Part 70: Victoria

Mrs. Brixton didn’t make any comment about the time. She just glanced at the clock on the radio when Victoria got in the car and that was enough. “Sorry,” Victoria said hurriedly. “He wouldn’t let me leave. Go ask him if you don’t believe me.” Part of her wanted to see that conflict, that collision of worlds: wanted to see Mr. Brown put in his place by the strong, powerful Woman who raised her. He would pee his pants, she thought gleefully.

There was something to tell Courtney Collins tomorrow, as long as she could remember it.

One nice thing about being best friends with Courtney instead of Hannah, she reflected as Mrs. Brixton wordlessly started driving, was that you didn’t always have to tell the truth.

She promptly hated herself for the thought. How dare she be so disloyal to Hannah, especially since (if Mr. Brown could be trusted) she wasn’t gone, she was just away . . .

“Mom.” She broke the silence. “Mom?”

“Yes, Victoria,” Mrs. Brixton replied. Angry but not at her, the way she sounded when she got off the phone with someone from work, or when she was at work, or when she was thinking about work. So most of the time.

“Mom. What does away mean?”

“Away? I’m not going to answer stupid questions. You know what away means.”

“I know, but like . . .” She couldn’t make it sound like it had anything to do with Hannah, of course. “So if something goes away, does that mean it’s always going to come back, or, like, could it be gone forever?”

Mrs. Brixton felt that her worst intuitions about that English teacher were being confirmed. She figured it was best to address the problem head-on: “Don’t take anything that guy says too seriously.”

“Guy?”

“That Mr . . . Gray, was it? Brown? He’s filling your head with all kinds of . . . nonsense.” She wanted to use the adjective Elizabethan, but it wouldn’t land. Victoria probably didn’t even know who Queen Elizabeth (the real one, the original) was, even after they’d talked about her on Saturday, and that was what she needed - the sort of hard, solid fact she should be learning in English class. Not vague abstractions about the implications of perfectly ordinary and understandable words.

So did that mean Hannah was gone? Victoria wondered. How could her mom know what Mr. Brown had said to her - she thought she had been so careful.

“Besides, you’ve got to remember,” Mrs. Brixton continued, over the sound of her phone buzzing in the center console (less important, whatever it was, than saving her youngest daughter from the creeping tide of postmodernism.) “He’s your teacher, yes, so you have to treat him with respect. But he’s also only, like, twenty-six.”

“Twenty-six? No way.” Mr. Brown couldn’t be twenty-six; Xander Cross was twenty-six.

“Give or take a couple years. What, you think he’s older? Younger?”

“I don’t know.” Victoria had never thought of him as having an age, really. He was just Mr. Brown. She no longer thought, as she had in elementary school, that teachers lived at the school, but she didn’t put a lot of effort into imagining their lives, either. The phone buzzed again, rattling the jar of pills. “Um, Mom? Are you gonna answer that?”

“No, I don’t think so. I need a break from work. Besides, those things cause cancer.” That had been the conclusion of the research she had perused that afternoon, the Best Guess of the Best Minds. She used Victoria’s computer since she couldn’t get into hers - guessing Victoria’s password was easier than correctly typing her own, apparently. In fact, that was what she had been doing when Mr. Brown called. Naturally, she let that call go to Voicemail: the Best Minds didn’t say anything about whether checking voicemails caused brain cancer.

“They do?”

“Maybe. The results are inconclusive so far, but with more research we will arrive at a certain answer before long.” Saying we made her feel proud and personally involved, which she was by dint of her work; but it also kind of sounded like how men talk about football teams. A distasteful thought. “So what did that man have you do for your detention?”

“Nothing. I just sat there. Then he tried to talk to me at the end. And make me say I was sorry.”

“And did you?”

“Yeah.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Mrs. Brixton said flatly. As soon as she said it, Victoria knew it was true. Hannah certainly wouldn't have apologized.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Stop apologizing so much. And please -” she held out her hand - “don’t say that you’re sorry for apologizing too much.”

“Okay. I won’t.” They were almost home now, and Victoria hadn’t gotten an answer to any of the questions that mattered to her - really the same question, just in different forms: was Hannah gone forever or just for a little while, should she trust Courtney Collins or Mr. Brown, and when could she have her computer back? The relationship between the three questions sent her into a thought-spiral once again, and once again it was set to the soundtrack of an incessantly vibrating phone.

There was another car in their driveway. A boring black sedan. Not the car of anyone they knew.

Victoria watched enough TV to know this couldn’t be good. Random cars in your driveway usually meant someone was missing or dead. As long as it wasn’t . . .

“Todd?!” Mrs. Brixton exclaimed, walking straight up to the driver’s side window like a cop with a quota to meet. Victoria hovered a safe distance behind her, fingertips back in her mouth.

A sweaty man, somehow both blushing and pale, started to lower his window, thought better of it, and closed it again, fumbling with the controls. He shut off the ignition and got out of his car, trying to assume an authoritative pose there in the driveway, but suburban driveways don’t lend themselves to that. His suit looked ridiculous, out-of-place, ill-fitting. “Mrs. Brixton. I’ve come here today on behalf of the company, which would like to inquire as to your whereabouts.”

“As I’ve just finished explaining to my daughter, Todd, I don’t answer stupid questions,” Mrs. Brixton said, stretching the meaning of just just a little bit.

“Yes, well. It is obvious now where you presently, physically are located, yes. But the company is more concerned with where you have been.”

“Let me again draw your attention to my daughter,” she said, indicating Victoria with her whole arm. Victoria removed her fingers from her mouth long enough to give a nervous wave. “And she has been through a traumatic experience this afternoon and I don’t feel that your presence is a particularly therapeutic one.”

“Now, Theresa, as your . . .”

“Mrs. Brixton.”

“Regardless. As your direct superior . . .”

“My what?” She pretended to be hard of hearing, cupped her hand around her ear. Victoria felt the pit in her stomach start to disintegrate, bubble up as pleasure. It wasn’t Mr. Brown but it was something. “Are you implying that because you are a man and I am a woman, that you are . . .”

“Of course, of course not,” Todd stammered. “I was only referring to the hierarchical structure of the company, for which I know you have the greatest . . .”

“And can you tell me, Todd. For one hundred percent certain. That you did not acquire your place in that hierarchy. By virtue of your being male. Can you?”

“I mean, of course it’s possible it was a factor, one among many, but also . . .”

“And so.” Victoria watched her mother in awe. “Aren’t you. By speaking to me in such a manner. Not even using my preferred term of address. Are you not perpetuating the patriarchy? Don’t forget that there are such things as lawsuits. There is the Human Resources department. I suggest you think long and hard about everything you say to me. If you wouldn’t want to hear it read back to you in a courtroom, you shouldn’t say it in this driveway. Also don’t forget that I have a witness.” She turned back and winked at Victoria. “And one with particular incentive to be loyal.”

Todd sputtered for a little bit, fished in his pockets and pulled out a couple of notecards, glanced at them, put them away. Mrs. Brixton watched him. Regal, a statue. “Yes, well. Be that as it may. The company still has, uh, concerns, regarding your attendance, and your committment, and well . . .” Something snapped inside him. “You can’t just leave!” he burst out.

“I can’t leave? You’re trying to tell me, a woman, what I can and can’t do?”

“Yes! I am your boss, Mrs. Brixton. And moreover, I am here with the express permission and foreknowledge of the Vice President, who has authorized me, and invested me with the power to inform you that . . .” The notecards again. “We are very grateful for your years of service, and humbled to have been the home of your professional growth, and wish you well in all your future endeavors.”

“Well. You’re welcome. Now if that will be all, can you get the hell out of my driveway and I’ll see you at work tomorrow. I’ve got a killer headache.”

Victoria felt like she was watching a tennis match without knowing the rules of tennis.

“Uh. I’m sorry if I haven’t made myself clear. Your services have been greatly appreciated by the company, and they have contributed greatly to . . . however, going forward . . .”

“Yes?” Mrs. Brixton still hadn’t moved, physically or otherwise.

“Going forward, we feel . . . the company feels . . .”

“Companies don’t feel anything. And by the way, that is not what the word humbled means. Let’s stop using words like they don’t mean anything. That’s how people like my poor daughter get so confused.”

Victoria was confused, but since the word “daughter” she was mostly confused about what her mom thought she was confused about.

“Enough with the euphemisms, Todd. Grow some ovaries and say what you mean.”

“Theresa, you’re being let go. Released. Laid off. Fired. Canned. Are any of those direct enough for you?” Todd was frazzled. An outside observer would have thought, based on posture alone, that he was the one losing his job.

Mrs. Brixton just fake-laughed. “You can’t fire me. I’ll own that company within a few years.”

“You’re not going to be able to play the woman card this time, there is a well-documented pattern and history of . . .”

“Todd. I have cancer.” One of the few words that has the power to shut people up, change entire situations, alter the future. Victoria’s anxiety returned with a vengeance, and it suddenly seemed like this was what she had been worrying about. “A brain tumor, to be exact. And I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, I’ll go ahead and assume you’re not, but some of the symptoms of brain tumors include: forgetfulness, irritability, short temper, inattentiveness. And yes, sometimes people with cancer may need to leave work early on occasion. Now, I’m not sure what the company policy about firing employees for having cancer is, but I’d strongly suggest you look into it before this goes any further.”

“Oh my god, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.” Todd backed away, ran into his side-mirror. "Are you sure?"

"Are you, a man, trying to tell me, a woman, the truth about my own body?"

"No, I would never . . I just . . .sorry, I'm sorry."

“Don’t apologize, Todd. It makes you look weak. Now, I will see you at work tomorrow.”

“Yes, of course.”

“It wasn’t a question.”

“Of course not. Mrs. Brixton. And it was nice to meet you,” he said awkwardly to Victoria, who waved again, numb. “And again, I’m so . . . well, right. Terrible circumstances. But. Right.” He climbed back into his car, even more ungracefully than he had gotten out of it, which no one present would have believed possible, and drove away, a mess of a man. 

Mrs. Brixton marched into the house, in good spirits again, her headache reduced to a dull throb, like a gas burner turned down to its lowest setting. Victoria ran after her, desperate to be near her, to keep her from slipping away. “Mom. Do you really have . . .”

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Brixton replied from the bathroom, as if Victoria had asked what they were going to have for dinner. The toilet flushed; sink ran for a full happy-birthday-to-you. “Probably not,” she said, opening the door. “So tell me. I’m curious. What did you say to get detention?”

“But.”

“But what?”

“Just but.”

“But?” Mrs. Brixton found her way into the living room, sat down. Victoria followed her because of the c-word. “Oh! Butt? With two t’s? Why would you say butt? You’re thirteen years old, Victoria.”

“No, not butt, but!” Victoria insisted.

“One-t but?”

“Yeah.”

“But . . .” Mrs. Brixton wrinkled her brow, remembering. “That man left me a voicemail that said you were horribly disrespectful and called him a bad teacher and there was something in there about Hannah, too. Are you telling me none of that happened?”

“No, it happened. But that’s not why I got detention.”

“I see.”

They sat in silence (well, near-silence - the clock ticked) for a few minutes: Mrs. Brixton on the couch, Victoria on the chair (perfect posture, hands folded in her lap, on the edge of her seat) - again because of the c-word. But even cancer can’t trump television. Mrs. Brixton grabbed the remote, turned it on to whatever channel it was already on, and accepted the screen’s invitation to let her mind wander.

I should have been a teacher, she thought. I should have been a lawyer. I should have been a goddamn judge.

Victoria sat there prim and proper like a Girl Scout for as long as she could bear, Spending Time with her Mother who had Cancer. Or didn’t, maybe - it wasn’t clear. (But she would tell Courtney she did, tomorrow morning at school, and make her swear not to tell anyone else.) Everything was gray, everything was blurry in this world without a computer. Hannah was gone and away at the same time, her mother did and didn’t have a brain tumor (and a job), Mr. Brown and Xander Cross existed in the same universe. This must have been what it was like in the Past, back before they invented colors and computers and truth.