Dreams That Fade

Dreams That Fade

In The Kitchen: Wednesday, September 19, 2023, Ames, Iowa, 8:26 AM

Sitting at the kitchen table, Rachel Weber cradled her warm coffee cup with both hands, painfully aware she had mere minutes before leaving for work. The apartment was quiet—except for the soft hum of the electric clock above the refrigerator. She glanced out the window above the sink trying to gauge the early fall weather. The phone rang, shattering her rare solitude. She stood to answer the phone hanging of the wall and felt the chill as she walked past the window.

“Hello. Is this Mrs. Weber?” the voice asked.

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

“Good morning. My name is Ida Phelps. I am your son’s counselor at Ames Middle School. Is it possible for you to come to the school this morning?”

“Why?” Rachel felt her heart start to beat faster. “What’s wrong? Is my son alright? 

“Yes, Kern is fine. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I believe we need to have a conversation regarding his adjustment to the new school year, that’s all.”

“I am about to leave for work. Can this wait?” Rachel bit her lip.

A silence fell between them.

“Mrs. Weber, is everything alright at home for Kern?”

“Of course, why would you ask?” Rachel eyed the clock once more. “Look, I’m a single parent and I work strange hours, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

“Well, our librarian found a crumpled note that Kern tossed into the trash can in the library and his writings have us concerned—”

“Wait a minute. How do you know that it was Kern’s paper? Did you see him? It could have been any kid.”

“Our librarian heard whimpering between the bookshelves and when she went to check, she saw him. And she saw him toss the paper into the can. When she asked Kern how he was, he said he was fine. That he had a sore arm from gym class.”

“So, what’s the big deal? It was just a piece of paper, right?”

“Mrs. Weber, I would prefer not to have this conversation over the phone, but if you can’t come in today, when can you come in for a visit?”

Rachel was getting uncomfortable. “Just tell me what this about.”

There was a pause. “Mrs. Weber, Kern wrote on his paper the following words, ‘I’ve got to tell somebody. But who? Suz? M? I can’t. I can’t.’ Then he scribbled over the words and crumpled it up in front of the librarian. Given the whimpering, the note, his poor grades, and his withdrawal at school, we are concerned. Who is Suz and M? Do you know them?”

Rachel felt her legs grow weak. She sat down and inhaled deeply. Warm tears began to well. She felt like she’d was facing the judge in the divorce proceedings all over again.

“Mrs. Weber? Are you there?”

“Yeah. I’m here.”

“Who is Suz, and who is M? Why would he write those words? Do you have any ideas about this behavior?”

Rachel tried to make sense of this news, but she was confused. “Mrs. Phelps, I am ‘M’—that’s what Kern writes when he leaves me notes. He’s done that for as long as I can remember. And Suz is my best friend from grammar school. She’s practically my sister.”

“Do you have idea what Kern would need to tell you or Suz? And why would he write that he couldn’t?

“I don’t have any idea. I can’t imagine what it could be. I’ll call Suz and ask if my son spoke to her. But I need to leave for work right now. I’ll call you tomorrow and arrange a meeting.” She returned the telephone to the receiver, but left her hand on it for a long moment as if there was more she wanted to say—or hear.

Rachel wrapped her scarf around her neck, grabbed her purse and headed to the door. She brushed away a tear as she looked at the calendar and immediately thought of the irony—is Kern truly a Wednesday’s Child?

In The Office: Ames Middle School, Thursday, September 20, 2023, Ames, Iowa, 9:15 AM

According to the small piece of paper Rachel held in her hand, the office of Ida Phelps was at the end of a long hall in the central building at the Ames Middle School. Dozens of children carrying books, binders, and swollen backpacks practically ran down the hall as they dodged one another. The hectic scene reminded Rachel of rush hour traffic on Interstate 35. 

Nervously, she eased over to get closer to the wall allowing the children a clear pathway to their next class. Deep down, Rachel wished that she too could walk faster, make the time go by faster. In fact, she wished she could be at work instead of in this school. A loud bell rang, classroom doors shut up and down the hall in unison as Rachel stood in silence.

Finding Mrs. Phelp’s office, Rachel knocked and waited. Nothing. She turned the knob and entered. Sitting behind a wooden desk was a woman about forty. Her dark brown hair was flecked with strands of silver.

The woman stood, adjusted her glasses, and stretched out her hand. “Good morning, I’m Ida Phelps, thank you for coming.” When she sat, she gestured for Rachel to be seated on a chair behind her.

Rachel turned to see the chair—that’s when she saw Kern sitting quietly. She smiled automatically. “Good morning, sweetheart.” As she sat, she patted his hand.

“Kern,” Mrs. Phelps said. “Do you want to tell us what the remarks on this paper mean? Is there a problem at school you’d like to tell us about?”

“Mrs. Phelps,” Rachel interrupted, “Kern told me last night this is all a misunderstanding. Kern said he was merely writing down random ideas for a class assignment. But he didn’t like his ideas, so he threw them away.”

Mrs. Phelps didn’t respond to Rachel’s explanation. Instead, she sat quietly and looked at Kern. “Would you say you have many friends at this school?” she asked.

“Yeah, I guess.” He replied. “Especially in Mr. Atkins class.”

“Do you like Mr. Atkins?” Mrs. Phelps asked. “You spend a lot of time before and after class with Mr. Atkins, don’t you?”

“What are you implying, Mrs. Phelps?” Rachel asked. There was an edge to her voice. “Kern loves music, and Mr. Atkins has given Kern lots of additional tutoring. He is a nice man and I’m happy he spends time with Kern. Without a father figure in his life, I—"

 “Mrs. Weber, I am not implying anything. I’m merely trying to discover information about his relationships, that’s all.” Mrs. Phelps sat with her shoulders pulled back. “Does Kern spend any time with his father or his brother?”

“Not really. Not often, no.” Rachel blushed momentarily—then she sat motionless. She crossed her arms and sat back into her chair. She just wanted to get to work.

“Mrs. Weber, I’m not convinced these writings were meant for a class project,” as she pointed to the crumpled piece of paper on her desk. “I’m going to recommend that Kern speak with a therapist. We must get to the bottom of this. It’s for his own good.”

“I can’t afford that,” Rachel snapped.

“The school has therapists on staff. There’ll be no charge. I think it’s best.” Ms. Phelps stood to signal the meeting had come to a close. She extended her hand, but it hung in the air.

Rachel leaned down to give her son a brief hug. “I’ll see you when I get home from work sweetheart.”

At Applebee’s, Downtown Ames, Iowa: Thursday, September 20, 2023, 6:52 PM

The icy martini glass rested on a wet cocktail napkin. It was Rachel’s second Lemon Drop. She looked down the bar—it was getting full. Concerned, she glanced at her watch and looked over her shoulder.

“Oh, there you are.” A slender woman approached carrying a red raincoat and a tan purse. She sat on a bar stool next to Rachel. “I’m sorry I’m late.” She placed her purse on the stool and covered it with her coat. “The traffic is terrible.” After a brief hug, she asked, “Do you want to get a booth?”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea? I’ve had a horrible day.”

Susan Metcalf was Rachel’s best friend—it was Rachel who gave her the nickname, Suz, in third grade, and it stuck. “I haven’t been here in ages,” she said. “Why did you pick this place?” She waved to the cocktail waitress and ordered a drink by pointing to Rachels’s glass. “We used to come here all the time. Your ex, Leroy, you, and me, the third wheel.”

“You were never a third wheel, my dear. If anything, you were my stabilizing rock.” Rachel took a long drink and let out a sigh. “It’s been one hell of a day.”

“Why? What’s wrong?” Suz wrestled her purse and coat into the narrow booth next to her.

Rachel relayed the meeting with Kern’s counselor and her insistence that he see a therapist. “Honestly, she practically called his music teach, Mr. Atkins, gay during our meeting. I like him. He’s such a positive influence on Kern. He’s funny, talented, and all the kids adore him. He’s the only person who supports Kern’s dream to become a musician.”

“Oh, Rach, I’m so sorry. Every storm runs out of rain eventually. I’m sure this issue will get sorted out. Kern is such a sweet kid. You’re both lucky you have each other—and that you’re away from Leroy.”

“That’s for sure. You know, I remember him, but I don’t remember loving him. Is that strange?”

“That guy loved cars more than he loved you?” Suz sipped her lemon drop. “Mmmm, I forgot how good these were. Great idea, girl.”

Rachel looked away and sat in silence. Her eyes glistened.

“What’s wrong, hon?” Suz reached out and placed her hand on Rachel’s. “You can tell me anything. You know that, right?”

“I shouldn’t have picked this place—there’s so many bad memories here. I had forgotten. Sorry, I mean memories that don’t include you. Leroy and I came here after the baby died. We came here when he demanded that we adopt a little boy. He said he always wanted a boy. After he got drunk, he told me that he was glad we lost the baby cuz’ it was a girl.” She placed her hands over her eyes and turned away.

“What a jerk. So that’s why you guys adopted Bruce? Because he wanted a boy? I didn’t know that.”

“Once, after Kern was about three years old, he said, ‘Well, you finally got your girl.’”

Suz sat in disbelief. “He actually said that to you?” She shook her head with her mouth agape.

“This isn’t how I’d envisioned my life—pregnant at sixteen, lost a child at seventeen, adopted a baby at eighteen, pregnant again at twenty, divorced and a single parent at twenty-two. And now I’m employed as a hotel housekeeper. Oh, Suz. I’m such a failure.” Rachel covered her eyes and began crying.

Suz quickly went around to the other side of the booth and sat next to Rachel. She wrapped her arms around her and hugged her tightly. “No, you’re not. No, you’re not. Stop talking like that.”

The two women sat in the booth across from the crowded bar at Applebee’s rocking back and forth. Outside, the fall chill swallowed the city signaling the onset of winter—and soon after, the end of a troubling 2023. A new year, with a fresh start couldn’t arrive fast enough for Rachel Weber.

The Session in the Therapists’ Office: Friday, September 21, 2023, Ames, Iowa, 8:51 AM

Dr. Franklin Timmons sat quietly in an oversized brown leather armchair with his legs crossed. On his knee he steadied a clipboard with his right hand. He held a pen between the fingers of his left hand. Occasionally, he reached up and stroked his full beard or repositioned his glasses.

Sitting across from Dr. Timmons on a long couch was Kern Weber. At fourteen, he was more slender and shorter than his peers. While gifted in music and art, he was shy when around most adults. And facing the stoic Dr. Timmons was especially intimidating.

“Did you like taking on-line classes during COVID? Was it difficult for you?” Dr Timmons asked.

Kern avoided Dr. Timmons gaze. He looked at the books on the shelves, the design in the carpet, the certificates on the wall, anything but Dr. Timmon’s face. “About the same, I guess.”

“You can call me Doctor T, if you’d like.”

Kern sat in silence, but his right foot tapped rapidly as he waited for the questions about the paper he wrote in the library. He cursed writing that paper.

“What does your father do for work? Do you ever visit with him?” Dr. Timmons’ voice was measured,

“He works at a car parts store. And no, we don’t visit. Ever. I don’t want to, and you can’t make me either.”

“Why not?” asked Dr. Timmons. “Is he mean to you? Or to your mother?”

Kern crossed his arms and pushed back into the sofa. “Well, if you call paying the child support late all the time, and never paying all he’s supposed to, yeah, he hurts us every month.”

“I see,” said Dr. Timmons. “Is there anything else? Maybe something related to what you wrote on the paper?”

“I can’t tell you. I can’t tell anyone.” Kern immediately pursed his lips and shook his head as if he regretted answering the question.

“Why not? I can help you.” Dr. Timmons’ voice was lower, softer.

“No, you can’t. Adults never help kids. The judge didn’t, the attorneys didn’t, and you can’t either. If I say anything, it’ll hurt mom and me.” Kern raised his hands and covered his face. He shook his head and began crying. “We’re trapped.”

Dr. Timmons handed Kern a few tissues from a nearby box. “Why don’t you tell me, and I’ll see if there is something I can do—to help. At least give me a chance. Please.”

A long moment passed as Kern regained his composure. “Will you promise not to tell anyone else?”

Dr. Timmons bit the inside of his cheek and closed his eyes momentarily. “Kern, I can’t make that promise, but I promise if there’s a problem, I will stay by your side and protect you to the best of my ability. I can promise you that.”

Once again, Kern pursed his lips. His eyes darted around the office like a cat caught in a rainstorm, looking for a hole where he could make a run for safety. There weren’t any.

“When I said I was trapped, I meant it. There’s no way out of this, so I might as well tell you. Two weeks ago, I went to the mall with my friends. I ran into my older brother—he lives with our dad. He told me that dad was drinking more and more. When he gets drunk, he beats on my brother, Bruce.”

“When you say, ‘beats on,’ what do you mean, exactly?” Dr Timmons asked.

“I mean he gets bloody and bruised. And if I tell anyone, they’ll call child protective services. My dad will go to jail, Bruce will move in with my mom and me. Then we won’t get any child support because dad will be in jail. Like I said, we’re trapped.”

Dr. Timmons sat back in his armchair and sighed. “I’m so sorry, Kern. You must feel terrible—”

“Dr. T, isn’t there anyone who helps kids?” Kern covered his face with his hands and sobbed.

Alone and facing an unknown future, Kern sat in Dr. Timmons’ office wondering why the dreams of children must end—and terrified that he wouldn’t even remember what his dreams were when he grew up.

John D. Britto

2,676 words