Chapter One: Bridget Rosalie Kane
Mrs. Vachon was always the principal of Goodland Elementary for all of the time I lived in Indiana. I mean, she was also principal before I lived in Indiana, which is to say that she was principal before I was born. I suppose she was a nice principal, in that she never hit us, or sexually assaulted us or anything. But I didn’t like her very much. In fact, I hated her. A lot.
Which is a horrible thing to say, I know. I should be nicer to a woman who’s dead now. But she made me do a lot of things that I didn’t want to do. Or, I mean, one major thing that I really didn’t want to do. She made recess a requirement for everyone.
I hated going outside. I mean, I still do, actually, which is a shame considering where I live now. I used to tell people I was agoraphobic because it made people pity me, but then I felt bad for lying. Agoraphobes face social anxiety when faced with large, open spaces. I just didn’t like to get my clothes dirty. But no one care about any of that. All the teachers I had in elementary school didn’t care that I wanted to just sit down in read. My mother, before she died, used to take my books away from me when I was bad. She would shove me out into the backyard and lock me out of the house. She’d say, “For pete’s sake, Bridget, a little fresh air will do you good.” As if the quality of the air, the mixture of oxygen and nitrogen and other gases, was somehow better outside. Like it would make me less shy and more athletic.
But Ms. Blake was different. She knew I didn’t want to go out into the hot sun and get all sweaty and gross. She knew that I should have to be forced into physical exertion. So she let me stay inside with her. And I always was grateful to her for that.
It wasn’t all fun and games though. I mean, I couldn’t just sit and read because if Mrs. Vachon ever came in and found me, Ms. Blake could have been in a lot of trouble. So instead I had to be bad. I had to break at least one of Ms. Blake’s Ten Commandments every day. The ten commandments were Ms. Blake’s own invention, although looking back I think every teacher had their own set of rules. They were painted onto individual ceiling tiles, so that any time we looked up in boredom, we were reminded to follow the rules. The Ten Commandments – I still remember them – were:
Thou shall not hit or inappropriately touch another person.
Thou shall not say swear words in the classroom.
Thou shall not bully other students or make fun of them for their stupidity.
Thou shall not come to school unprepared to learn.
Thou shall always listen when other people are talking.
Thou shall come in from recess on time every day.
Thou shall turn in all homework assignments and projects on time
Thou shall answer questions, both written and oral, to the best of one’s own knowledge.
Thou shall not steal someone else’s property
Thou shall always tell Ms. Blake the truth, even when it is inconvenient or uncomfortable.
Some of them were easier to break than others. Since I never went out to recess, I never had the chance to come back late. Also, if there was one thing I hated as much as going outside, it was doing poorly on my schoolwork. I mean, was easily the smartest girl in that class, and more importantly I actually liked learning. So that also mean I couldn’t come to class unprepared or cheat on tests, or turn in assignments late. I also had, and still have, an aversion to swearing, since both my parents and my drunk uncle who lived with us swore all the time. More importantly, I didn’t want to make anyone else feel bad about themselves, so bullying and hitting and stealing from others was a no. So that left only one of the commandments for me to break.
Every morning, I would lie to Ms. Blake. I would, for instance, spill some of my juice box. Right in front of her desk. And then she would ask me, “Bridget, did you spill this juice?” And I’d look her straight in the eye, and say, “No.” Easy as pie. She’d tell me that I broke a commandment and remind me that a consequence of committing a classroom sin was no recess (which, to most students, was like eternal damnation). I’d nod my head, sit back down, and count the minutes until Ms. Blake and I could be all alone.
Even when we were alone, there was still work to be done. I couldn’t look like I was enjoying myself. So Ms. Blake had me perform chores like grading pop quizzes, organizing files, sweeping the floor, and other things. I always enjoyed the praise I received from Ms. Blake after for a job well done. It always made all the effort worth it. She’d sit in her chair (“my throne,” she used to call the big, plush orange armchair she substituted for the industrial black roller) and she’d eat her lunch. Every day she had a turkey sandwich, a brownie, and coffee from a thermos. Sometimes she would even read aloud to me, from a book or a newspaper while I worked. I loved listening to her voice. The gravelly undertones of a former smoker (or maybe she still smoked back then? Does she still smoke now?) adding texture to an otherwise lilting voice. Sometimes when I’m bored and reading at work, I imagine her reading to me in that rich, soothing voice of hers.
Sometimes other students would break the commandments, too. Not on purpose, of course. No one would willingly give up recess. But there were a couple of kids that always caused trouble. There was one boy, I remember in particular, named Harry. Harry was, what Ms. Blake like to call, a dumb ass. Truly. He was horrible, even as a kid, and he never knew when to hold his tongue or just back off. So he ended up having to do chores with me a couple of times a month. And boy did I hate him. I hated having him fool around and screw up stuff when I actually wanted to help. I hated having to compete for Ms. Blake’s attention and affection. It wasn’t fair that she spent more time yelling at him than she ever did speaking sweetly to me. It really wasn’t fair.
But I’m being nit-picky. Overall, she was a great teacher. The greatest teacher I ever had, actually. Even in high school – I mean, even in college when I was taking classes from published scholars – I never had someone quite like Ms. Blake. She was smart and funny and no-nonsense. She always told us the truth. Things that other adults couldn’t or wouldn’t tell us, she would turn into a lesson. For instance, I remember some boy in class asked how babies were made. I mean, this is a question that my own mother refused to answer until I was fourteen. And yet Ms. Blake calmly drew diagrams on the whiteboard and explained, in great detail, the stages of sexual intercourse. Most of the class was far too immature to appreciate her bluntness, but she didn’t care. I mean, she was of the philosophy that if you were drowning in the ocean, it wasn’t her job to steer the boat back to you and help you in. She’d stay on shore, throw out a life preserver, and have you swim to it. She never condescended or stooped down to our level. On the other hand, if you didn’t understand the material fast enough you were “shit out of luck” as she used to say.
And then quick as a flash, 5th grade was over. I remember crying the night before in my bedroom. My mom patted my head and told me that I’d still see all my friends again next year, but it wasn’t that. I didn’t have any friends, and if my mom had known me at all she would have realized that. I was crying because I would never have Ms. Blake as my teacher ever again. The teacher who let me stay inside rather than play kickball or tag. The teacher who read us scary stories the entire month of Halloween. The teacher who swore like a sailor and laughed with reckless abandon and didn’t care even a little bit what the other teachers or our parents thought of her.
I remember the last words she ever spoke to us. She called everyone back in from recess, and had us sit down. She said that it isn’t what we become but who we become that matters. I never forgot that. I live with that sentence in my mind constantly. She told us that we would never grow up to be what we wanted to be. I had said that I wanted to be a librarian, which, I mean, I sort of am now. I work at a bookstore. In Cape May, New Jersey. Far away from Goodland, Indiana, I know. And a lot more people, too. Well, at least in the summer. In the summer, we get more than forty-thousand people. But in the off-seasons, we never have more than four-thousand. I like that. I like it much better when it’s quiet. When I can sit in the store and watch the gray waves and listen to them crash against the shore. Beautiful.
Of course, the summer is better for business. And if it weren’t for the summer tourists, I’d be totally broke. Everyone wants to read on the beach, but no one wants to pack books in their suitcase. It’s the perfect problem. We’re located right on the boardwalk, and so we’re the first stop on the way to relaxation. The name of the bookstore is The Title Wave, and it’s owned by a guy a few years older than me named Parker Johnson. He hired me after I first graduated from college. I had majored in Journalism, but all the newspapers I applied to turned me down. They said my writing style was too terse and not interesting enough. I didn’t really understand that. I mean, I always thought that a good reporter just collected and told the facts, but I guess I was wrong. He opened the store with his wife on their honeymoon, but she left him some years back. Right after she left, he needed a new partner to run the store with because he was lonely. I just happened to be vacationing on Cape May during spring break, because I had won a trip from a silent auction. I had actually brought a lot of books with me, because I always like to be prepared. But I finished them far fasted than I had anticipated. Luckily, at the The Title Wave, you can also trade in used books. I went in to get some new ones, and that’s when I met him. Parker’s a wonderful guy: he’s smart and well-read. He and I spent that week discussing our favorite pieces of literature. His was Ulysses, mine was Jane Eyre. Before I left, he told me that as soon as I graduated, I was welcome to come back and run the store with him, for 50% of the profits. He even said I could live in one of his spare bedrooms. I took him up on his offer because we have a lot in common, and he’s one of the few men I’ve ever felt comfortable around.
We aren’t dating, or anything. I mean, we slept together a few times, back when I was first hired. But I was never really attracted to him. I’ve never been attracted sexually to anyone, actually. I always thought it because something was wrong with me, like I hadn’t found the right person. I thought that sex with Parker would fix everything, but now I think I made a mistake. There was never anything wrong with me, I don’t think. And I feel awful that I had to use Parker to figure that out, but he’s forgiven me now. Sometimes he gets frustrated and upset that I won’t be with him, but I just tell him that I can’t love him.
I’ve never loved anyone, really. I never had any friends I was close to. I didn’t even really love my parents that much. I mean, they’re my parents, so I’m glad they raised me, but I never felt truly connected to them. When my mom died when I was sixteen, I didn’t even cry, even though I know I should have.
The closest I’ve ever felt to love was in 5th grade, with Ms. Blake. She was an angel to me. An oasis from the outside world that I hated so. I think about her loud laugh, and her broad smile, and the way her eyes crinkled up at the corners. I think about how her painted fingernails (I remember them being a fire engine red) would click against the desk when she was frustrated with a student. I even think about the outfit she wore on that very last day of class: an orange tank top and white capri pants, with a silver barrette in her hair, and small diamond earrings.
I also think about one of her last messages to us, that we should always remember the ones who help us. So that if the time comes when they’re in trouble, we can repay the favor.
That’s why when I found out she disappeared, I knew I had to be the one to find her. Because I owe it to Ms. Blake to help her, and find out the truth. Even if it’s inconvenient or uncomfortable.
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