Elsie, one of my pupils, had been skipping class, and when she did show up, it seemed like her spark was fading. The town’s residents all agreed that her legal guardian was extremely cruel. I made an effort not to pass judgment, but after Elsie went missing again, I went to see how she was doing. I was astounded by what I found.
Every time I glanced at Elsie’s empty desk, worry bit me.
I have 28 years of experience as a fourth-grade teacher. More frequently than I would like to admit, I have witnessed children fall between the cracks.
I was drawn to Elsie in a different way, though. Perhaps it was because she reminded me of myself at that age, with all of my creative flare and quiet passion.
Or perhaps it was because I had been observing that spark gradually wane over the previous few weeks.
Two years ago, Elsie’s mother lost her life in a terrible highway vehicle accident. The tragedy was spoken in whispers around our community, and when Elsie was forced to live with Wendy, the estranged sister of her late mother, the whispers changed from ones of sorrow to ones of shock and terror.
Wendy had a reputation, you see. Even though I’ve usually avoided getting involved in local rumors, I had heard that Wendy had yelled at the Johnsons for parking their car two inches in her driveway.
Wendy had thrown garments on the floor at Darla’s boutique because she thought they were too expensive, ripped into poor Mrs. Peterson at the library over late fees for books that weren’t even past due, and filed noise complaints about the church bells throughout the years.
She was referred to be a witch by the schoolchildren. Their parents employed more imaginative language.
At first, however, Elsie had appeared to be OK. Yes, it was quiet, but it was innovative in ways that delighted my teacher.
Imaginary creatures with eyes that seemed to hold entire planets, a woman’s face turned toward heaven, and deer moving through moonlit woods were just a few of the exquisite drawings she would fill the margins of her assignments with.
I had convinced myself that, on the whole, she was doing well.
The girl who used to remain after class to show me her sketches, however, had stopped talking lately and her eyes appeared lifeless, as if the brightness had been switched out.
The fact that her chair was unoccupied most of the time was even more worrisome.
I experienced the same icy twist in my stomach that day as I looked at the attendance log. That was the second consecutive day that Elsie had missed class without even receiving a call from Wendy.
I remembered how exhausted Elsie had appeared when she picked up the phone and went to class the last time.
Before Wendy’s piercing, agitated voice broke the stillness, it rang five times.
“What?”
“Hello Wendy, this is Mrs. Monroe, Elsie’s primary school teacher. Regarding Elsie’s absences, I’m calling—”
“She is ill. She is taking a break and will return when she is ready.
“So, has she visited a physician? Recently, she has been quite pale, and—”
Click. The line died.
A feeling of uneasiness blossomed in my chest as I carefully lowered the receiver.
Wendy had been aggressively brief and dismissive, as if I had interrupted her and she didn’t want to explain. And when I asked if Elsie had seen a doctor, she abruptly hung up. I started to question whether she was concealing something.
I called in accordance with school policy, noting the absence with increasing alarm. I didn’t like it at all, but it was the only thing I could do.
Elsie reappeared the following morning, looking worse than before.
Under a dingy gray hoodie that appeared too large for her drooping body, her normally tidy brown hair hung limp and dirty.
Her watery, red-rimmed eyes gave the impression that she had been crying or hadn’t slept for days. Perhaps both. Her expression had a ghostly quality that hit me square in the face.
She slept off while reading in the morning at her desk.
Her pencil fell off the sheet and clattered to the floor, causing her head to sag sideways.
I allowed her to sleep, but I ended up observing her rather than instructing. Her face was tense even when she slept, and her breathing was shallow.
While the other children poured out to the cafeteria for lunch, I squatted next to her desk.
“Everything okay, sweetheart?”
Elsie tensed up like if I had given her a cattle prod.
She blinked away the tears that welled up in her eyes and made her lower lip twitch. She seemed to be calculating something as she looked toward the window and then back at me.
“It’s fine,” she said in a raspy whisper. “I’m simply exhausted. Could I visit the library?
“Are you sure you’re okay at home?” I applied light pressure. “If there’s anything you need to tell me—”
“No!” She seemed immediately afraid of her own response as the word came out sharper than she had intended.
“I mean, no, nothing is wrong. Aunt Wendy is doing well. Would you please let me visit the library?
The way she spoke “Aunt Wendy” really got to me, like if the word left a sour taste in her mouth, but there was also something in her voice that made my chest hurt.
I released her. What was my option? She slipped back inside the classroom like a ghost and didn’t come back until the last bell rang.
Another absence occurred the following day; Wendy did not call, and there was no explanation.
Around midday, I attempted to call Wendy once again. Her phone rang once or twice before the line died each time. I never even had an opportunity to leave a voicemail.
She also never returned her calls.
As I sat at my work, my thoughts turned to Elsie and Wendy’s deteriorating yellow home. Janet, a colleague of mine, used to make a joke about it being “where kindness went to die.”
The joke tasted bitter now, although we had laughed at the time.
The more I considered it, the more worried I got.
Wendy’s combative phone manner, Elsie’s tears, her tiredness, and the way she winced when I inquired about home.
What if Wendy’s infamous rudeness wasn’t the only factor at play? What if that door was hiding something sinister? Something that was endangering Elsie?
It was a choice I made that would alter everything.
After printing a homework package and, just for good measure, putting a granola bar inside, I picked up my coat and headed across town for a 20-minute drive.
My hands clenched around the steering wheel as I reenacted scenarios, each more dire than the last.
***
I had forgotten how bad Wendy’s house looked. Near the drooping porch, a heap of rusted scrap metal was partially concealed by a tangle of ivy, and wild grass extended to my knees.
With the curtains pulled tightly and no indication of life within, the windows appeared to be lifeless eyes.
As I got closer to the door, the front steps creaked menacingly. My two knocks were lonely and hollow.
No response was found.
I listened for voices or footsteps as I waited. Nothing. The door cracked open a few inches as I turned to walk away, defeated.
Elsie was there, standing like a scared animal in the shadows. She appeared more agitated, pallid, and unkempt than I had ever seen her before.
“Mrs. Monroe?” She hardly raised her voice above a whisper.
“Hi, Elsie.” I gave her a friendly smile. “I thought I’d drop off some homework for you, since you’ve been sick so frequently lately.”
“I’m all right. You were not required to attend. I’m simply… moving on from something.”
I held out the packet of homework. “Is your aunt home?”
She grabbed the homework booklet and shook her head. At that moment, the door opened slightly wider, and I got a peek inside.
A dish towel was lying abandoned on the linoleum floor, two full garbage bags were hidden by the hallway, and heaps of laundry were on the couch. Although it wasn’t squalor, it wasn’t good at all.
And it was enough of a glimpse.
I said, “Elsie, I’m a mandatory reporter,” in a firm. “I must ensure your safety. Could I enter?”
Like water from a broken cup, the color drained from her face.
With a cry of “It’s not what you think!” she retreated into the home. “Please, Mrs. Monroe, it’s not—”
I moved ahead, into the small room. The house smelled vaguely of dust and linseed oil, and it felt cramped and stuffy. I was searching through the mess for evidence of abuse or neglect when I came upon something that left me speechless.
A stretched and incomplete canvas, at least two feet across, was spread out on the kitchen table.
Around it were dozens of sketches: exquisite cityscapes, botanical studies, faces captured in action, and breathtaking experiments with light and shadow.
I blinked vigorously as I tried to take in what I was seeing.
“Elsie,” I murmured softly, “what’s all this?”
With her shoulders rolling inward like parchment under a flame, the girl faltered. She spoke in a weak, cracked voice.
The State Youth Arts Fellowship is something I’m applying for. Next week is the deadline.” She pointed impotently at the mayhem all around her. “I get to spend the summer with actual art mentors in Chicago if I win. It’s all I could ever want.”
With the exception of the refrigerator’s hum and the distant sound of traffic on the main road, the room became quiet.
I walked gently over to the canvas and looked it over. This child was pursuing a dream with all of her resources, not a child experiencing a crisis.
Elsie felt that this fellowship was her only chance for a different life, so she had been skipping meals, skipping school, and possibly even losing sleep—not because she was being neglected. Her pass to a realm that would allow her talent to grow.
She was also good. The vision was strong and obvious, and the execution was simple yet elegant.
I turned to her and said, “Elsie,” hoping to give her a comforting smile. “You’ve got something real here,” I replied. However, you are no longer working alone on this.
I immersed myself into helping Elsie during the course of the following week. I phoned in a favor with Mrs. Peterson at the library for scanning and printing services, and I set up after-school access to the art room so she could work on her portfolio away from the commotion at home.
I even spoke with Wendy, and to my utter amazement, she consented to let Elsie stay late under supervision.
Elsie and I worked together to put together her fellowship application.
We compiled letters of recommendation, composed artist statements, and chose her best works. I devoted a whole evening to writing my letter, putting all of my conviction into those few pages.
This girl was worthy of her opportunity.
***
Elsie entered my classroom a month later, clutching a pale blue packet as if it held the universe’s secrets. Unable to talk, she handed it over with trembling fingers.
As I read, my heart pounded between my ribs as I cautiously opened it. Elsie’s face was a mask of scared hope as I looked up.
“You’re going to Chicago, sweetheart,” I replied.
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