The Living Room (21 page)

“Ms. Robbins called me late this afternoon,” Amy said to Megan and then told them about the conversation.

“I like her,” Megan said. “I didn’t know what they were going to do to Nate. I wish they would start the in-school suspension tomorrow. That way I wouldn’t have to see him in English class.”

“He’s in your English class?” Amy asked. “I thought he was in the tenth grade.”

“And World History. He failed English Composition last year and had to take it again.”

Amy looked at Jeff. “It might be a good idea to ask the school to take him out of Amy’s classes.”

“All the trouble started in English,” Megan said, “and I can’t stand the thought of him staring at the back of my head. I don’t care so much about World History. Mr. Ryan can look out for me in there.”

“I’ll talk to the principal about it,” Jeff said.

“What do you think about the personal apology?” Amy asked Megan.

“I don’t want to do it. If he apologized, he wouldn’t mean it. He’s just sorry he got caught and is in a bunch of trouble.”

“Ms. Robbins thought it was a good idea,” Amy said.

Megan didn’t respond.

“What if the counselor brought the junior varsity football coach to the meeting?” Jeff asked. “Nate probably cares more about football than anything else, and it would be hard to admit what he did in front of Coach Nichols.”

“Yeah.” Megan nodded. “And Mr. Ryan could come.”

“Dad and I would be there—” Amy began.

“Getting parents involved doesn’t help,” Megan interrupted.

“We’ll decide that later,” Jeff said, then turned to Megan. “Look at me.”

Megan, her eyes wide, gave him her full attention.

“Did you know that I think you’re a wonderful daughter who is beautiful on the inside and the outside? And if there was any way I could take this pain and embarrassment away from you and put it on myself I’d do it in a second? I thought about you all day and wished I could solve this as easily as I did with a Band-Aid on a cut when you were a little girl.”

Amy watched Megan tear up. She sniffled and nodded. Jeff stood, pulled her to her feet, and wrapped his strong arms around her. She didn’t try to resist. As Amy watched in admiration, Megan closed her eyes and leaned her head against her father’s chest.

“No matter what happens, remember how much your mother and I love you,” he said.

Megan nodded. She and Jeff separated.

“Do you have any homework?” Jeff asked.

“Not much.” Megan wiped her eyes. “I have to research a report for World History. Mr. Ryan is going to give me suggestions for sources, but I want to show him I’ve done some of it on my own.”

“Use the computer in the family room,” Jeff said. “I’ll do my work after you finish.”

Megan left the kitchen.

“I’ll call Ms. Robbins,” Amy said. “It’s easier for me to take care of it at work than it is for you to take a phone call when you’re at the top of a ladder.”

“Tell her I’ll be there,” Jeff said. “I’ll sort that out with Megan later. Tonight wasn’t the time to do it.”

“You don’t think I should be at the meeting, too?”

“I’ll leave that up to you.”

Amy hesitated. “I’ll stay away. I might start crying and become a distraction.”

“Okay.”

Amy edged closer to Jeff.

“But can I have one of those hugs?” she asked.

Jeff opened his arms wide.

“I saved one especially for you.”

After Megan finished her research and Jeff logged on to the family computer, Amy slipped up to the writing room.

Writing the first chapter of a novel was like attending a party where Amy didn’t know anyone. The best way to break the ice was to start asking questions. At Amy’s imaginary get-together she didn’t begin with typical questions about work or family. The most important piece of personal information she wanted to know about someone who was going to walk through the pages of her book was what the character feared most.

Amy read again what she’d already written. Roxanne certainly felt the ache of loneliness because the other side of the bed was vacant, but being left alone wasn’t her primary fear. Her economic status was dire, but poverty alone wouldn’t cause the woman to toss and turn at night. Her health wouldn’t be an issue; Amy didn’t want to write a doctor/hospital story.

Then Amy had a writer’s epiphany. Even though she and the main character lived in radically different worlds, they shared the same greatest fear—that something horrible would happen to their children. A wrenching ache that only a mother can feel welled up in Amy’s heart. That was it. She let the mixture of compassion and anxiety and dread and love she felt become more real in her mind. Amy quickly typed a few key phrases to capture the moment. When a powerful emotion swept over her, she knew there was an opportunity to create scenes that could produce a similar response in her readers.

Deeds
of
Darkness
would have many tentacles, but for Roxanne they would be rooted in a life-and-death threat to her children.

Amy scrolled down to a fresh page and continued typing character notes. Roxanne would also be a mixture of weakness and strength—strong enough to try to make it on her own but frustrated because her
stubborn determination couldn’t guarantee security for her family. Somewhat shy around others, she would have an active thought life and, like Amy, would view solitude as both an enemy and a friend. Amy smiled wryly. Writing this novel might involve visiting more unexplored facets of her own subconscious than she realized.

As she considered possible endings for the story, Amy considered an unexpected twist. What if the gut-wrenching challenges faced by Roxanne eventually destroyed her? Amy shuddered. She’d never considered writing a novel with a tragic ending, and it was a disconcerting scenario. But there was no denying that some of the greatest works of fiction didn’t end with “and they lived happily ever after.”

Amy turned off her computer. She was standing at the edge of a dark literary forest and didn’t want to take another step into the forbidding woods.

Not yet.

fourteen

T
he following morning Amy phoned the high school and talked to Ms. Robbins.

“That sounds like a good plan,” Ms. Robbins replied to Amy’s suggestion. “I’ll speak with Coach Nichols and Mr. Ryan, then contact Nate’s parents and set up a time for the meeting.”

“Even though I won’t be there, I’ll be praying.”

The call ended with Amy grateful she had an ally inside the walls of the schoolhouse. The counselor had figured out a way to let her light shine in the darkness.

Amy organized Mr. Phillips’s mail and then settled in at her desk. She’d finished a short piece of dictation when she looked up and saw Chris Lance standing in her doorway. She slipped the listening buds out of her ears.

“Thanks for agreeing to go to the corporate meeting with Mr. Phillips last night,” she said. “I was in a jam because I needed to pick up my children. I hope it didn’t run too late.”

“About ten thirty,” Chris replied flatly. He handed her a flash drive. “I took seven pages of notes. Would you clean these up so they can go into the file?”

“Certainly.”

Chris reached into the pocket of his shirt, took out a small envelope, and handed it to her. Amy’s name was written in a woman’s cursive on the front.

“This is from Laura. I told her what you said when you saw the picture in my office, and she started to cry.”

“I’m sorry.” Amy felt her face flush. “I was way out of line and shouldn’t have said anything. I know it was a tragic loss. Please—”

“I don’t know what she wrote in the note,” Chris interrupted her. “But she isn’t mad at you. She made me promise to give this to you first thing this morning.”

Chris left, and Amy fingered the sealed envelope. She looked around to make sure she was alone and opened it. The note was written in a graceful script on an embossed card:

Dear Amy,

I can’t tell you how deeply your words about my brother touched me. I shared my faith with David several times over the past few years. He listened politely but never gave any sign that he believed. I always thought there would be other chances to talk and then he was killed.

Yesterday I was thinking about him, missing him, and wondering where he was. I knelt in front of the chair where I have my devotions every morning and asked God to somehow let me know the truth.

When Chris came home last night and told me what you said, I burst into tears. I’ve never had something so supernatural happen in my life! Praying will never be the same for me. I know God hears and answers!

I can’t wait to meet you in person and give you a hug. Thank you, thank you.

Fondly,

Laura Lance

P.S. I’m so excited you’re going to be working with Chris. Please pray for him!

Amy reread the note. It seemed like it was written to someone else, not her. She slipped it into her purse. Putting the flash drive into the USB port of her computer, she brought up the notes Chris took the previous night. Cleaning up the notes didn’t demand her total concentration, and a private part of her brain continued to think about Chris, Laura, and David.

Shortly before noon she received a call on her cell phone. It was Bernie Masters.

“I need to speak with the next great American novelist,” Bernie said.

“Then you called the wrong number. If you want to talk to Amy Clarke, it will have to wait. I’m typing answers to interrogatories for my boss. Can I call you back on my lunch break at noon?”

“You got it.”

Amy took the salad she’d fixed for lunch to her car and drove a couple of blocks to a city park. It was too cold to eat outside, so she stayed in her vehicle and called Bernie. He answered immediately.

“Tell me you’re not just typing answers to interrogatories for a living,” Bernie said.

“And memorandums of law, correspondence, pleadings, buy-sell agreements, employment contracts with noncompete provisions, and briefs that are long, not short.”

“Are you trying to make me feel guilty?” Bernie asked. “Several priests have tried and failed. Seriously, how are you holding up in the working world?”

“In some ways it’s easy, like riding a bike, but I’m not the same person I was when I left a couple of years ago.” Amy thought about the note she’d received from Laura Lance. “But for now I’m sure it’s the right thing to do.”

“And what about your own writing? Has being around other people on a regular basis primed your pump?”

“That’s not how it works with me, but I’ve started a new novel.”

“Yes!” Bernie shouted into the phone. “You don’t have to give me
credit so long as you mention me in the acknowledgment section of the book and let me negotiate your next contract. What’s the hook?”

“I’m at the preliminary stages. I’ve only written part of the first chapter, but I’ve jotted down a bunch of character notes and plot possibilities.” Amy paused and took a deep breath. This was going to be the first time her concept had left the privacy of her mind and the attic writing room. “It’s going to be third-person point of view with a female protagonist. She’s a young woman—”

“I saw that coming,” Bernie cut in before Amy could continue.