Page 70 of Statistically Speaking
“I see your point and you’re probably right,” I continue. “I need to stop holding on so tightly to it, because apart from anything else, it’s not going to change a thing. When—if—she contacts me, it’ll be on her schedule, not mine. And in the meantime, I suppose I’d better buck my ideas up. Elizabeth the Second and the Spanish Armada? I’m so ashamed!”
“As you should be. I’ll settle for a full apology in writing. But seriously—yeah, maybe you need to just chill out a bit? Because otherwise, if she does want to see you, you’ll be a complete wreck by the time it happens, and that won’t be a good look on you. Now let’s go back to your place and dance it out.”
“Do we have to?” I plead, sounding like a teenager myself, I realize.
“We do, but you can choose the track.”
We clamber over the dunes on the way back to the flat, and I am grateful to have this young woman in my life. As a student and, it seems, as a teacher—on some things at least. She is not my daughter, but she is important to me.
So important that I plan to completely annihilate her in the dance-off. I decide that we will do “U Can’t Touch This” and that we’re both going to be MC Hammer—because if you’re struggling to move forward, then maybe dancing sideways is the next best option.
Chapter 30
1,217 Words and Exactly the Right Amount of Feelings
It is not until the following week that anything changes. Karim has stayed over, but we are both up bright and early ready to go to work. We are even being daring and going in the same car—we’ll be the talk of the staff room if anybody notices us.
We have just come back from taking Bill for a quick run on the beach and are calling in to say good morning to Margie. She flirts shamelessly with Karim, who flirts just as shamelessly back, and by the time we leave he has half persuaded her it might be time to join a dating site.
“Seriously, is that a good idea?” I ask as we walk back around to the front of the building. “She might meet an ax murderer!”
“Bill will protect her,” he replies firmly. “Plus, if she goes on a date, we’ll go with her and sit at the next table in disguise.”
“Why would we need to be in disguise?” I ask as I let us into the lobby. “Her date won’t know what we look like.”
He pauses and narrows his eyes at me.
“You,” he says, pointing one finger, “can be a real killjoy, do you know that?”
“Just being logical.”
“I know. That’s the problem! I was all set for matching false noses and berets, and now you’ve taken all the fun out of it!”
“Aah, I’m sorry, baby,” I say, checking the mailbox behind the door to see if there is anything I need to drop off for Margie. “Maybe we can do that at home instead?”
He looks interested and replies, “Well, if we’re going to do costumes at home, I’ll put a bit more thought into it.”
I roll my eyes and pull a small pile of envelopes out of the box. A flyer for the local garden center, what looks like a hospital letter for Margie, a phone bill, and an intriguing plain white envelope that is actually handwritten. I drop the others to the floor and stare at this one.
It is postmarked somewhere in Surrey, and there is no return address on the back. No stamp or marker that indicates it is corporate in origin. Just that neat, sloping handwriting in black ink, indicating that it is, in fact, personal in origin.
Somehow, I just know. I don’t understand why, but every instinct I have tells me that this is it. This is the moment I have been waiting for. This is from her. That I have been insanely checking my phone all this time, and she has instead gone delightfully old-school.
Karim peers over my shoulder, looks at what I am holding.
“Huh,” he says, “weird. Who writes actual letters anymore?” I look up at him, and immediately he sees that I am shaken, stirred, scared, and excited all at once. I don’t say a word—there is part of me that even wants to hide it from him. Old habits dying very hard.
“You think it’s from her? Your daughter?” he asks, placing a calming hand on my shoulder.
“I think it might be. It looks like it could be. Maybe.”
“Well, you could, you know, open it? Or are you planning some kind of full forensic examination first?”
“I know I should open it,” I say, stroking the handwriting, knowing that I will feel like such an idiot if it’s actually just a cleverly disguised marketing mail-out for memory-foam mattresses or something. “But we’ve got to go to work.”
He ponders this, then replies, “Unless that envelope contains a letter the size ofWar and Peace, we’ve got time. If not, or if you need longer, then I’m going to call work and say I’ve got car trouble and we’ll both be late. And yes, it’s as good a way of outing us as any, I know.”
“But I have lessons first thing, and a staff meeting after first period, and—”
