Her name was Larissa Cleary-Schoenbach, and she was twenty-seven when she passed. It mentioned no family, no cause of death, no photograph. Nothing more than a birthdate and a single line about a private sunrise memorial service tomorrow morning and the words INVITATION ONLY in bold red letters. All caps.
I spent a few minutes Googling “Larissa Cleary-Schoenbach” earlier this morning. But I couldn’t find a thing.
No social media.
No LinkedIn.
No archived newspaper articles of any kind.
No graduation archives; high school, college or otherwise.
It’s as if this woman never existed.
“Good morning, good morning!” I take my place at the front of the room, grinning and waving and trying to psych them up for the day. Fridays are hard. The kids are exhausted, attention spans are waning. My students hang their jackets and bags on their hooks and then make their way to their assigned square on the rug. “Happy Friday!”
I maintain the smile on my face, sing our morning song, and begin the day’s lesson, but today I can’t help but feel like I’m merely going through the motions. My mind is fixated on that man from the bar last night—and the mystery woman he’s burying.
With the hyphenated name and similar age, it’s fair to assume she was his wife.
At first I thought it seemed odd that she’d have a private sunrise memorial service, but maybe sunrises were her thing? And maybe her passing was so tragic and unspeakable that all he wants is to protect her privacy?
By the time the kids head out for first recess ninety minutes later, I’ve concocted a beautiful love story for the two of them. I’ve imagined a passionate, love-at-first-sight romance.
Trips to Paris.
A sunset proposal.
Slow dances in empty bars.
Lazy Sunday afternoons sipping tea and trading poetry.
Saturday strolls in Lincoln Park.
New Year’s Eve kisses on snowy hotel balconies, her lashes covered in snowflakes as he wraps her tight to keep her warm.
In my heart of hearts, I want to believe he was beautifully, wonderfully kind to her.
That he loved her more than anything in the entire world.
That her death shattered his heart into a million, irreparable pieces.
I want to believe that that was the cause of his cruelty last night.
That he’s simply angry at the world for taking the love of his life away from him.
Death and loss can do a number on you. It can change your entire personality if you let it. Some of my darkest days came in the months following Trevor’s passing.
I want to believe Bennett has friends and family getting him through this, but last night, Eduardo mentioned that when Bennett stops in, he never talks to anyone—which leads me to assume he only comes solo.
Maybe he’s painfully private?
Maybe she was his entire world? All he had?
Maybe they’d had a falling out and weren’t speaking when she died?
The kids return from recess, peeling out of their scarves and gloves, cheeks flushed and eyes wet from the cold. Making my way to the front of the classroom to start the next lesson, I decide to do what Trevor would do if here were still here: I give the cruel stranger from last night the benefit of the doubt.
And then I carry on with my day.
The final bell of the day chimes at 2:55, and I walk my class to the bus line.
Five minutes pass, then ten, and by the time the buses and jam-packed mini vans and shiny Suburbans, Denalis, and Escalades are long gone, I’m left with one remaining student.
“Guess it’s just us,” I say to a despondent-looking Honor Smith. This isn’t the first time, nor will it be the last time she’s late being picked up. “Why don’t you come back to the classroom? We can wait for Lucy there.”
“Ms. Carraro, can I sit in the special reader’s chair? Please, please, please?” She slides her hand in mine, twirls a shiny dark wave around her little finger, and grins as we walk back. Her spirit has changed from dejected to upbeat with the realization that she won’t have to share the secondhand beanbag all the kids fight over.
“Of course you can, sweetheart.”
I don’t favor students. Ever. But I love this little girl to pieces. In some ways, when I look at her, it’s like my entire childhood is staring back at me.
Honor’s newest foster mom fosters four other kids, and after-school pick-ups involve dashing from one side of town to the next, from primary schools to junior highs and high schools, and praying to the traffic gods that there are no delays or surprise detours.
I was about her age when I was placed in my first home.
Little did I know, it’d be my first of thirteen.
I had so much hope, so much trust in the grown-ups enlisted to care for me. The years that followed were a cocktail of everything that is right and wrong in this world, but in the end, none of it broke me—and much of that I owe to the beautiful woman who adopted me when I was a rebellious, smart-mouthed, fourteen-year-old know-it-all.
In many ways, she salvaged my life.
Or saved it.
I want that for Honor. I want someone to teach her that her past doesn’t have to dictate her future, that she’s worth it.
Last I knew, her place in the system is temporary. Lucy mentioned to me one day in conversation that Honor’s mom had gotten into drugs and prostitution and she wasn’t sure how long she’d have her, but that was months ago, and she hasn’t mentioned a word about any of it since.
If things were different—if Honor was adoptable and I wasn’t living paycheck-to-paycheck, I’d make her mine in a heartbeat.
Until then, I have her from 8 AM to 3 PM five days a week, and a handful of minutes after school when Lucy’s running late.
Honor reads quietly to herself and I find myself thinking of Bennett Schoenbach again.
I pull up Larissa’s obituary on my phone one more time.
I put myself in his shoes.
And I decide that he was nothing more than a good person having a bad day.
Had we met under different circumstances, I’m sure I’d have found him to be nothing but lovely.
6
Bennett
I’m in a mood Friday night so I blast Chopin so loud the aging socialite next door will be calling the building manager any minute, and then I pour myself two fingers of single malt Lagavulin.
The world outside went dark hours ago, as it does this time of year, and I’d go out for a drink or two, but Larissa’s memorial is in the morning and I won’t punish myself by suffering through it on little-to-no sleep.
Sinking into a leather armchair in my study, I reach for my phone and scroll through my missed calls, stopping when I get to the night Larissa died.
Twelve.
She called me twelve times, most of them a minute apart.
She called a dozen times before she gave up on me.
I’d never known anyone as needy as her. It was always something. She was always involving herself with nefarious types. Always finding comfort in the arms of users and abusers. I stopped bailing her out years ago.
I gave up on her first.
Only I never explicitly made that clear, I suppose.
I simply stopped taking her calls.
Stopped wiring her money.
Stopped bailing her out of jail.
I figured the message was loud and clear, and besides, actions always spoke louder than words. No need to sit down and explain my decisions.