Blind Lake

Eight

Marguerite left work early Wednesday and drove to the school for her interview with Mr. Fleischer, Tessa’s homeroom teacher.

Blind Lake’s single school building was a long, low two-story structure not far from the Plaza, surrounded by playgrounds, an athletic field, and a generous parking lot. Like all of the buildings in Blind Lake, the school was cleanly designed but essentially anonymous — it might have been any school, anywhere. It looked much like the school at Crossbank, and the smell that greeted Marguerite when she stepped through the big front door was the smell of every school she had ever been inside: a combination of sour milk, wood shavings, disinfectant, adolescent musk, and warm electronics.

She followed the corridor into the west wing. Tess had entered grade eight this year, a step away from the hopscotch and Barbie crowd, tottering on the brink of adolescence. Marguerite had suffered through her own high school years, and still felt a conditioned wave of apprehension amidst these rows of salmon-colored lockers, though the school was largely empty — the students had been sent home early to allow for this round of parent-teacher interviews. She imagined Tess already at the house, maybe reading and listening to the hum of the floorboard heaters. Home safe, Marguerite thought a little enviously.

She knocked at the half-open door of Room 130, Mr. Fleischer’s room. He waved her in and rose to shake her hand.

She didn’t doubt Mr. Fleischer was an excellent teacher. Blind Lake was a flagship federal institution, and a key part of its employment package was the availability of a first-class school system. Marguerite was sure Mr. Fleischer’s credentials were impeccable. He even looked like a good teacher, or at least the kind of teacher you could safely confide in: tall, somewhat doe-eyed, well but not intimidatingly dressed, with a trim beard and a generous smile. His grip was firm but gentle.

“Welcome,” he said. The room was equipped with child-sized desks, but he had imported a pair of parent-friendly chairs. “Have a seat.”

Fu

Fleischer glanced at a sheet of notes. “Good to meet you. Meet you again, I should say, since we were introduced at Tessa’s orientation. You work in Observation and Interpretation?”

“Actually, I’m the department head.”

Fleischer’s eyebrows levitated briefly. “Here since August?”

“Tess and I moved here in August, yes.”

“Tessa’s father was here a little earlier, though, wasn’t he?”

“That’s right.”

“You’re separated?”

“Divorced,” Marguerite said promptly. Was it paranoia, or had Ray already discussed this with Fleischer? Ray always said “separated,” as if the divorce were a temporary misunderstanding. And it would be just like Ray to describe Marguerite as “working in Interpretation” rather than admit she was heading the department. “We have joint legal custody, but Tess is in my care the majority of time.”

“I see.”

Maybe Ray had failed to mentioned that, too. Fleischer paused and added a note to his files. “I’m sorry if this is intrusive. I just want to get a sense of Tessa’s situation at home. She’s been having some trouble here at school, as I’m sure you’re aware. Nothing serious, but her marks aren’t where we’d like them to be, and she seems a little, I don’t know how to say it, a little vague in class.”

“The move—” Marguerite began.

“No doubt that’s a factor. It’s like an army base here. Families move in and out all the time, and it’s hard on the kids. The kids can be hard on newcomers, too. I’ve seen it far too often. But my concerns about Tess go a little bit beyond that. I had a look at her records from Crossbank.”

Ah, Marguerite thought. Well, that was inevitable. Raking these old coals again. “Tess had some problems last spring. But that’s all over now.”

“This was during the process of the divorce?”

“Yes.”

“She was seeing a therapist at that time, right?”

“Dr. Leinster, at Crossbank. Yes.”

“Is she seeing anyone now?”

“Here at Blind Lake?” Marguerite shook her head decisively. “No.”

“Have you thought about it? We’ve got people on staff who can provide absolutely first-rate counseling.”

“I’m sure you do. I don’t feel it’s necessary.”

Fleischer paused. He tapped a pencil against his desk. “Back at Crossbank, Tess had some kind of hallucinatory episode, is that correct?”

“No, Mr. Fleischer, that’s not correct. Tess was lonely and she talked to herself. She had a made-up friend she called Mirror Girl, and there were times when it was a little hard for her to distinguish between reality and imagination. That’s a problem, but it’s not a hallucination. She was tested for temporal-lobe epilepsy and a dozen other neurological conditions. The tests were uniformly negative.”

“According to her file, she was diagnosed with—”

“Asperger’s Syndrome, yes, but that’s not a terribly uncommon condition. She has a few tics, she was language-delayed, and she’s not very good at making friends, but we’ve known that for some years now. She’s lonely, yes, and I believe her loneliness contributed to the problem at Crossbank.”

“I think she’s lonely here, too.”

“I’m sure you’re right. Yes, she’s lonely and disoriented. Wouldn’t you be? Parents divorced, a new place to live, plus all the usual cruelties a child her age endures. You don’t have to tell me about it. I see it every day. In her body language, in her eyes.”

“And you don’t think therapy would help her deal with that?”

“I don’t mean to be dismissive, but therapy hasn’t been a huge success. Tessa’s been on and off Ritalin and a host of other drugs, and none of them has done her any good. Quite the opposite. That should be in the file too.”

“Therapy needn’t involve medication. Sometimes just the talking helps.”

“But it didn’t help Tess. If anything it made her feel more unique, more alone, more oppressed.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“She didn’t have to.” Marguerite discovered her palms were sweating. Her voice had tightened up, too. That defensive whine of yours, Ray used to call it. “What’s the point, Mr. Fleischer?”

“Again, I’m sorry if this seems intrusive. I like to have some background on my students, especially if they’re having trouble. I think it makes me a better teacher. I guess it also makes me sound like an interrogator. I apologize.”

“I know Tess has been slow with her written work, but—”

“She comes to class, but there are days when she’s, I don’t know how to describe it — emotionally absent. She stares out the window. Sometimes I call her name and she doesn’t respond. She whispers to herself. That doesn’t make her unique, much less disturbed, but it does make her difficult to teach. All I’m saying is, maybe we can help.”

“Ray’s been here, hasn’t he?”

Mr. Fleischer blinked. “I’ve talked to your husband — your ex-husband — on a couple of occasions, but that’s not unusual.”

“What did he tell you? That I’m neglecting her? That she complains about being lonely when she’s with me?”

Fleischer didn’t respond, but his wide-eyed look gave him away. Direct hit. Fucking Ray!

“Look,” Marguerite said, “I appreciate your concern, and I share it, but you should also know that Ray isn’t happy with the custody arrangements and this isn’t the first time he’s tried to set me up, make me look like a bad parent. So let me guess: he came in here and told you how reluctant he was to raise the issue, but he was worried about Tess, what with all the problems back at Crossbank, and maybe she wasn’t getting the kind of parental attention she deserves, in fact she’d said a thing or two to him… is that the gist?”

Fleischer held up his hands. “I can’t get involved in this kind of discussion. I told Tessa’s father the same things I’m telling you.”