Mrs. Whittaker

Mrs. Whittaker

“That will be 4.95, ma’am.”

Mrs. Whittaker handed the cashier the money, $4.95 exactly. The pastry had been fresh out of the oven, ready when she arrived. The chocolate shavings on top were beginning to melt and become one with the golden-brown crust below. It was Sacha’s favourite pastry, and Mrs. Whittaker decided that it would be an excellent afterschool snack.

“Can I get it in a box please, with that red ribbon that Sacha loves?”

“Sure, ma’am,” he said.

The box was already prepared with the red ribbon. He put the pastry inside and handed it to Mrs. Whittaker.

“Have a good day, ma’am.”

Like always, Mrs. Whittaker left a tip in the jar and left the bakery. She looked at
her watch. It was 2:30. It was still half an hour before Sacha was dismissed from school. She had time to sit by the pond and watch the ducks.

So she walked to the pond, and sat at the usual bench. As she sat there, she observed how cheerful the ducks were. They were splashing about, chasing each
other, searching for food, seemingly oblivious to the troubles of the world around them. But as she sat observing them, she began to contemplate the argument she had had with her daughter. She felt guilty about the things she had said, even if they were for the right reasons. Or were they?

Her daughter had failed the mid-term exam for grade eleven math. She had been called in by her teacher to discuss her daughter’s performance in class that year. It was in the teacher’s opinion that she simply was not applying herself. She had not kept up with the homework and so she had fallen behind. It was no wonder she failed the exam.

After Sacha got home, Mrs. Whittaker confronted her daughter and told her she would not be going out that weekend. Instead, she would spend the time catching up on her math. A tutor would be coming on Friday at seven.

But her daughter had protested. There was a party that night. Everyone was going. It wasn’t fair.

The argument lasted the whole night. It went on through dinner, right up until bedtime. They had yelled at each other, slammed doors in each other’s faces, and Mrs. Whittaker said things she regretted later.

When she had awoken this morning, her daughter had left for school early, her school bag already removed from its usual location by the door. Obviously she was still angry by the previous night’s exchange.

Mrs. Whittaker had felt so guilty that morning she felt the need to make things right with her daughter. She couldn’t stand having her daughter mad at her for so long.

She had to make things right.

Today she would have the pastry already for her, with a hot cup of cocoa, and a copy of the teen magazine she always read. They would talk about the situation and find a reasonable way of resolving it. The way she should have addressed the situation yesterday. She realized that her daughter was now growing into a young woman. She couldn’t just give orders and expect her daughter to obey willingly. They would both have to work towards a solution that worked for both of them.

She arrived home at three. Still fifteen minutes before her daughter was supposed to walk through the door. She gently placed the box on the table with a knife and fork. She folded the napkin next to it. Then she began to mix the cocoa so all she would have to do when Sacha got home was to heat it up on the stove.

When all was prepared, she sat down on a chair at the table, waiting for her daughter to arrive. It was 3:15. Her daughter should be home any second. She waited, staring intently at the clock.

Another fifteen minutes went by.

She began to get worried that her daughter was so angry she would not be coming home right away.

But she was always home at 3:30 everyday.

3:35

3:40

3:41

She decided to call the school. Maybe she had a detention.

She looked up the number for the school and dialled it.

“Ridgewood Senior Secondary, how may I help you?”

“Hi, this is Mrs. Whittaker calling, I’m just wondering if my daughter, Sacha, is still at school.”

There was a pause on the other end and muffled talking.

“It’s her again,” she heard the receptionist say to someone else, “what do I tell her?”

There was more muffled talking on the other end and then she heard a click.

How rude, she thought.

She phoned again, but no one picked up this time.

It was now four. Her husband, Michael, would be home soon.

She began pacing around the house, not sure what to do. Had her daughter decided to run away from home? What would she tell Michael? She ran a hand through her black hair, now full of anxiety.

She heard a key in the front door and heard it squeak open.

Please let this be Sacha.

But it was Michael, a tired expression after a long day at work. He set his briefcase on the floor as he turned to his wife.

“Michael…” she said, unsure exactly of how to begin.

* * * * * *

He took one look at the table, saw the pastry and cocoa, and immediately embraced his wife

He already knew the words that would escape her lips.

“Sacha hasn’t come home from school yet,” she said, “I don’t know what to do.”

“I know hun…. I know…” he said, a tear in his eye.

When would she understand that she would never be coming home from school. The accident had occurred on a Friday exactly two years ago. His wife had had an incredibly hard time dealing with the loss. Anyone would. She still had immense feelings of guilt because she had never had the opportunity to say a proper goodbye or even apologize for what she had said. That opportunity had been wiped out by a driver who had been in a hurry to get home from work to watch the hockey game. He had failed to see the girl crossing the street.

(1st draft)

Written by John Littner