Just Another Kid: Each was a child no one could reach – until one amazing teacher embraced them all

Of course, it proved utterly impossible to get back to work. The children were already stirred up. Everybody knew Dr. Taylor was over there. Moreover, she made noises. They were fairly stuporous sounding, and she never managed to rouse herself completely, but every time we heard her, we all jumped. Mariana, Geraldine and Shemona found the whole episode hysterically funny and giggled nonstop. Dirkie remained convinced that I had done her in. Shamie persisted in getting up every few minutes to check around the corner of the shelving to see if she was still there. Unfortunately, she always was. Only Leslie seemed unconcerned. Perhaps she had seen it all before.

After twenty minutes or so of irritatedly trying to keep the children on task, I gave up. There was very little class time left anyhow, and it just didn’t seem worth the aggravation. So, I told the children to collect their belongings and then took them downstairs. Carolyn had music during this period, and I knew she wouldn’t mind a few extra voices. Besides, I figured she owed me one for having supervised her kids at lunch.

“You are never in a million years going to believe what’s going on up in my classroom,” I said, as I ushered my lot through her door.

“Yeah,” said Dirkie brightly. “There’s a dead lady up there.”

Back in the classroom, I knelt beside Dr. Taylor and gave her a good, bone-rattling shake. She responded this time, moaning and rolling over onto her side.

“Get up,” I said, all guise of politeness gone.

Slowly, very slowly, she managed to bring herself into a sitting position. She clasped either side of her head with her hands.

“All the way up. On your feet. Now.”

This proved harder, and I realized suddenly that I wasn’t going to be able to simply open the door and evict her, as I had intended. Supporting her to keep her steady, I guided her around the corner to the table and pulled out a chair. She collapsed into it, hunching forward, elbows on the tabletop, hands over her face.

“Well, this is a hell of a mess,” I said. “What are we going to do with you now?”

She made no response.

“Shit,” I muttered and turned away, walking over to the window. I was really fed up. Why me? Thrusting my hands deep into the pockets of my jeans, I leaned against the radiator and stared outside. I studied the brick wall, the asphalt yard, the chimney stack for several minutes. Then I turned back.

She hadn’t moved.

“Are you okay?” I asked. Seeing her as she was, I had a split-second sensation that she wasn’t.

And I was right. Because the next moment, she was sick. Not slightly, not politely, but appallingly, all over the table, the chair, the floor and herself. She must have brought up a whole week’s worth of food, because it went everywhere.

I squawked and jumped.

Then my mind went absolutely blank for what must have been only a moment or two but seemed like eternity. Paralyzed, I did nothing.

She retched again. Locating the wastebasket, I thrust it into her hands. “Here, use this. I’m going to find the janitor.” And I beat a hasty retreat.

Bill was in the teachers’ lounge with his coffee and the newspaper. “One of your parents?” he asked incredulously. I just rolled my eyes and asked if he had anything in his closet that I could use to help her clean herself up. He tossed me the keys. “Leave it open,” he said. “I’ll be up in a minute.” And he drained the last drops from his coffee mug.

Upstairs in Bill’s closet, I could find nothing but a stack of floor cloths. They looked clean enough, and from the way they were stacked, I assumed they’d been washed and not yet used. I sniffed at a couple. They’d do.

Back in the room, Dr. Taylor had not moved. She’d vomited again, and the wastebasket was between her knees. There was an ungodly odor.

Going over, I opened all the windows to the chilly November air. Then I went back to the sink and took out a plastic dishpan from the cupboard underneath. Running water into it and adding a generous amount of baking soda, I threw in the floor cloths.

“Are you going to be sick again?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded.

“Well then, come over here in this chair.”

She rose, came over and sat.

I washed her. As if she were one of the children, I took the wet floor cloths and simply got on with it, doing the best I could to get the vomit off her clothes and off her. I had no idea what her current mental state was or how capable she was of cleaning herself up, and I was in no mood to inquire. She seemed considerably more sober than earlier but was perfectly willing to let me take care of things. Neither of us spoke a word. I knew when all this was over, the embarrassment was going to be excruciating for both of us, but for the moment all proprieties were suspended. A word from either of us would have broken the spell.

Bill came in, pushing his clanking mop bucket. Smiling at us, he produced a canister of Vomoose and sprinkled it blithely around. Then he went to work with brush and dust pan. Then the mop. He was whistling “Oh! Susanna,” and cleaned up the mess as casually as if it happened every day. The sour smell of vomit was soon overpowered by the almost equally nauseating odor of floral-scented disinfectant.

“See you around, Tor,” he said and marshaled the mop bucket out of the door.

Bill’s cheerful ordinariness displaced some of the tension in the room. I took the dishpan and cloths back to the sink and rinsed them out. Dr. Taylor turned her head to watch me. The color was coming back into her cheeks.

“Would you like some water?” I asked.

She nodded slightly.

All I had back there was my used coffee mug. Rinsing it out, I filled it and brought it over. She took it from me but then drank very little, pausing after only a few sips and lowering the mug. I folded the floor cloths and laid them on the table. The box of baking soda was still to be put away. I held it up.

“This is good stuff,” I said. “It takes the smell away.” Carefully, I pushed the little three-sided flap back down to close it. “I always keep some around. With the kids, you know. It’s very good for getting rid of that horrible odor, and it tends not to hurt your clothes.”

She very briefly caught my eye. Immediately, she looked away and then down. There was a moment of acute discomfort between us as the last seconds of obligatory intimacy melted away. I was as embarrassed about all this as she was, which no doubt had produced my sudden commercial for baking soda.

She stared down at her hands. “You’re disgusted by me, aren’t you?” she said, her voice soft and matter-of-fact.

“Well …” I shrugged and smiled self-consciously. “I’m sure you didn’t come in here intending to do this.”

She kept her head down.

“It was just one of those things,” I said.

“I’m sure you must hate me.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t even know you.”

Her chin quivered.

“I must say, however, that I do think you need to get some help with your drinking. This kind of situation isn’t doing anybody any good.”

Bringing a hand up, she covered her eyes a moment, pressing against them in an effort to keep the tears back. “Some days I want to kill myself,” she said.

Unexpectedly, I found myself feeling intense compassion for the woman. Her distress was suddenly so powerful that it filled the air around us. I could have touched it with my fingers. My feelings were intensified, as I watched her struggle so desperately to keep the tears back. After all the humiliating things she had already done, this rather minor loss of control seemed to be the one troubling her most. In an odd way, that moved me.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“I don’t mean just here, now. In general. Is there something I can do to help?”