maintenance supervisor was out sick for the first time in twelve years. Most of the maintenance crew spoke only Spanish.

At the middle school, things were piling up on Stafford’s desk, and I seemed to be the only one available to handle matters that couldn’t wait. My days were a blur of minor discipline issues, building tours with prospective parents, a plumbing meltdown in the B Hall boys’ restroom, and a health department inspection of the cafeteria. They said, of course, that we needed to get rid of the ladybugs.

I’d had absolutely no time to tutor Dell. She’d managed a “B” on Monday’s science test, the English exam grade wasn’t back yet, and she still had upcoming nine-week tests in math, history, and music theory, as well as chapter quizzes on
The Grapes of Wrath
. Fortunately, Keiler had stepped in to take up the slack. He’d managed to enlist the help of my hapless office assistant, Barry, who was good in English and writing. After the initial shock of having to actually speak to a girl, Barry had begun to strike up a friendship with Dell. I saw them walking down the hall together on Thursday afternoon, laughing and talking, oblivious to the crush of students around them.

As they passed, Dell pulled some papers from her notebook and waved them in the air. “Mrs. Morris finally graded the English tests.” Propping her chin on top of the paper, she blinked at me, trying to keep a straight face to build the suspense. “I passed. I made a ‘B,’ ” she blurted, waiting for me to read Mrs. Morris’s grudging 80.5 at the bottom of the paper. “Minus, but it’s still a ‘B.’ ”

“Fan-tastic!” I wanted to grab her and give her a bear hug. We had been on pins and needles all week, waiting for the English grade. Mrs. Morris checked tests on Wednesday afternoons, and could not, of course, be bothered to make an exception. “So, a ‘B’ on the science test and a ‘B’ on the English test. Not a bad way to end the grading period, right?”

Blushing at the compliment, she lowered the paper and ducked her head. “Well, I still have nine-week tests in history and math.”

“But she’s good in math,” Barry piped up, nodding vigorously in support of his new best friend. “And Keiler . . . errr . . . Mr. Bradford’s helping her with history. They’ve been doing a unit on Indians, and, shoot, she’s part Indian. That ought to count for something.”

I chuckled. “I don’t think you get extra credit for being part Native American. But it is kind of neat to study something that’s connected to your own history.”

Dell’s brows drew together when I said “neat” in reference to her Choctaw heritage. “I don’t think this unit’s very interesting,” she commented blandly.

“Gosh, I wish I was part Indian,” Barry interjected with a hopeful smile. Dell’s crossed her arms conveyed her skepticism, and he added, “Really. I think it would be cool.”

Her surprise was obvious. Somebody actually thought she was cool. I had the urge to plant a kiss atop Barry’s chubby little head. If there was anyone, anywhere, qualified to be a one-man admiration society for someone who needed it, it was Barry.

“See,” I said, leaning closer to Dell. “It’s cool.”

“I guess.”

“But you are studying the material, right?” I pressed. “It’s not going to study itself, and you need to pass your nine-week test in history.”

“Oh, she’s studying.” Barry to the rescue, again. “Keiler and I helped her make an outline at lunch yesterday, and then today we went over it, and . . .”

The phone in my office rang, and I tuned out momentarily as Barry ran through a litany of Dell’s study plan, while she stood patiently watching him. Only a person as quiet as Dell could tolerate someone who talked as much as Barry did when he was excited.

“That sounds good,” I replied. The phone was on its third ring. “You two head on to class. I’d better answer that.” Stepping back through the door, I caught Dell’s eye and gave her English paper a thumbs-up.

Smiling, she waved it at me, then turned and headed off with Barry, who had started talking again. There was a lightness in her step that, in the past, I had seen only at Jumpkids. She moved down the hall with her shoulders back and her hair swinging in a ponytail, whisking back and forth. By his locker, Cameron stopped to take notice. My phone rang a fourth time, but I hung in the doorway, watching as Barry and Dell had passed Cameron’s locker. If he said anything to spoil their moment, I was going to forget the phone, launch myself down the hall, and release some stress in his direction. All week long, he’d been showing up for school in Sebastian’s car, tardy half of the time, overly mellow and smelling heavily of cologne, which was probably a cover for the smoky-sweet scent of marijuana. By noon, he looked like a sidewalk bum with a hangover, and he couldn’t stay awake in class. He didn’t want to talk about it, and the way the week was going, I didn’t have time to pursue him. As soon as he switched back to his dad’s house, which would hopefully mean that he would arrive at school sober, I was going to call him in and at least try to get through to him, perhaps with Keiler’s help. Cameron was one of his algebra students, and they seemed to be hitting it off. Two days in a row, I’d passed by Keiler’s classroom on my way to after-school door duty, and seen Keiler demonstrating guitar licks to several kids, including Cameron.

Dell and Barry passed Cameron’s locker without incident, and I dashed into my office, grabbing the phone from the wrong side of the desk, hoping it was Sergeant Reuper from the drug prevention task force. I’d put in calls twice this week, and so far he hadn’t been in touch. I’d begun constructing a conspiracy theory in which Sergeant Reuper was dodging me because he knew that Harrington students were going to be caught in the stakeout of the taco stands, and he was afraid I would question him about it.

The voice on the other end of the line was a woman’s. “Hello, Ms. Costell? This is Twana Stevens, with social services down in Hindsville. I’m Dell Jordan’s caseworker. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

A myriad of reasons for the call ran through my mind, none of them good. “Yes . . . uhhh . . . yes, of course. What can I do for you?” Sidestepping around my desk, I slid into my chair.

Her words seemed carefully phrased. “Brother Baker at the Baptist church here mentioned that Dell might have shared with you some information about her father?” She paused, perhaps waiting to see if I would jump into the conversation, then went on. “I don’t know to what extent you’re aware of Dell’s background or home situation. . . .”

The sentence trailed off, and I felt obliged to interject, “She has told me some things about it, and there are various reports in her file.” I stopped there, unsure of where the conversation was going, or how much I should reveal. Perhaps this woman, this voice on the other end of the phone, could unlock the secrets to Dell’s history. “She is preoccupied with the question of her father’s identity, as anyone in her situation would be.” The irony of that statement struck me. “I think it’s hard for her to move on with those issues unanswered.”

She replied with another question. “But she hasn’t given you any information about her father—maybe his last known whereabouts, a middle name—anything like that?”

The inquiry made me wonder if Dell really talked to her social worker, or if they just sat in a room looking at each other. “As far as I can cipher, she knows almost nothing about her father’s identity, but there may be things she isn’t telling me. Her file says that her father is part or all Choctaw Indian, and she seems to be aware of that segment of her heritage. She’s resistant to discussing most things face-to-face, but she has been journaling some things about her life. All she’s mentioned so far are some vague suppositions about a man her mother dated—someone with long dark hair. I guess that doesn’t ring any bells?”

“None. I’ve only been on the job here for three years. Our dealings with the family during that time have been the usual game of hide-and-seek. As kids grow older, they become adept at playing the game. They see us as the enemy, so it’s not surprising that she has been unwilling to reveal any information to me. I thought she might have told you more.”

“Not about that. I wish I could be of more help, but to be honest, Dell’s school file is somewhat hodgepodge. There’s no father’s name on any of her paperwork. Come to think of it, there’s no copy of the birth certificate in the file at all. That’s odd.”

“Our files aren’t what they should be either,” Twana admitted. “Things slip by, especially in instances that don’t involve imminent danger to the child. I’m trying to clear up Dell’s papwerwork right now, the reason being that her foster parents intend to petition for adoption, and I’m doing everything I can to make that happen. But on her original birth certificate there’s a father’s name listed. Thomas Clay.”

My heart skipped a beat, and I grabbed my notepad, carefully writing down the name
, Thomas Clay
. Dell’s father. Did she know there was a name on her birth certificate?

“Does that sound familiar at all?” Twana asked. “Has Dell mentioned anyone by that name, or any relatives on that side of her family?”

“No. Never.”

“Is there a reason she believes that this man who was dating her mother might have been her father?”

I thought about the things Dell had revealed to me, wondering how much I should share. On the one hand, there was her privacy. On the other hand, there was the issue of Dell’s future with her new family, and her unanswered questions about her past. On the third hand, there was Brother Baker at the church in Hindsville, telling me that none of the men Dell’s mother dated were very savory characters. “She only mentioned a feeling she had, and the fact that he took her to the doctor once when she was sick. That could be simple coincidence, or something more.”

“All right.” Twana paused, as if she were making notes. “Thank you for talking with me.”

“Is there a specific reason you’re trying to find the identity of her father—other than just clearing up her paperwork, I mean?” I interjected before she could close the conversation.

There was a contemplative pause, and then she lowered her voice in a way that told me we were talking counselor to counselor now. “Confidentially, this person, this Thomas Clay on her birth certificate, may be her father or may not be. Brother Baker says her mother had quite a reputation. But whoever this man is, legally he is her father. Before Dell can be cleared for adoption, he either has to relinquish parental rights, or we have to file to terminate them. We are obligated to attempt to notify him of this process. Considering that he has never had any contact with Dell, the easiest and quickest scenario would be for him to relinquish rights, or for us to determine that he is deceased. The other alternative is more complicated, but it looks like we may have to go that route.”

“Do Dell’s foster parents know all of this?” The word
custody
sat on my chest like lead. In my internship with social services, I’d learned more about the complicated world of child custody than I ever wanted to know.

“They’re aware that we are trying to clear up Dell’s file,” Twana replied. “They’re willing to do whatever it takes. Dell’s lucky to have found people who love her so much. So many kids aren’t so fortunate, especially kids her age.”

“I see.” I felt a need to end the conversation. My mind was a sea of
what-ifs
. What if Dell’s father was found, and he decided to petition for custody? My time with social services had taught me that parents can have no interest in their children—right up to the moment someone else asks for permanent custody. Then suddenly, they’re interested.

On the other hand, what if social services discovered that Dell’s father was deceased? How would she feel about that? The last person who could give her the answers she yearned for would be gone.

The greatest likelihood was that he would never be found at all.
Thomas Clay
wasn’t much to go on. Maybe the best thing I could do for Dell was encourage her to forget the past and move on with her future. . . .