Love and Sorrow (Small Town Secrets Book 5) Read online

  Love and Sorrow

  (Small Town Secrets #5)

  Jade C. Jamison

  Copyright

  Copyright 2011, 2015, 2021 by Jade C. Jamison

  Cover image © prometeus/ Depositphotos

  Cover design © Mr. Jamison

  Portions of this novel were previously published in 2011 and 2015 under the titles Worst Mother and Laid Bare.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be constructed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Chapter One

  My name is Randi Miller and I am a grade A fuck up.

  Maybe that’s not the best introduction—but that’s sure as hell how I was feeling at the ripe old age of thirty-two, walking through the doors of the middle school I’d attended years ago. The idea of going to the principal’s office still created a painful knot in my stomach, making me feel like I needed to throw up.

  Today was no different, even though I was going to the principal’s office on account of my daughter. We needed to talk about Sarah’s behavior, the secretary had said over the phone, accusing me with her voice of being a shitty parent.

  No worries. I’ve already got that in the bag. No judgment necessary.

  I’d been at work when I got the call and my stomach had been twisted ever since I’d hung up.

  Behavior…yes, I’d noticed a change in Sarah over the past year, but I was hoping it was something she’d grow out of. After all, I could remember the discomfort of emerging breasts, the awkwardness of getting dark hair in places previously bare. And how could I forget the nervous anticipation of starting to bleed—and the messy reality when it actually happened? When I noticed Sarah becoming more withdrawn, more introverted, I let her know she had my love and support—all while keeping that delicate balance of not letting her younger brother Devon feel left out. I stressed a little about it, but I thought for sure Sarah would grow out of it.

  Now, though? I wasn’t so certain. Sarah had just started middle school five weeks ago and, in that short amount of time, I’d been called by the school more than once a week for her behavior. While I’d talked to Sarah about the school issues and kept hoping things would get better, I realized today on my drive to the school that the problems wouldn’t just fix themselves. And I was completely out of my league here. My kids hadn’t come equipped with an owner’s manual. Was I not disciplining Sarah properly? Did I need to force more attention on her whether she wanted it or not?

  I turned the key to shut off the ignition to the old green minivan after parking in the lot on the side of the middle school. Taking a deep breath, I steeled myself for dealing with whatever was coming. This past year had just been getting shittier and shittier. Sarah had been growing more reluctant about going to school, but it was a struggle to try to get her to talk about it. In fact, over the past school year, Sarah had had more sick days than for the entire remainder of her school career. I’d known some of those days had been Sarah faking feeling bad, like how her stomach always “hurt.” Her grades were still good, so I didn’t worry about the times she didn’t attend. I was just concerned about her in general—but I kept assuring myself it was a phase.

  By now, though, I was pretty sure it had moved past that point.

  As I got out of the van, I grabbed my black purse before walking across the parking lot toward the front of the school. My long brown hair blew behind me in the light fall breeze. I couldn’t get my jaw to unclench, and that feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach wouldn’t go away. At least with Sarah’s other infractions this school year, I’d talked with the principal on the phone. Today, though, the secretary had insisted I come to the school so I could talk to the principal in person.

  No, she didn’t give a shit that I was at work.

  So I made a few frantic phone calls to my boss and co-workers, leaving my job as soon as backup arrived.

  Walking up the concrete sidewalk to the door, I tried to relax. On any other day, I might have smiled, remembering my days attending this same school, with the pandemonium of pimples and the glees of giggling with my girlfriends here. The old brown bricks and patchy lawn under maple trees bordered by juniper bushes where I and my friends would sit after school in the spring, telling stories about our futures: what movie star or music god we’d marry, what we wanted to study in high school and beyond, what high-profile career we’d have.

  Ha. What would my girlfriends think of me now?

  I pulled on one of the old metal and glass doors, still recalling the feeling of its weight in my clenched hand. Then, some twenty years ago, I’d looked much like I did today—deeply dark brown irises that fused with ebony pupils, a smattering of freckles on my nose and the apples of my cheeks, although they faded more with every year. I was still of medium build, not skinny but not overweight. Back then my breasts had just been starting to bud, nowhere near the C-cup I wore now, thanks to my kids. I’d been at least a foot shorter then, though, and I definitely didn’t have the tiny lines near the corners of my eyes. Years ago, my hair had been shoulder-length, framing my slender face. Now, looking at it in the reflection of the glass door, my face seemed gaunt.

  Too fucking much in too short a time.

  I bit down on my lip to force myself to focus as I walked inside. The unusually warm air in the building hit my face, stifling my breath, and more sense memory took over my brain, thanks to the scent of over-ripe apples and pine floor cleaner mingled with the faint odor of cheap body sprays the tweens in the building were experimenting with.

  Jesus. My stomach did a somersault as I took another step.

  The feeling of authority of this place at the front of the building—the high ceilings in the entryway commanded attention, the walls of glass in front of the counselor’s office on the right side and the front office on the left—all of it filled me with a sense of dread.

  Swallowing the saliva pooling in my mouth, I turned to the left, walking in the office. The first thing I noticed was how the space had been remodeled since my days here, and that helped ground me a little bit. Today, the office had a modern feel with a large wall-to-wall counter in front of a sea of beige cubicles. The middle-aged woman with short black hair behind the counter sat, making her head partially obscured by the counter. She wore a headset that made her look like she was going to take the stage and start dancing and singing like Britney Spears.

  Obviously, she was too busy for me, lifting her head a bit to acknowledge I was there but refusing to make eye contact.

  Fine.

  Glancing behind me, I noticed three yellow plastic chairs against the wall, and I sat down. The counter didn’t obscure the woman’s voice, and I heard everything she said in multiple conversations. After wishing one caller to have a nice day, she immediately said, “Roosevelt Middle School. May I help you?” It was then that she peeked over the counter to give me a slight smile—or at least that was what I thought she was doing. I couldn’t quite tell because I could only see her from the nose up.

  I was growing impatient, but when I crossed my legs, I forced myself to not bounce the upper one. Acting irritated would not help me get service any faster. Focusing all my energy on my thin fingers, I pushed back the occasional cuticle—but with only ten digits, that distraction did
n’t last long.

  The woman’s voice could have filled an auditorium so it made the small space where I sat feel crowded. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Brennan, but we need you to sign that permission slip if he’s allowed on the field trip. It’s standard procedure.” Just listening to her speak made me more nervous, and I tried to drown out her pleas of bureaucracy and red tape, but maybe that would have been better than worrying about my child. After all, there was nothing I could do until I talked to the principal. Finally, she hung up the call and, looking at me through heavily lined eyes, she gave me a pinched smile before speaking. “What can I do for you?”

  It wasn’t until I stood that I noticed my legs were shaking ever so slightly. “I’m Sarah Miller’s mother. I got a call that I needed to come in.”

  When the woman’s brows seemed to furrow ever so slightly, I told myself I was imagining it. Still, my breakfast churned in my gut like a rollercoaster. “Yes. I spoke with you on the phone earlier.” As she talked, she didn’t even pretend to hide her glance at the clock on the wall.

  Like I didn’t know it had been well over an hour ago.

  “I got here as quickly as I could.”

  “The principal wanted to talk with you. Just a moment, please.” Quickly, she pressed a button on the phone. “Mr. Cooper, Sarah Miller’s mother is here to see you.” Then, looking back at me, she said, “He’ll be here in just a moment.”

  So should I sit down again or just wait where I stood? The way I felt at the moment, I didn’t know that I’d be able to stand up again, so I stayed in place—figuring Ms. Personality here would ask me to sit down if he’d take longer than I was anticipating.

  Soon, though, I saw a man emerge from a doorway before making his way through a jungle of cubicles, towering over them. My first thought? He was the epitome of what every middle school principal should look like: middle aged, balding, but in good shape, dressed in brown slacks, polished black shoes, and a pressed white long-sleeve buttoned down shirt with a brown tie. The man exuded authority and, had I been Sarah’s age, I would have found him intimidating. Now, though, I could see just a hint of compassion in his eyes combined with the stern image he was trying to project.

  As he closed the gap, he extended his hand to me. “Bob Cooper. You’re Sarah’s mom?”

  Goddammit. Suddenly, my mouth was as dry as the desert. I tried licking my lips to no avail, but I managed to get some words out. “Yes. Randi Miller.” When he took my hand, he nearly crushed the bones. Then I felt nauseous and my mouth started watering.

  Maybe he didn’t notice.

  “Let’s go to my office.” Soon, we’d navigated through the ocean of cubicles and I followed him into his office to the left. “Have a seat,” he said, indicating the yellow chairs across from his desk, seats that matched the one I’d just been sitting in. His desk was monstrous, made all the more obvious by what little he had on it—a computer monitor, a penholder, and a large nameplate. His office was pretty nice, though, as he had a view of the lawn in front of the middle school and the surrounding neighborhood. To one side of the office, he had a huge bookshelf crammed with titles having to do with education, communication, and adolescents, and I wondered if he’d actually read them or if they were just for show. Oh, and there were also trophies, probably meant to impress anyone who bothered looking at them.

  Meanwhile, I continued stifling the urge to lose my breakfast.

  Mr. Cooper at least closed the door before crossing to his leather swivel chair by the window. “I appreciate you coming here today.”

  I had to swallow again before speaking. “What did she do now?”

  The way he folded his hands together on top of his desk made another shot of adrenaline rush through my veins, but I managed to maintain eye contact as he spoke. “As you know, Sarah seems to be having some difficulties adjusting.”

  Talk about overstating the obvious. All at once, I felt woefully inadequate. Here was this man—well dressed, well spoken—and here I was, a single mother, looking like hell, wearing a work uniform consisting of a white t-shirt, khaki pants, and white sneakers, topped with a jean jacket, my brown hair pulled up in a ponytail. And I wondered if my appearance was part of why he seemed to be patronizing me. So I simply replied, “Yes, I know.” Of course, I knew. How the fuck could I not?

  Then I felt guilty as his expression softened—as if to tell me, hey, I’m not the bad guy here. “This isn’t entirely uncommon, Mrs. Miller.” While I could have interrupted him to correct him—I was not a missus—I kept my trap shut. “Many kids are already having difficulties. Their bodies are changing, sometimes on a daily basis. Then throw on top of that a new school environment, different expectations, more kids. We’re used to dealing with our students having those sorts of struggles.” As if to emphasize his next words, he leaned forward, pressing his hands together. “But what’s been going on with Sarah is extreme and, as you know, I also have the duty of protecting the other students who attend school here.”

  What the hell was he saying? Like my daughter was a threat? And, if that were the case, why the fuck was he pussyfooting around the issues?

  As I started to respond, I realized I was digging the fingernails of one hand into the other, and I practically had to pry them apart, all while maintaining eye contact with the principal. “What did she do today?” Altercating with another student between classes? Writing school sucks on the whiteboard? Calling a teacher stupid?

  “Mrs. Miller, Sarah set a fire in the trashcan in one of the girls’ bathrooms just after lunch period.”

  Of all the potential responses, I had not expected that one—and as much as I hated to admit it to myself, this was most definitely escalated behavior. “But where did she get a lighter or matches?” Not that it mattered. I tried wracking my brain, wondering if I was missing a lighter or cash—but before I could dig too deep, Mr. Cooper started speaking again.

  “I don’t think we need to worry about that right now. What we need to be concerned about is the behavior she’s been displaying. She’s been aggressive up until now, but this is violent and dangerous. It’s an indication of something deeper that perhaps we’re just not aware of.”

  “What do you mean exactly?”

  “I’m saying I think there’s something else going on that we don’t know about.” He paused, tapping his finger on the desk, making me feel all the more nervous. “Has she been hanging out with any new friends lately, friends she didn’t have in elementary school?”

  Hmm. Sarah had had sleepovers in the past, had talked for hours on end with friends on my cell until I’d remind her she’d been on long enough—and, of course, she’d tell me stories almost daily about what she and her friends had done in school. But, hell, that hadn’t happened in a long time. In fact, I couldn’t remember Sarah talking on the phone or spending the night with a friend—or having a friend over—since before Christmas of last year. What the hell did that even mean? “Now that you mention it, I really don’t know. She…she hasn’t been as close to her friends lately. I’ve asked her several times if she’s made new friends now that she’s in middle school, and she gives me blow-off answers. I don’t know any of her new friends.” I was ashamed to admit it, but I’d been preoccupied in all my own shit to really focus on my daughter, other than when these events had occurred. Once more, my fingernails were digging into my hands, so I straightened out my hands on my lap. “Do you think she’s in with the wrong crowd?”

  “If she is, it’s not while she’s here in school. How long is she gone from home in the evenings?” How could he be so sure things weren’t happening in his building? I was on the defensive, and that wouldn’t be helpful, so I tried to be rational.

  “She and her brother walk to my neighbor’s house after school. I usually get home between four and five o’clock, and she’s always there. My neighbor is also their babysitter—if Sarah was late getting there, she would have told me.”

  “What about before school?”

  “I drive them
to school myself before work.”

  “I’m grasping at straws. Her behavior is…not typical. In fact, I think it’s safe to say what she’s doing now is extreme. She just may be having a harder time adjusting than most other children, and we’re not helping her in a way that’s conducive to her needs.”

  “I’ve tried everything I can think of—talking to her, reminding her that I love her and I’m here for her, trying to give her special days and things. I don’t know what to do anymore.” Oh, fuck. Overcome with emotion. Just what I needed. Tears were threatening to spill from the corners of my eyes, so I fought hard to will them back.

  “Have you thought of therapy? Maybe she needs someone to talk to, to vocalize it with, someone other than family.” Leaning forward slightly, he lowered his voice. “Are you and your husband having problems?”

  Shit. This was one of the many things I felt guilty about. “Her father and I are not together.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe that’s part of the problem. Divorce can cause children to behave rather irrationally. Their feelings can manifest themselves outwardly in—”

  “No, her father and I haven’t been together in over ten years. That can’t be it.”

  “Oh.” Mr. Cooper paused, and I tried not to imagine what the hell might have been going on in his head. “I don’t mean to press into delicate matters, but I assure you my concern is solely for Sarah’s well-being. Is there another father figure in her life or someone who recently left?”

  Jesus. No matter how I answered this one, I was going to sound like white trash, like a train careening off the rails. But no matter what this man thought, I was fairly stable and my kids came first. “I’ve been seeing someone for a little over a year.”

  “Are you living together?”

  One word shot out of my mouth like a bullet, far too abrupt, like I was protesting. “No.”

  The principal didn’t seem to notice. “Is her behavior different now compared to her behavior before you started dating?”