Then Mitch was on the line: ―Jenna? What is it, what‘s wrong?‖
―You‘re with your wife,‖ I blurted, loudly enough that two women four tables away lifted their heads and stared. I scooted around until I was facing the cafeteria wall which was a nauseating puke-brown.
―In separate rooms,‖ he said. ―I didn‘t know she was coming down, sweetheart. She surprised me.‖
―She had your cell.‖
―She had some calls to make back to her family in Minneapolis and I lent her my phone. Jenna, what‘s going on?‖ He listened as I pushed out the words around tears and then said, ―Oh honey, is there anything I can do?‖
―Can you come?‖
He might have shaken his head because there was a small gap and then he said,
―Not right away.‖
―You want to stay with your wife.‖
―Did I say that? Jenna, think. It would look pretty strange if I, your chemistry teacher, took off at dawn to go hold the hand of his student, who clearly has a family of her own.‖
I knew he was right. ―I‘m sorry. Why . . . Mitch, what does . . .‖ I couldn‘t bring myself to ask the question.
―Hang on a second.... Okay, I‘m back. I‘m actually in the bathroom, with the door closed.‖
His voice was very soft. ―Where are you?‖ I asked.
―Hotel, in adjacent rooms, as in she locks her door and I lock mine. It‘s a long story, sweetie.‖
―I‘m not going anywhere.‖ When he didn‘t say anything, I said, ―Mitch? Are you and she—?‖
―No,‖ he said firmly. ― No. We‘re not sleeping together. We are not getting back together, no matter what she wants.‖
I had to wet my lips. ―But do you want to?‖
A longer pause this time. ―I would be lying if I said it hadn‘t occurred to me. You don‘t deserve lies.‖
Oh no, I only deserved sneaking around and being told I was too young to understand and a dead brother and a mother who‘d tried to kill my grandfather and ended up nearly offing me. I deserved a lover who was my teacher and married and couldn‘t divorce his wife and might be lying now.
Then I had another, brighter thought. Maybe Mitch hadn‘t found a reason for a divorce, until now. Until me. Maybe that‘s why they were together now.
But that‘s not what I asked next. ―Mitch, when your . . . when Mrs. Anderson answered the phone, she thought I was the police. She thought I was Danielle.‖ He was silent so long I thought we‘d been disconnected. ―Mitch?‖
―I heard you. Look, I can‘t talk about it this instant. I will, just not now. Honestly, sweetheart, you have enough going on, you don‘t need to worry about this. I‘ll explain it later, okay?‖
―Are you in trouble?‖
―No.‖ Then Mitch said he had to stay another day and wouldn‘t start back for his house until Sunday. ―But I‘ll call you later on today, okay? I‘ll see you soon, honey.‖ He told me he loved me and then we hung up.
b
Ten minutes later, as I was stepping out of the elevator, I remembered that I hadn‘t told him which hospital Mom was in. So I rode the elevator back down. The ladies at the table were gone, but the cafeteria was getting busy, and I broke down at the sight of pancakes. It was fifteen more minutes before I navigated to a table with my plate and a cup of coffee.
Mrs. Anderson answered again, something for which I wasn‘t prepared. ―Oh, hello .
. . Jenna? I borrowed Mitch‘s cell again. I think he‘s in the shower. Do you need to leave a message?‖
It would be strange if I didn‘t and there was nothing suspicious about the information. I told her where my mother was, and then she said her father had been a patient there, too, only not in the Burn Unit. ―It‘s horrible about the fire. I‘m watching the news right now. Such a shame about that old bookstore. Just one more bad thing this weekend. They say bad things come in threes, so I‘m waiting for the last shoe to drop.‖
I had no idea what she was talking about, so I said, ―Yeah, it‘s pretty upsetting.‖
―I wouldn‘t wonder. You poor kids . . . Does anyone have any idea what‘s happened?‖
Oh, the detective thinks my mother did it. ―No.‖
―Well, they will. I‘m sure the police will find her. Anyway, I‘m so sorry I never got a chance to thank your mother in person for the book.‖
What? It took me a couple seconds; it seemed fifty years since the party. ―Oh. Sure.
Well, she‘ll be happy to hear that you liked it.‖ If she doesn’t die first.
Then it hit me. ―Mr. Anderson gave you the book.‖
She sounded bemused. ―Of course. He doesn‘t read that kind of fiction much.‖
I knew that, of course. But when had Mitch seen her? She was supposed to have been in Minneapolis the whole time. Maybe she‘d come down on a weekend, or something.
The most logical explanation was that he‘d given her the book just yesterday. Sure, that was it, only . . .
I never got a chance to thank your mother in person.
That didn‘t sound like something Mrs. Anderson would say if she‘d only gotten the book yesterday.
Wait a second.
That night after Mitch took me home that first time, I‘d called. A woman had answered and there had been someone else in the room right before the hang up. But Mitch told me on the way home that his wife was away: I’m baching it.
Was the woman I was talking to now the same person? I thought about it. Decided, no, I didn‘t think so. That other person had sounded . . . young.
Like someone my age.
―Anyway,‖ she was saying, ―I‘ll give Mitch the message, okay? How was the rest of your holiday? I mean . . . I‘m sorry, what a stupid question.‖
―No, that‘s okay. It was fine,‖ I lied. It was killing me that she kept calling him by his first name. To be polite—and change the subject—I asked, ―How were things at Mr.
Anderson‘s sister‘s house?‖
―Mitch‘s sister?‖
―Yeah. She has Thanksgiving every year? In Madison?‖
―Oh, I think you‘ve got Mitch mixed up with another teacher,‖ she said.
―Oh. She doesn‘t live in Madison?‖
―She doesn‘t live anywhere,‖ Mrs. Anderson said. ―We‘re in Appleton, and Mitch doesn‘t have any brothers or sisters.‖
I kept waiting for her to say the rest: in Wisconsin. But she didn‘t. So I said, stupidly, ―So he doesn‘t have a sister . . . or a brother?‖
―No,‖ said Mrs. Anderson. ―Mitch is an only child.‖
48: a
I’m visiting my sister in Madison.
My head was whirling. I left my pancakes.
My sister always does Thanksgiving.