In the Time Before

"Miss Carter, when is Mrs. Reyes back?"

I freeze mid-sentence as I scribble fractions on the board. Third time today someone has inquired about that. Third time I've had to shove down the truth that's been stuck in my throat like a boulder for two weeks now.

"She's… she's recovering still, Lily. Focus on the math problem, okay?"

Lying is like ash. I turn back to the board once more, chalk trembling slightly in my hand. There are twenty-three fourth graders behind me, unaware that their teacher - their real teacher - will never be coming back. Ever.

I found out by accident, to be honest. I was digging around in Diana Reyes's desk drawers looking for spares of pencils when I found the principal's sympathy card. "Our deepest condolences at this troubling moment." it said. Took me three reads to understand what I was seeing. Car accident. Two weeks before I started here. The school board decided that the kids were "too young to deal with such a traumatic loss" just before winter break.

Bullshit, in my opinion. But no one did.

Diana's classroom is much like coming into someone's home. Plants everywhere; some that are currently dying due to my forgetfulness to water them. Student artwork that covers every available square inch of wall space. A reading corner with throw pillows and a lamp that look like they have been brought from her own home. All of this conveys warmth, care, love. The kind of teacher every child deserves.

Her desk is tidy as if she is coming back tomorrow. Lesson plans for the entire spring term, tidy handwriting. Sticky notes with notes: "Check Jayden's reading level," "Call Sophia's mom about math problems," "Remember to compliment Kevin more: low confidence."

I take another note, this one for Marcus: sure enough, there is a Marcus in this class, go figure. "Enjoys science experiments but gets angry when they do not work out just right. Remind him that failure is learning."

They have no idea how much she adored them. How much she planned their futures, worried over their failures, celebrated their successes.

"Miss Carter?" It's Jayden, the reserved kid who sits way in the back of the class. "Are you okay? You look… uh, sad."

Bright kid. Diana's observation about him was true: high reading level, empathetic, needs more challenging material.

"I'm okay, sweetie. Just thinking about something."

"Something about Mrs. Reyes?"

The way he says her name; so cheerful and believing, nearly shatters me. I sit down at Diana's desk, running my fingers along her day planner. January 15th has a big red heart around it with "First day back!" written in the middle.

She was excited to return. Had it planned out.

"Mrs. Carter, I drew something for Mrs. Reyes," Sophia shouts from the front row. She's holding a crumpled piece of paper, which is covered in crayon drawings. "It's a get-well card. Will you deliver it to her?"

My heart squeezes. "That's... that's really sweet, Sophia."

"I drew her favorite flowers. The yellow flowers from her garden. She showed us pictures, remember?"

I don't remember because I wasn't present. I'll never have those memories, those shared experiences that bind a class together. I'm just the substitute. The fill-in. The one warming someone's seat until they get back to their regular teacher.

Unless she won't be getting back.

"Can we all make her cards?" Kevin asks. "I bet she's really bored in the hospital."

"Yes!" Lily leaps up in her chair. "We could tell her everything we're doing! She'd enjoy that, wouldn't she Miss Carter?"

Twenty-three pairs of eager eyes staring up at me, full of hope and love for a woman who's been dead three weeks. The principal's words ring in my mind: "We don't want to traumatize them. Better to wait till after the holidays. Let them have one more normal Christmas."

Normal. As if it's normal to deceive children about death.

I look around Diana's class again. Her bulletin board pictures. Birthday charts with every student's name in bold letters. A "compliment corner" where students could write nice things about each other. This world she had made. A sanctuary where fourth graders could learn and grow and fail and try again.

And she's not here.

"Miss Carter?" Sophia's voice is small now. "You're crying."

Am I? I reach up to feel my cheek and yeah, tears. Great. Very professional of me.

"Sorry, guys. Just... allergies."

"My mom says that too when she's mad about Grandpa," Kevin says bluntly. "It's okay to be sad, Miss Carter. Mrs. Reyes always said so."

Of course she did. Because Diana Reyes understood that kids are tougher than the grownups give them credit for. Clever. Better equipped to handle harsh realities than the school board believes they can handle.

I walk over to the reading corner, Diana's reading corner, and sit down on the carpet. "Come here, everyone. Circle time."

(Image generated with Google ImageFX)

They hurry over, excited. This was obviously something they did on a regular basis. Their routine.

"I need to tell you guys something about Mrs. Reyes."

Lily hugs her knees to her chest. "Is she ill? Like, really really ill?"

"She's not ill, Lily."

"Then when is she returning?" Jayden asks. "My mom said teachers only take days off when they are ill or when they give birth. Mrs. Reyes is not giving birth."

I take a deep breath. Look around at their faces; believing, questioning, and willing to hear whatever truth I am on the verge of telling them.

"MRS. REYES was in a car accident. She passed away, guys. She's not coming back."

The silence that follows is enormous. Twenty-three children attempting to process it. Some of them still don't have it yet: I can see it on their faces. Others just get it right away and their eyes well up with tears.

"Like. dead dead?" Kevin whispers.

"Yeah. Dead dead."

Sophia cries first. Great, gulping sobs that shake her whole body. Then Marcus, then Lily. Half the class is in tears, and the other half are scared and confused, in a matter of moments.

I don't get trained for it. I'm twenty-six years old and I teach substitute because I can't yet pay for my own classroom and I have no idea how to help children grieve. But Diana's notes stick around. Her wisdom splattered on sticky notes and lesson plans.

"It's okay to cry," I remind them, remembering Kevin's words. "Mrs. Reyes would want you to cry if you had to. She loved you boys so much."

"How do you know?" Jayden asks through his sobs. "You didn't know her."

He's right. I didn't. But I know her through this room, through her careful notes about each of them, through the love that is embedded in every detail of this space.

"Aye, you're right. I never met her. But I can tell that she loved you from seeing the way this room is decorated. See all your paintings on the walls? That's not something teachers do out of obligation. That's something they do because they're proud of you. And look--" I produce her lesson plan book. "She had the rest of the year planned out. All the reading she would do with you, all the science experiments, the field trip. She was excited to come back and keep working with you."

"But she can't anymore," Sophia tells her.

"No. She can't."

We sit quietly for a minute or two. Some kids still crying, some just staring at the carpet. Eventually, Lily puts up her hand like we're in the middle of a lesson.

"Yes, Lily?"

"What do we do now? Do we have a new teacher?"

"You get me. For the rest of the year."

"But you're only the sub."

"Yeah, well. Guess I'm being promoted."

This provokes a few tiny smiles. Not smiles of joy, per se, but something.

"Are you going to makeover everything?" Kevin asks. "Like, take down Mrs. Reyes's stuff and make it into your room or something?"

I look around Diana's classroom. Her plants, her reading area, her carefully wrapped supplies. The invisible fingerprints of a woman who loved to teach so much that she spent her own money to make this classroom special.

"What do you guys think? Should we change things?"

"No," says Sophia immediately. "This is Mrs. Reyes's room."

"But she's dead," says Marcus. "Dead people don't have rooms."

"She's dead but we're not," responds Jayden. "And we remember her. We keep her room and we also claim it as our own. Like, add new things but retain the good things."

Intelligent child. Diana's observations were correct about him.

"I think that sounds wonderful," I tell them. "We'll leave Mrs. Reyes's room as she had it, but we'll make it our own as well. New paintings, new pictures, new memories."

"Can we still write her get-well cards?" Lily asks. "Even though she's not sick?"

"We could write her thank-you cards instead," Sophia suggests. "Like, thank you for decorating our classroom so beautifully and for caring about us."

"Where would we mail them?"

I don't know. But Diana would have figured something out.

"We'll figure something out," I tell them. "We can put them on the bulletin board. Or we can leave them with her family so they know how much she loved you guys."

"Did she have kids?" Kevin asks.

"I don't think so. I think you guys were her kids."

The tears start again, but more subdued this time. Sadder, though, but somehow less terrified.

"Miss Carter?" It's Jayden again. "Will you tell us about Mrs. Reyes? Like, what she said about us in her notes?"

I look down at Diana's gentle patient writing. Her comments and worries and wishes for each of them.

"She said that you're an advanced reader but sometimes you don't voice your opinion because you're scared of being wrong."

Jayden gives a nod. "That's right."

"And Sophia, she mentioned you were very creative but that you get upset when what you draw doesn't look just like what is in your head."

"How did she know that?"

"Because she was paying attention. She wrote something about all of you." I flip the pages again. "Kevin, she had to encourage your confidence because you are smarter than you think you are. Marcus, she loved watching how excited you get about science but she had to show you that experiments do not always work on the first try."

"She really wrote all of this?"

"She really did. She cared for each and every one of you. All of you. As individuals. She paid attention."

We spend the remainder of the afternoon reading Diana's notes; the appropriate ones, at least. The children are amazed at the amount their teacher understood about them, how much she was concerned for their futures.

As the bell rings and they start to pack up, Lily comes over to my desk.

"Miss Carter? I'm sad that Mrs. Reyes is dead. But I'm glad you told us the truth."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. It's better than wondering."

She's right. The truth is better than wondering. Better than lies, even kind ones.

As they file out in a noisier parade, hushed among themselves, I sit at Diana's desk and pull her day planner again out. January 15th still has that gigantic red heart around it, still has "First day back!"

She wanted to go back to them. She loved them enough to make plans, to think about their needs, to map out her entire life so they could learn and grow and love her.

I cannot be Diana Reyes. I won't ever have her warmth, or her experience, or her way with children. But I can try to love them the way she did. I can listen the way she did. I can look after them.

In the time before, they had Diana. Now they have me. It's not the same, though. It doesn't need to be. We can start anew and still honor what was.

Isn't that what you do with loss? Don't you recall what was? But you don't let it hold you back. You move forward, carrying the good parts with you, leaving space for new memories to sit alongside the old ones.

Diana's classroom. My classroom. Our classroom.

The plants still need watering. I should probably learn their names.