The Wishing Game(14)

Lucy swallowed the knot in her throat again.

“It’s for a little boy in my school,” Lucy said. “He’s going through a hard time, and he doesn’t get a lot of presents.”

“You a teacher?” she asked as she put the sharks into a cardboard box. Lucy pointed at the blue dinosaur paper. Christopher would like that better than the paper with rainbows on it.

“Teacher’s aide at Redwood.”

“Do you know riddles and stuff?”

“Riddles? I guess,” Lucy said, confused by the question. “We do a unit on jokes, puns, and riddles with the kids every April.”

“Do you know this riddle—Why is a raven like a writing desk?” The girl wrapped the paper around the box.

“Yeah, of course,” Lucy said. “It’s from either Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland or Through the Looking-Glass. I can’t remember which one.”

“You know the answer?”

Did she know the answer? Once, long ago, someone had asked her the same riddle as the setup to a joke. There wasn’t a solution, at least not according to Lewis Carroll.

“There isn’t a real answer,” Lucy said. “It’s a Wonderland riddle. Everyone’s mad in Wonderland.”

“Hmm,” the girl said. “Bummer.”

“Why do you ask?”

“People were talking about it online,” the girl said. “I’ve been trying to figure it out all day.”

“Good luck.”

The girl put the wrapped box into a brown bag with a handle and a purple turtle printed on the front. It was a nice gift for fifteen dollars plus sales tax.

But the pirate ship, she thought as she left the store, would have been a lot nicer.



* * *



—

By the time Lucy made it to school, they were singing the final songs—“De Colores” followed by “The Farmer in the Dell” in English and Spanish. When el queso was finally standing alone, the first bell rang, and it was the Rapture all over again. In seconds the classroom was empty but for Lucy and Theresa.

“How’d it go?” Theresa asked Lucy as they both started on cleanup duty.

“Don’t ask,” Lucy said, trying not to cry.

Theresa gave her a quick hug. “I was afraid of that.” She was a woman wise enough not to turn it into a long hug, or Lucy really would start crying again.

Lucy took a shuddering breath and tried to pull herself together for the third or fourth time that day.

“It’s okay. You’ll get there. Just keep saving your pennies.”

She shook her head. “Pennies aren’t going to be enough.”

“Welcome to America,” Theresa said. “They tell us taking care of children is the most important job you can do, and then they pay us like it’s the least important. You know I’d give you the money if I had it to give.”

“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. I’ll just kill myself later.”

“Oh no. You keep that nasty talk out of your mouth.”

“Sorry. Bad day.”

Lucy stepped away from her, picked up the cleaning spray and the rag for the marker boards.

“Lucy?” Theresa stood by her and stared at her. Lucy couldn’t meet her eyes. “Come on, talk to me.”

“It’s not going to happen.”

Theresa gasped softly. “Baby girl, no…”

“I tried everything. The social worker flat out told me today it’s just not possible for me to foster Christopher, and that it was time to tell him.”

“What does she know? She doesn’t know you like I know you.”

“She’s right. He deserves better.”

“Better? What’s better than the best? And you are the best for him. You are.” Theresa poked her gently in the shoulder.

Lucy took a deep breath and forced herself to focus on the marker boards. She wiped them down until they were gleaming white. “What do I know about being a mother? I had terrible parents. I date shitty guys—”

“Sean? Is this about Sean? Because if it is, I don’t care if you’re twenty-six years old, I’ll turn you over my knee right here.”

Lucy laughed softly, miserably, tiredly. “It’s not about Sean. Although he was a dick.”

“World-class dick,” Theresa said. “Broke all the dick records.”

“It’s about reality. And the reality is, it’s never going to happen.”

Theresa exhaled heavily. “I hate reality.”

“I know. I know,” Lucy said, “but for Christopher’s sake—”

“For his sake, do not give up on him.” Theresa took her by the shoulders and gently shook her. “I’ve been a teacher almost twenty years. I’ve met all the bad parents you’d ever want to meet. Parents who buy themselves new clothes and let their kids go to school in shoes three sizes too small. Parents who spank a five-year-old for dropping his glass of milk. Parents who don’t give their kids baths for weeks or wash their clothes. Parents who drive drunk to school with their kids in the front seat with no seat belt on. And those aren’t even the worst ones, Lucy, and you know it.”

“I know, I do. Some of them make my parents look like saints. Well, not really but it could have been worse.” She sat on one of the small round tables. “Mrs. Costa pretty much patted me on the head, told me that it takes a village to raise a child, and said I should call my sister to ask for help.”