19.

By the following Wednesday, Bonnie was feeling better and Lauren was starting to complain about feeling nauseous again. "Why don't you stay home today," Bonnie told her, laying a delicate hand on the girl's forehead. Lauren didn't pull away.

"Do I have a fever?"

"No, you're nice and cool, but there's no point pushing it. Stay in bed today. If you're not any better by tomorrow, I think you should see a doctor."

"What about you?" Lauren asked, shivering beneath the blankets of her bed.

"I'm fine," Bonnie insisted. "Just a little tired." The events of the last few weeks were finally catching up to her: Joan's murder; the police investigation; the sudden additions to her family; the reemergence of her brother; her fears for herself and Amanda. Immediately, Bonnie thought of Dr. Walter Greenspoon. You seem to be a woman in torment, he'd said. Or words to that effect.

Well, of course he'd say that, Bonnie thought, impatiently. How else would he continue making his two hundred dollars an hour if he didn't drum up new business?

"You don't look fine," Lauren was saying.

"It's my hair," Bonnie said quickly, catching her reflection in the mirror over the dresser. It was true-her hair, normally shiny and luxurious, if unruly, had been looking dry and lifeless the last few days. It hung on her head like an old mop, refusing to cooperate with her brush or her blow dryer. Maybe what she needed was a new haircut. "Will you be all right here alone?" Bonnie asked. "Do you want me to see if Mrs. Gerstein is available?"

Lauren shook her head. "I don't need a baby-sitter, Bonnie."

"All right, but I'll call you later to see how you're making out. And if you start feeling sick to your stomach, remember to take deep breaths."

Lauren nodded. "I think I'll try to sleep now."

Bonnie tucked the covers up under the girl's chin. "I'll have Sam bring you some tea," she said, then left the room.

"I feel perfectly fine. I feel perfectly fine," Bonnie repeated to her reflection in the teachers rest room at school.

You may feel perfectly fine, her reflection admonished, but you look perfectly awful.

Her reflection was right, Bonnie conceded, noticing that her skin was beyond pale, almost transparent. Wan, Bonnie thought, understanding the full meaning of the word for the first time. Of an unnatural or sickly pallor; showing or suggesting ill health, fatigue, unhappiness; lacking in forcefulness, competence, or effectiveness. Yes, certainly, all of the above, in one little three-letter word. The English language was an amazing thing.

She should never wear olive drab, she decided. Another word that said it all. Drab-dull, cheerless, lacking in spirit, brightness. That was her all right.

Did the color of her dress also explain the queasiness in her gut, the renewed waves of nausea that had been sweeping through her insides all day? Of course, her students hadn't helped. They were restless, disinterested, uncooperative. Haze had been particularly objectionable-the way he slumped down in his seat at the back of the room, his legs extended full-length into the aisle, his black boots scuffing the gray tiles at his feet, his obscenely tattooed arms raised behind his head, supporting its weight, as if he were reclining in a hammock. He knew nothing, but he had an answer for everything. He never had his homework done, never had his a.s.signments completed, never showed the slightest interest in anything she had to say. "Why do you even bother showing up?" she'd demanded. "Because I want to be with you" had come his immediate response.

The cla.s.s had laughed and Bonnie's stomach had turned over. It had been turning over ever since. Staring into the mirror, she wondered whether she and Lauren were doomed to keep reinfecting one another. "I don't have time to think about that now," she said, brushing some fresh color onto her cheeks. But the additional color looked forced, as if it had no relationship to the rest of her face. Far from adding life, she looked embalmed, as if she'd come straight from the undertaker's table. She looked like a corpse, she thought.

No one ever looks good under this kind of lighting, she told herself, glaring at the fluorescent lights overhead, returning the blush to her purse and fishing around for her lipstick, applying it with an unsteady hand, so that she missed part of her lip on one side and went over it on the other. Now I look like a drunk, she thought.

A drunken corpse.

Like Joan.

At least Lauren was feeling a little better, Bonnie thought gratefully. She'd slept most of the day, had slept right through Bonnie's noon hour phone call, and was still sleeping when Bonnie got home from school. But she woke up just as Bonnie was leaving for the school's spring open house with the news that she was hungry. Bonnie had left her and Rod sitting at the kitchen table, eating dinner together. Sam had already gone out.

Bonnie took a couple of deep breaths for luck, snapped her purse shut, and tucked her hair behind her ears. Maybe she didn't look as bad as she thought, she told herself, stepping into the hall, and proceeding up the stairs toward her cla.s.sroom. She hoped not too many parents would show up. Maybe then she could get home early, get into bed, sleep away her demons, wake up feeling better, like Lauren, her normal color and appet.i.te restored. She reached her cla.s.sroom, unlocked the door, stepped inside and flipped on the light, taking a quick look around. Everything appeared to be in order.

Bonnie glanced at her watch, then at the clock behind her. Two minutes before seven o'clock. Maybe she'd be really lucky, and n.o.body would show up at all.

"Mrs. Wheeler?"

Bonnie turned to see the elderly couple standing in the doorway. Both looked well beyond the years one would expect for the parents of teenagers. They were dressed simply, in shades of white and blue. His hair was gray peppered with brown, hers the reverse, brown salted with gray. Neither was smiling. "Yes," Bonnie answered. "Can I help you?"

"We're Bob and Lillian Reilly," the woman said.

Bonnie stared at them blankly. She had no one named Reilly in any of her cla.s.ses.

"Harold Gleason's grandparents," the man explained.

"Oh, of course," Bonnie said quickly, amazed she could have forgotten she'd specifically requested they attend. "Haze's grandparents. I'm sorry. I'm obviously not thinking very clearly. Come in."

"Your message said you wanted to speak with us tonight," Lillian Reilly stated.

"You said it was very important," her husband stressed.

"It is," Bonnie told them, indicating the rows of desks. "Please, have a seat."

"I prefer standing, thank you," Bob Reilly told her, his wife's eyes darting skittishly around the cla.s.sroom.

"I'm so glad you came," Bonnie said. "I don't think I've seen you at the school before."

"We don't bother much with school," Lillian Reilly told her.

"I doubt you'll have anything to tell us we don't already know," her husband said.

Bonnie smiled. At least there'd be no beating around the bush. "I was hoping maybe there were some things you could tell me," Bonnie said.

"Such as?"

"Tell me about your grandson," Bonnie began. "What he's like at home, if he's happy, if he gives you a hard time, what it's like to be raising a teenager at your age. Anything you think might help me understand him a bit better."

"Why would you want to do that?" Bob Reilly asked.

"Your grandson is failing, Mr. Reilly," Bonnie said, matching his bluntness with her own. "And that's a shame, because I think he has lots of potential. He's a very bright boy, and I think that maybe with a little encouragement at home..."

"You think we don't encourage him?"

"Do you?"

"Mrs. Wheeler," Bob Reilly said, walking slowly down one aisle and back up again, "you want to know about my grandson? My grandson is just like his mother was, a lazy, good-for-nothing-but-dope-smoking kid who thinks that the world owes him something. And maybe it does, who knows? But that doesn't make much difference, does it? Things are the way they are, like it or not. His mother finally understood that, and sooner or later, Harold will have to understand it too."

"And in the meantime?"

"In the meantime, we try and keep out of each other's way as much as we can. We told Harold that he can keep living with us as long as he keeps pa.s.sing in school. Now you tell us he's failing...."

"It's not that he doesn't have the brains to pa.s.s...." Bonnie said quickly.

"He just doesn't do any work, he doesn't hand in his a.s.signments, he disrupts the cla.s.s," Bob Reilly said. "Is that what you were going to tell us?"

"I thought that maybe together we might be able to figure out some way to help him...."

"And just what is it that you expect us to do, Mrs. Wheeler?" Lillian Reilly asked. "We can't force him to do the work, and we certainly aren't prepared to do it for him."

"Of course you aren't, but maybe if you took more of an interest...."

"Do you have teenagers, Mrs. Wheeler?" Bob Reilly interrupted.

"I have two stepchildren who are teenagers," Bonnie answered.

"And how much do they appreciate your interest?"

"Well, they might not always show it, but..."

"Thank you, I believe you've answered the question." Bob Reilly put a hand on his wife's elbow. "Come on, Lillian. I told you this was going to be a waste of time."

"Are you afraid of your grandson, Mr. Reilly?" Bonnie asked suddenly. "Mrs. Reilly?"

Bob Reilly stiffened, his wife's eyes lifting nervously to his.

"Your grandson has a lot of anger inside him. I'd like to help him before it's too late."

"Is that why you sent the police out to question him?" Bob Reilly asked, catching Bonnie by surprise. "Is that your idea of helping him?"

"Do you think your grandson is capable of hurting anyone, Mr. Reilly?" Bonnie asked over the loud pounding of her heart.

"We're all capable of hurting someone," Bob Reilly answered evenly, and led his wife from the room.

"How'd it go?" Maureen Templeton called after her as Bonnie headed down the corridor toward the parking lot at almost a quarter after nine.

"Okay, I guess," Bonnie said. "Lots of people."

"You don't look so hot. Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine. Maybe a little tired," Bonnie lied, pushing open the side door of the school, breathing in the warm night air. "Can I give you a lift home?"

"No, thanks. I have my car." Maureen pointed to the dark-colored Chrysler on the far side of the parking lot, then walked briskly toward it. There were only a few cars left in the lot, Bonnie noticed, eager to get home.

Bonnie unlocked her car door and climbed inside, waving good-bye to Maureen as she pulled out of the lot onto the street. Bonnie put her key in the ignition and turned on the car's engine.

Nothing happened.

Bonnie twisted the key back and forth, pulled it out, shoved it back in, once, then twice, her foot pressing down hard on the gas. The car didn't even threaten to turn over. "This is not what I need right now," Bonnie muttered, feeling a row of perspiration break out across her forehead. "Come on, don't do this to me." Again, she pushed the key inside the ignition, furiously turning it to the right, then the left, pumping the gas pedal. "Please, this is not what I need tonight."

Bonnie looked out the car's windows into the growing darkness. Except for two other cars in the lot, she was alone. She tried the ignition one last time, understanding that her car was absolutely dead. "Great," she said, fighting back angry tears as she climbed out of the car and returned to the school. Her footsteps echoed down the now-empty corridor as she headed for the staff room. There was something spooky about a school at night, she thought, its emptiness unnatural. She wondered whether the staff room would be locked, was grateful when the door opened easily.

Bonnie flipped on the light, thinking about the two cars still in the parking lot. Maybe they couldn't start either, she thought, sitting beside the phone in the corner of the room, dialing her home number. Maybe there was a flu for cars going around. "I'm not a well woman," she said into the receiver, hearing it ring. Rod would have to come pick her up. It would only take him a few minutes to get here. They'd send someone to look at her car in the morning.

The phone was answered on its fourth ring. "h.e.l.lo?" Lauren said, as if she'd just been roused from a deep sleep.

"I'm sorry, Lauren, did I wake you up?"

"Who is this?" the girl asked.

"It's Bonnie," Bonnie told her, and would have laughed had she felt better. "Can I speak to Rod?"

"He's not here."

"What?"

"He had to go out."

"He did? When?"

"About an hour ago."

"Where did he go?"

"He didn't say. Why? Is there a problem?"

"My car won't start. Who's there with you?"

"Amanda. She's asleep."

"Rod left you alone with Amanda when you aren't feeling well?"

"I'm fine now," the girl insisted. "I told him we'd be okay. He said he wouldn't be long."

"Where's Sam?"

"Out."

Bonnie lowered her head. Clearly this conversation would get her nowhere. "Okay, well, I guess I'll take a cab. I shouldn't be too long."

"No problem."

"See you soon." Bonnie replaced the receiver, trying to remember the phone number of the local cab company, her eyes scanning the room for a phone book. How could Rod go out and leave his two daughters alone, especially when one hadn't been feeling well? And where had he gone?

She finally located the phone book on the floor by the water cooler next to several large blue bottles, two empty, one full. Bonnie pushed herself out of her chair toward it and bent down, hearing her knees snap, like dry twigs. Suddenly the room was spinning. For one terrifying second, Bonnie couldn't differentiate between the ceiling and the floor. "G.o.d, help me," she whispered, her fingers grabbing for something to hold on to as she closed her eyes, tried desperately to maintain her delicate balance. "Stay calm. Don't panic. This will pa.s.s." Bonnie counted to ten, then slowly opened her eyes.

The room had stopped dancing, although, like lovers not ready to part, it was still swaying. Bonnie waited, the fingers of her right hand digging into the thin phone book, twisting and tearing its edges. She wondered whether her eyes would be able to focus, whether she would be able to read the tiny print. She had to get out of here. She had to get home and into the comfort of her own bed. d.a.m.n Rod anyway. Where was he?

Bonnie pushed herself up, the phone book in her hand serving as an anchor, steadying her in place. Slowly, she returned to the phone, reaching for it with one hand as she flipped to the yellow pages with the other. The loud buzz of the receiver vibrated against her ear like a pesky insect, as she located the listing for the cab company and punched in the first few numbers.