The calculus book and the problems within it are far removed from my mind as I try to wrap my head around the one problem that I can't solve.
The one problem that I don't want to solve.
"If you don't get out of the house now, you're never going to get out of here in a day. And I'm not letting you skip this back to school night."
So that's the ulterior motive for going out tonight.
Why does my daughter know me so well?
"It'll get late," I argue, "It's still a school night, and besides, you have homework."
"Part of my homework is reminding a parent to go to back to school night," Anna's face breaks into a grin even though I can tell she's getting frustrated with me, "Who would've thought that the simplest thing would turn into the most difficult assignment?"
I sigh.
It kills me to be this way.
I used to have a line drawn between the pain of my past, and my daughter. And over the past few years, I've done the unthinkable and blurred it. I've overlapped those two things, and so now when I give into one, I feel as though I am hurting the other.
But in giving into my daughter, am I really hurting the other?
She's trying to help.
And if I'm being completely honest, she's absolutely right.
If I don't get out of this house now…no, I do not know how I will ever get out of this house in one day. It's what was nagging at me before, and it's what's still nagging at me now.
The only difference is that she's put it into words for me to hear instead of to think.
"Okay," I say, trying to keep the reluctance out of my voice, "What did you have in mind?"
"We're going to a restaurant. Just out to eat—nothing overwhelming," she tells me, "I'll give you the directions. It's not far."
Can I do this?
How different can it be from the one night I managed to go out over the summer?
"I guess I can do that," I say.
"Great," Anna says, smiling again, "Because we already have a reservation."
An hour later I find myself standing outside of a quaint looking building.
I take in the appearance of the restaurant—drastically different from the buildings that surround it, as it is composed entirely of wood (making it seem a little more likely to have been in the middle of a town buried in snow, as opposed to this very shopping center in our small suburban city…)—and notice that the clouds that idle in the fall sky almost look like little puffs of smoke coming out of the chimney. The windows are outlined by pale green curtains, and despite the stark difference of the building, the open door is…oddly inviting.
A red mat displaying a cheery 'welcome' is draped across the front step, and I can just barely mange to see inside, where a hostess is standing, and tables and chairs are aligned neatly next to one another. Some are empty, but most are full, and from that open door spills soft music, laughter, and lots of conversations.
Oaken's.
It seems like an okay place.
"They're fairly new," Anna says, "I heard they just opened up in the middle of July. I thought we could give it a try."
All I can manage to do is nod my head—in agreement, approval, or both, I am unsure. But somehow the unspoken message is understood.
This is it.
Stepping across that welcome mat is going to be me submerging myself once more into…reality.
My daughter takes my hand and we step into the restaurant together. She's the one who talks; she's the one who gives our reservation; she's the one who says 'thank you' when we're told that our waiter will be out shortly.
My daughter is the one who did all of this.
For me.
And I'm sitting here petrified, scared, and ungrateful.
What hurts the most—what hurts me the most—is that she just sits there and puts on a cheery face like it doesn't even bother her. Like just getting me out the door is good enough, even if I'm being horrible about it.
But it's not good enough. She deserves more, and I can't lose sight of what's in front of me. I can't lose sight of what is first and foremost important to me, just because I'm stuck in this…fear.
When our waiter comes over, I manage to open my mouth and order.
"It's a nice place," I say when he leaves, meaning every word of it.
"It is," Anna agrees, "I'm glad you like it."
And she would have liked it.
I know she would have.
But I can't do that—I can't think about that here. That would defeat the whole point, right?
Right?
"So I was hoping that while we were here maybe you could tell me a little more about uh…her. My Polish teacher, that is. Anna. Or Annika? Whichever one she said she went by now?"
Wrong.
Anna's question takes me by surprise, and it must be visible on my face because she jumps in again, "I mean you definitely don't have to. But I'd…like to know. Eventually, anyway. Although I guess it's a little weird, because she's my teacher and all. But maybe talking about it will help you…deal with it a little better."
Okay, she has a fair point. Maybe talking about it would help me.
As long as I'm willing to help myself.
"I…Well, I can. But where do I start?" I ask, more to myself than to Anna.
She shrugs, "Why not the beginning?"
The beginning—calculus.
For a few moments I just let my eyes wander to the walls that are filled with paintings; to my glass of water that's sitting on the table practically untouched; to the other people in the restaurant who are eating, talking, and laughing. I look at those people and wonder what kinds of worries and fears they might have. I wonder what kinds of burdens each one of them may have been forced to carry at some point in life, because no one is fortunate enough to live a lifetime without enduring some amount of pain, no matter what kind. And I find myself wondering if those burdens are as heavy as the one I've suffered with for years.
But thinking about others isn't going to help me solve anything. The one at fault for my pain is none other than myself, and so only I can be the one to deal with it.
So once I've collected my thoughts, I prepare myself to talk. And it takes me another few minutes to even do this, because she's right, it is a little weird. Parents usually don't talk about these things in detail with their kids. And besides, am I even allowed to be sharing the background of my daughter's teacher with my daughter?
But no matter—something tells me it's gone well beyond that point, anyway.
And when I open my mouth to speak next, I start at the very beginning, like she asked. I start at the very beginning and tell her everything—okay, well almost everything. She doesn't need to think that partying and under aged drinking are things that I condone (Because I don't. They just kind of…happened). And she certainly doesn't need to hear all of the details of that particular night of the party.
Because that would be weird.
But I sit there and I tell her this partially edited version of 'everything', enough for her to understand how it all started, and when I finish, it's well past the time we've gotten our meals.
"So, can I ask you a question?"
"If you want," I say, "What is it?"
"Is that…" she stops and then starts again, "Is she...the reason for my name?"
I'd like to say that this question also takes me by surprise…but it doesn't.
Because actually, I find myself more surprised that it hasn't come up sooner. And I know the answer. But…that doesn't mean my daughter's going to like it.
I know I can't keep anything from her. She deserves to know, no matter the outcome. So hesitantly I say, "Yes."
Her response comes a little later, as if she's contemplated my answer. But the word that she chooses to reply with is hard to read, "Oh."
"Is that…something you're uncomfortable with?" I ask, because even though tonight is supposed to be about helping me, I'm still her mother. And I know that everything I've admitted is probably hard for her to understand. If it was hard for me to accept, well…I can't even imagine what's going through her head.
"No," she tells me, and her tone is serious. She looks at me and says, "And I don't want you to think you were wrong for doing that, either. She sounds like a wonderful person—she's a pretty great teacher, too—and honestly, I'm honored to be named after someone who means so much to you."
God, she's going to make me cry all over again. She's so young, yet the amount of wisdom she has is unfathomable.
We stay just long enough for the waiter to ask if we want dessert.
Anna had told me earlier during the car ride over that they already had a reputation for their chocolate cake. And I know that it's been a night of new experiences and learning and accepting but chocolate…is something that I know I can't handle.
Not just yet, anyway.
Anna seems to understand, though, when I politely decline and ask for the check. And then we head for the door. Once we're in the car, she asks me another question, "So…this means that I have one assignment that I'm not going to fail, right?"
And she's asked it so artfully—so subtly—that it takes me a moment to understand what she's really talking about.
But then I realize.
Back to school night—the assignment to remind me to go.
To get me to go.
"Yes," I reassure her with a smile, "This is definitely one assignment that you're not going to fail."
One assignment that she's passed with flying colors, actually.
A/n: So now that the memories are complete, and Elsa's finally been convinced to go, the only thing that's left to write about is what you all have, I am sure, been eagerly waiting for :)
That being said…I also want to let you all know that the next chapter is going to be the last one. And I know—most fics are a lot longer. But with the style I've found with this particular story, I feel as though ending with the events of the next chapter will be appropriate. Especially given the fact that all of the memories are wrapped up and that the memories were really the center of the whole story.
Anyway, I want to tell you all this now, instead of throwing it abruptly into the end of the next chapter.
Also, about the title selection—it actually isn't in reference to a particular song or movie. But at the same time, it definitely isn't a random choice! I can say for a fact that the title carries an immense amount of meaning for the story as a whole, and because of that, it's going to be very important in the last chapter :)
And as always, thanks for reading!