India
Early Monday afternoon, I poke my head into the classroom set aside for in-school detention. It’s lunch time, and the teacher, Mr. Keiser, sits at his desk, unwrapping his sandwich. He glances up at me, and I wave before shifting my attention to Rose, who occupies one of the thirty chair-desk combos at the far side of the room. She’s the only student here this week—so far. Sometimes it’s just one or two kids in here, and other days, the room’s almost filled to capacity. It’s like their behavior is dictated by the moon or Mercury in retrograde.
“Hi, Mr. Keiser.” I step inside the classroom. “If you’d like a break, I can cover for you. I’ll stay here with Rose.”
He shrugs, gathering up his lunch. “Thanks for the offer. I’ll be back by the end of the lunch period.”
“Sounds good.” I smile, and as soon as the door closes behind him, I make my way through the desks until I reach Rose’s. She watches me, her elfin face screwed up in a suspicious frown.
God, she’s adorable. With her beautiful and unruly auburn curls, several shades lighter than her uncle’s—today pulled into a slightly misshapen side braid—gray eyes, small bow of a mouth, and delicate features, she’s a pretty girl who will grow into a truly stunning woman. Her mom had been beautiful, too. I’d witnessed a man literally stumble over his feet and get gut-punched by a table in a bar we all hung out at one night a few years ago.
God, Mona. I’m so sorry that you had to let this lovely girl go so soon.
The words whisper through my head and heart. And though I’m not a particularly spiritual person, I hope they reach Mona wherever she is.
“You look so much like your mom,” I say to Rose, turning the desk in front of her around to face her before sliding into it.
I shift my focus to removing my container from my lunch bag and removing the lid over my salad. Better that than lose myself in the mixture of sorrow and eagerness that fill this little girl’s dove-gray eyes. Because if I lose myself in that emotion, I’ll be in danger of picking this girl up and hugging her close until those chunks of pain and grief start to break up and loosen.
When I have my emotions under control, I look at her again and smile.
“That’s what Grammy says. And Uncle Asa, too. But I think they just tell me that to make me feel better.” She picks up a half of her sandwich and starts peeling off the crust. “They don’t like to talk about Mom a lot. Even though I want to. But it makes them sad. So I don’t.”
Oh God, she’s breaking my heart.
“I think you’re right. Talking about your mom probably does hurt them,” I agree, my voice a little thick. Both from her loss, her family’s and even mine. “She was their daughter and sister, and they miss her a lot. But I bet if you told them how you felt, that talking about your mom makes you feel better, they would gladly listen to everything you want to say. And even add their own memories, because they have a ton.”
“You think so?” she asks, and the tentative hope in her voice steals another piece of my heart. And that piece has her name on it.
“I know so, Rose.” Since I can’t hug her, I settle for gently covering her hand and squeezing.
She nods and takes a bite out of her crustless sandwich. After a moment of silent chewing, she tilts her head to the side, studying me with the guileless curiosity and dash of suspicion that children have down to an art form.
“How come you know so much about dead moms?” she challenged.
How do you know so much… The correction hovers on my tongue, and it requires every ounce of restraint not to correct the bald question. I’m a teacher. Sue me.
“Because I lost mine, too.” Her mouth forms a small “o.” I clear my throat and fork some salad into my mouth, chewing and swallowing before continuing. “I was a little older than you, but she had a bad disease. Cancer.”
Rose nods, the slightly frizzy curls catching the sunlight filtering through the window blinds. “My grammy’s sister, Aunt Billie, had cancer, too. She had her boobies cut off.”
I cough, spinach leaves lodging in my throat. Quickly, I reach for the bottle of water in my bag and twist the cap off. Downing a large gulp, I free the salad from my windpipe.
Jesus Christ.
“You okay?” Rose inquires, frowning. She reaches over and pats my hand. “You probably should’ve chewed your food more instead of just swallowing. That’s what my grammy tells me.”
“I’m fine. Thanks.” Taking one last sip, I set the bottle down and cross my arms on top of the desk. “Uh, Rose, where did you hear about your, um, aunt?”
“My grammy told my mom about it. I was in my room, but I heard them talking.”
Oh boy. “It sounds like your Aunt Billie had breast cancer. Just like my mom. Do you know what cells are?” Rose shakes her head. “They’re like really tiny Legos, and they make up our bodies. Sometimes cells don’t follow the rules and misbehave. When they do this, they grow into cancer. And when that happens, people can get really sick.” I pause, making sure she’s with me. When she doesn’t interrupt, but just continues to study me, I continue. “So the doctor has to remove the cancer from where it is. I think that’s what you probably heard your grandmother describing. So it doesn’t necessarily mean her,” Lord, have mercy, “boob was cut off. It could mean the doctor just took some of it away so she could feel better again.” I smile. “But you should really talk to your grandmother about this, okay? She can answer any questions you might have.”
After a moment, she nods. “Okay.” I release a silent, long, relieved breath. Thank God that tough topic was over—
“Is your dad dead, too?”
Good. God.