Page 21 of Forever Dead

Selena did not understand the words immediately.

Then she did.

“Eleanor Marsh?”

“Yeah.”

Pain tightened across her chest. Not sharp enough to be physical injury, but sudden and deep, as if her body had braced for something before her mind caught up.

She turned back toward the windshield. Golden branches moved in the low sun, almost beckoning her toward the woods.

“Who would do that to Miss Marsh?”

“I don’t know.”

“Everyone loved her.”

“I know. Everyone loved her, Selena.” Connor paused. “I wanted to let you know because of... You know.”

She turned. “What?”

For a moment neither of them spoke. Connor seemed to realize he had started a sentence he no longer knew how to finish.

“She was your favorite teacher and the way things were between you.”

“She was, but most of the town could say that.”

“I know, but what I meant was...”

The motel disappeared. Selena was thirteen again.

The hallway stretched too brightly in front of her, children moving past in groups while she stood against the wall and tried to breathe. Her father had told her that morning.

Cancer. Her mother had cancer.

The word had followed Selena through the school day, growing larger every time she tried not to think about it. She had made it until the afternoon before something inside her gave way. One moment she was walking. The next she was crying so hard she could not catch her breath.

A classroom door opened, and Eleanor Marsh stepped into the hallway. She had been younger then, her hair still mostly brown, a folder tucked beneath one arm. She took one glance at Selena, placed the folder on a windowsill, and came straight toward her.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

Selena tried to turn away, but Miss Marsh did not ask what was wrong in front of everyone. She did not tell her to calm down. She simply put both arms around her and held on.

Selena buried her head against the woman’s shoulder. “My mom’s sick.”

“Your father told me.”

“She has cancer.”

“I know, honey.”

“She’s going to die.”

Miss Marsh drew back just far enough to speak to her. “This isn’t the end, Selena.”

At thirteen, Selena had not understood how anyone could say that. Years later, she still remembered the exact gentleness of her voice.

Miss Marsh had never treated Selena differently afterward. That mattered, too. There had been no careful voice in class, no public checking to see whether she was coping, no invitation for the other students to notice that something had changed at home. When Selena needed somewhere quiet at lunch, Miss Marsh had let her sit in the classroom and read. Most days they barely spoke. Years later, Selena had understood the kindness in that.