Memory Work
This story features the heroine of my forthcoming novel when she was nine years old. You also get to meet her grandmother, Eleanor, whom I hope you’ll love as much as I do. Enjoy!
“All right, class,” Mrs. Brower said as she collected the math worksheets. “Take out a sheet of paper.”
Molly, always prepared, already had a piece of paper on her desk. As her classmates clicked their binders open, she wrote her name and the date at the top of her paper.
“Names and today’s date at the top,” Mrs. Brower said.
While she waited for her classmates to catch up with her, Molly glanced out the window. Rain streaked down the glass. Beyond, the playground looked like a watercolor painting—a blur of blue slide, red swings, and yellow monkey bars.
“You know the drill,” Mrs. Brower said. “You have seven minutes to write this week’s poem from memory. Ready? Go.”
Molly’s eyes widened. Her stomach erupted in butterflies. She had completely forgotten about this week’s memory work! She never forgot about it. She always knew the poem of the week, and she always got an A—and usually an A-plus. But today, she couldn’t even think how it started, or what the title was, or who the author was. She sat, staring at the blurry colors outside the window, made blurrier by the tears that pooled in her eyes, and racked her brain, trying to think of the first word, or an image, or the rhyme. Something. Anything. But nothing came to her.
“One minute,” Mrs. Brower said.
Molly swallowed against the tears in her throat and wrote on her paper, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Brower. I forgot to memorize this week’s poem. I don’t know how I didn’t remember, because I always remember. But this week, I forgot. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
Then she signed her name, “Yours very sincerely, Molly Elizabeth McIntyre.”
“Molly,” Mrs. Brower said, and Molly started, looking up guiltily. “Please collect the papers and put them in the test box.”
Molly swallowed again and managed not to cry as she stood and began collecting the papers. Her heart pounded and her palms sweated. What would Mrs. Brower think of her? Forgetting her memory work like that?
The lunch bell rang just as Molly slipped the tests into Mrs. Brower’s test box. She fled the classroom and hid in a stall in the bathroom, where she could cry quietly and no one would see her. She could not eat lunch. She could barely swallow, and if she tried to eat, she was sure she would throw up. Mrs. Brower was going to be so angry with her. Her father and Gran would be angry with her, too. How could she have forgotten? Thursday was always poem test day. How could she go back to class after lunch with this horrible failure hanging over her?
When the first bell rang, she dried her tears with some toilet paper, raised her chin, and marched out of the bathroom to get in line with the other fourth graders. At least no one except Mrs. Brower would know of her failure. Molly blinked back more tears. She would not cry in front of her classmates. She would not.
Somehow she managed to muddle through history and science. At the end of the day, Mrs. Brower asked Bonnie Scott to hand back the morning’s memory work tests. Molly felt her face go cold, then hot. Bonnie would see her failure, would see that she, who always got A’s, had gotten an F.
Molly wanted to crawl under her desk and curl into a ball and disappear right through the floor. But she sat ramrod straight in her chair, her eyes dead ahead, and when Bonnie set the paper on her desk, Molly did not look at her. She glanced down at the paper—a giant red F was blazoned across the top—and quickly turned it over. Then she got out her binder and filed it at the back of her memory work section, where no one would see it. When she got home, she would throw it away. Her cheeks felt like they were on fire, her eyes burned with tears she refused to shed, and there was a burning ache in her chest.
The last five minutes of class seemed interminable. Molly put on her rain jacket, pulled up her hood, and watched the clock ticking away the minutes, the seconds, until the end-of-day bell sounded. Then she bolted from her seat and was the first out the door. She fled across the playground to the parking lot.
Eleanor knew the moment Molly climbed into the car that something was wrong. She thumped her backpack on the floor, instead of setting it down carefully as she usually did, and slumped forward in the passenger’s seat, her face hidden between her knees.
Eleanor reached over and squeezed her granddaughter’s arm. “Rough day?”
Molly said nothing, only sniffled.
They drove home in silence, the only sound the hum of the engine and the swish of the windshield wipers. Eleanor prayed the entire time. Molly was such a sensitive child—hard working and eager to please and ready to cry at the merest hint of criticism or disapproval. She tried so hard to do the right thing and worried so much over every misstep that Eleanor sometimes thought the child would give herself an ulcer. And so she prayed as she drove, asking God for wisdom to know how to respond to Molly and to whatever had upset her at school today, and praying that Molly would tell her what it was, so she could help her let it go and not carry it around in her heart like a two-ton jack.
Eleanor pulled into the garage at the back of the house. Molly was still slumped over in her seat and had not spoken a word. Eleanor said, “Honey, let’s go inside. I’ll make a cup of cocoa, and you can tell me what happened.”
Molly shook her head.
“All right. You don’t have to tell me, but at least come inside. We’re both a little damp from the rain.”
Eleanor followed Molly, who walked to the house with dragging steps, her back stooped, as if she were burdened by the weight of her backpack. She carried it through the kitchen and up the stairs to her bedroom, not even bothering to take off her jacket and hang it up by the door.
As Eleanor made cocoa, her thoughts oscillated between prayers for wisdom, curiosity about what on earth had happened, fear that she wouldn’t handle it well, and annoyance that this—whatever it was—had happened the week Ted was gone at an academic conference. He understood Molly so much better than she did, a thought that set her praying for wisdom again.
The cocoa was hot, and still Molly hadn’t come back downstairs. Eleanor whipped a bit of cream and placed a dollop on top of Molly’s cocoa—Molly loved whipped cream in her cocoa. Eleanor usually saved it for special occasions like Christmas or birthdays, but whatever Molly was facing, Eleanor thought, seemed to warrant whipped cream. She placed the two cocoa mugs and a cookie on a tray and carried it upstairs.
There was no response when she knocked on Molly’s door. With another plea for wisdom, she turned the knob and let herself in.
Molly lay on the bed, face down, her hair spilling across the pillow. Eleanor set the tray on the nightstand. Molly didn’t move.
Eleanor sat on the edge of the bed and placed her hand gently on Molly’s back. She said nothing, just sat there, hoping her hand would communicate peace, hoping Molly would tell her what was wrong.
“Do you want some cocoa?” she asked at last. “It’s better hot.”
Molly rolled onto her side and looked at Eleanor through her hair. Her face was tear-stained. Eleanor smoothed Molly’s hair out of her face and held out the mug of cocoa with whipped cream. Molly sat up and took it, wrapping her hands around it and gripping it tightly, as though it were a lifeline. She sipped the cocoa and nibbled on the cookie.
Eleanor sipped her own mug of cocoa, sitting silently until Molly was done, praying.
Molly set down her mug.
“Rough day?” Eleanor asked again.
“Oh, Gran!” Molly buried her head in Eleanor’s lap. “It was terrible.”
“Tell me about it,” Eleanor said gently as she stroked Molly’s hair.
“I forgot to do my memory work,” she said brokenly. “I couldn’t remember any of it, not even the title or the first word or anything. I wrote Mrs. Brower a note to apologize, but I knew I’d get an F,” she ended with a wail.
Eleanor stroked Molly’s hair and rubbed her back while she lay in Eleanor’s lap and cried. Molly had never gotten anything less than a B, and even that was rare. An F, Eleanor knew, must be killing her.
“She asked Bonnie Scott to pass back the papers,” Molly continued in a whisper. “So Bonnie knows, too.” She leaned down and unzipped her backpack, pulled out her binder, and set it on her lap. She flipped it open, pulled out a sheet of paper, and handed the paper to Eleanor.
Across the top was a big red F. Eleanor read Molly’s note, and her ire rose. How could Dorothy Brower not have responded to this apology? No note of response, no acknowledgement of Molly’s contrition, just this fat red F that must communicate disapproval and even anger to Molly. She gathered her sobbing granddaughter into her arms.
This was partly her own fault, Eleanor realized. Ted usually listened to Molly recite her poem for the week at dinner each night. Eleanor hadn’t done that. She hadn’t even thought to.
“Oh, honey,” she crooned. “I’m so sorry. It was an honest mistake, honey. You just forgot, that’s all. Everyone forgets from time to time. And with your dad at his conference, things are a little off-kilter this week. It’s not surprising that you forgot about the poem. I forgot about it, too.”
“I should have remembered,” Molly said through her tears. “I always remember.” Her lips trembled. “At least I used to.” And she began to cry harder.
Eleanor smoothed Molly’s hair away from her hot, tear-streaked face. “You’re an excellent student, Molly. You’ve never forgotten your memory work before, and you’re nearly always word perfect when you write it out. This is just a hiccup. It’s not who you are.”
She wished she could make Molly believe that. She wished, oh how she wished, that Dorothy had been more thoughtful. That F was large and ugly. It looked, even to her own eyes, angry, as if Dorothy found it personally insulting that Molly hadn’t remembered the poem.
Tears continued to stream down Molly’s face. Eleanor wished again that Ted were here. She hoped he would call tonight; he would help her know what to do. But even as she hoped for Ted’s help, an idea began to form in her mind.
After Gran came to wake her, Molly stayed in bed and stared out the window. Thick mist shrouded the trees across the alley, turning them ghostly. In the corner of the yard, the bare branches of the beech tree pierced the fog and disappeared above the roof.
She felt sick. She didn’t want to go to school. Not today. Not ever again. How could she face Mrs. Brower today? Or Bonnie Scott, who had seen that big red F on Molly’s paper and knew she wasn’t a straight-A student anymore?
“Molly!” Gran called from downstairs.
Molly didn’t respond. She stayed huddled in her bed. She would tell Gran she was sick, because it was true. She thought she might throw up.
When Gran came to her door and knocked, Molly didn’t answer. Tears were thick in her throat, and she couldn’t get any sound to come out.
Gran came into her room and saw her still in bed, but she didn’t reprimand. As she crossed the room, her eyes were kind. Molly felt the tears coming. She tried to blink them away, but they spilled out. Gran sat on the bed and pulled Molly into her arms. “Oh, honey,” she said. Molly loved when Gran called her honey. It was such a comfort, thick and warm, like a cozy blanket.
“I know you don’t want to go to school today,” Gran said, “but I think you should come downstairs. There’s something I want you to see.”
“What is it?” Molly asked.
Gran just smiled. “Why don’t you get dressed? Maybe in your pink dress? With tights, of course. It’s pretty cold out. But you’ll feel better if you wear something you love.” She whisked the pink dress out of Molly’s closet and laid it on a chair.
Molly reluctantly dragged herself out of bed.
“That’s my girl,” Gran said with a smile as she left the room.
Molly pulled on a pair of white tights, put on the pink dress and its matching sweater, and buckled her Buster Browns. She brushed her hair and clipped it back with two barrettes that matched her dress. Gran was wrong. She did not feel better. Swallowing against the tears that thickened her throat, she went downstairs.
Gran set a plate of pancakes in front of her. Molly didn’t think she could eat.
Beside her plate was a paper. The paper. The one that marked her failure. Only this paper didn’t have a big red F on it. And under her note to Mrs. Brower was another note, in Gran’s handwriting.
“Dear Molly, I know you didn’t mean to forget about the poem. Please don’t worry about it. I know you won’t forget again. You’re the kind of student who learns from her mistakes, and that’s all this was. An honest mistake. It’s going to be okay. Mrs. Brower.”
Molly read the note and looked at Gran.
“I called Mrs. Brower last night after you were in bed. Molly, she never saw your paper. An aide graded it. She said I could white-out the F, and she dictated that note for you.”
Tears spilled down Molly’s cheeks. She read the note again. “She’s not mad at me?”
“Oh, honey, of course not.”
“But I didn’t do my work.”
“One time, you didn’t do your work—one time, you forgot, that’s all. Mrs. Brower knows you’re an excellent student. When I talked to her last night, she was horrified that the aide hadn’t responded to your note. She’s certainly not mad. She said you’re still one of her star pupils.”
Molly read the note again. Mrs. Brower wasn’t angry. She understood that Molly hadn’t meant to forget. The tightness in Molly’s throat dissolved. The sickness in her stomach disappeared. Tears sprang to her eyes, but they were happy tears.
She began to eat her pancakes.
This was fun getting a glimpse of Molly as a young girl!
I really enjoyed reading this new chapter in Molly's life. It makes me excited to see how you are shaping your novel!