Just the Nicest Couple(83)

“Mrs. Hayes,” someone says. A hand rises up in the back of the classroom, waving to get my attention. “Mrs. Hayes, someone is here. It’s Dr. Sanders.”

A hush falls across the room. I follow everyone’s gaze. I look over to see the school principal’s face in the glass as he steps back from the door, his hand falling away from the door, going to rest at his side. Through the window, our eyes meet. He holds mine for a second, and then he lets go, looking away, somber.

Someone at the back of the room drops a book and I startle. My gaze darts from Dr. Sanders to the felled book, as the student who dropped it swoops down to pick it up. She rises up, looking at me. “Sorry,” she says, and I nod.

There is something very premonitory, almost apocalyptic, about this moment. Outside the classroom windows, a cloud moves past the sun, shading its light. It gets darker in the room, as if someone dimmed a light. The students fall silent, seeing Dr. Sanders through the glass and worrying he’s here for them. He only comes when someone is in trouble, and not just the vaping-in-the-bathroom kind of trouble, but the kind that comes with serious consequences like suspension or expulsion. The students look sideways at one another, wondering who he’s here for this time, hedging bets on my two biggest troublemakers, who sit on opposite sides of the room toward the back of the classroom, practically frozen, though almost everyone, it seems, based on their reaction, has something to feel guilty for, something to fear. It’s human nature.

But somewhere in my gut I know.

Dr. Sanders hasn’t come for any one of them. He’s come for me.

“Excuse me,” I breathe. I move from the front of the classroom to the door. On the other side of it, Dr. Sanders sees me coming. His head lifts and he offers an empathetic smile.

I open the door. “Nina,” he says. “Sorry to interrupt.”

“Is everything okay, Dr. Sanders?” I ask as I step out into the hall, pulling the door halfway closed behind me.

Dr. Sanders isn’t always the most approachable man. He’s stone-faced and detached as if by virtue of the job. He has to be, because he can’t be falling for every seventeen-year-old’s sob story. And yet, he sets his hand on my shoulder, lowers his eyes to me and speaks in a soothing, low tone. “There is someone in my office that would like to speak with you, Nina. You go. I’ll take care of your class.”

“But—”

“Don’t worry about anything here. We’ll be fine. You just go.”

I nod. I walk through the halls like a prisoner being led to her execution, though I’m all alone, and there isn’t even a guard to keep me company as I shamble to my death chamber. There is no one to plead to for a final pardon. The halls are vacant. Behind closed doors, the students are silent as if time has stopped, as if I’m the only one in the universe still moving.

When I come to the office, Officer Boone is there with another uniformed officer. He holds his peaked hat in his hands as I enter Dr. Sanders’s office. He says, “Mrs. Hayes. Please. Sit,” as someone from the other side pulls the door slowly closed behind me. I turn but it’s too late. I don’t see the door close but I hear the sound of it as the latch settles into place.

A chair has been pulled out in anticipation of my arrival. It’s in the dead center of the room, facing Officer Boone.

“No, thank you,” I say, as if by not sitting in the chair I can avoid what comes next. “I’ll stand.”

Officer Boone tells it to me straight. He doesn’t use euphemistic language. He doesn’t delay. My worst fears are confirmed. Jake, he says, is dead.

“We found a body a few days ago and the medical examiner has just confirmed that it’s your husband, Jake. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Hayes.”

I myself go dead, blank, numb. I change my mind and decide that I’d like to sit after all, sinking into the chair by degrees, clutching the arms of the chair with my hands.

“Are you alright, Mrs. Hayes? Can I get you something? Some water?”

“No. When did you find him?” I ask, and he tells me. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“In cases like these, we have to be absolutely certain of a positive identification before the family is informed. As you can understand, we can’t be making any mistakes.”

“How did it happen?” I ask. As he tells me, I choke on air, gasping. It’s too much. I can’t stand to imagine it, to think of what happened to Jake in those final moments before he died.

Leaving the office, I pass vacantly by Pam. “Oh, Nina,” she says, and I feel the brush of her warm, trembling hand against my arm, before that same hand rises up to her mouth and she chokes back a sob. Someone has already been down to my classroom to collect my things and, I stand there, like a mannequin, being dressed with my own jacket and purse, my arms shaped to fit into the sleeves. People watch. There is an audience. They gather and collect in the school entrance, just outside the main office, as the assistant dean ushers them along, telling students to get back to class. But there are police here, and everyone is curious. They want to know why there are police here. And then they see Pam with her red face and her red eyes crying and me being attended to, and they make assumptions. There are whispers. People speak behind closed hands. The hallways fill with the quiet susurration of voices, noise, but it’s all very distant and I feel dead inside, like this is happening to someone else and not me.