Cutting Teeth(103)
Because the person she used to be could never carry thirty-three pounds of toddler around a theme park for eight hours or decipher the meaning of a single cry or roam the earth as the mythical creature known as a “morning person”; she could never have done any of the wonderful and soul-crushing and inspiring and, yes, at times terrifying things she now finds to be second nature. But one thing she will not do, not once, not ever, is look back at the year Noelle was four years old in Miss Ollie’s class and laugh.
When she found them, Mary Beth’s head had been pounding pain like timpani between her ears. Her temples felt as if they’d burst any moment. At first there was a disconnect. A glitch in her Matrix. She couldn’t process the scene before her.
Miss Ollie was so still. Her lips pale. She looked like a waxen doll. Like a Disney princess. Noelle was frozen beside her, a tiny nightmare brought to life.
Bile coated Mary Beth’s teeth, but she managed to wrestle it back into her stomach just before it was too late.
If her child had done this, Noelle would live with it forever. She would be considered a danger, never free of this single moment in time. It would define her. But Mary Beth could fix this. She could hide it. In her mind, she was already fast-forwarding, skipping to the moment when she would sign Noelle out. She’d fudge the time, but not by much. She would throw Noelle’s shoes in the dumpster behind her favorite Target. She trained her mind on her children’s bright futures, which she’d already done so much to secure.
She reached for her daughter, carefully, as if they were on a ledge. One wrong move. And then Miss Ollie breathed, a great, audible, unmistakable breath. She blinked. Her eyes searched, and that’s what haunts Mary Beth the most, the way Miss Ollie’s eyes found her and believed, for a second, that help had arrived.
Mary Beth should have called for it then. There was still time. The course of history could still be altered, she should have sobbed with relief.
And yet. Her heart sank deep into the pit of her soul. If Miss Ollie survived … If Miss Ollie survived, there’d be no escape.
Like most mothers, when it came down to it, when it came to staying up for hours rocking a screaming child through her own exhaustion or breastfeeding through tears of pain, when it came to defending her child from attack or slicing herself open to share her blood, Mary Beth would give her daughters all she had, every last drop.
Stand outside and wait for Mommy.
The scissors had begun to slide out of Miss Ollie’s throat, slipping a bit further every time the teacher tried to swallow, every time her heart attempted to beat. As Mary Beth slipped her thumb and fingers through the scissors’ bows, she felt, strangely, like a little girl again. How she had adored her teachers, looked forward to being a line leader, a door holder, a class helper. Being someone’s child is so much simpler than being someone’s mother.
There are times as a mother when it feels like too much and like she is too little, and times when she feels like she’s all her children could ever need, and those when they won’t need her nearly enough. She lives in the paradox of parenting, the marvel of mothering.
What if I change? What if I don’t? Who am I? What have I become?
She plunged the scissors into Miss Ollie’s neck and when she was certain she could no longer see the pivot point screw, she twisted.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
When I said I wanted to write a book about four-year-olds with a penchant for blood, there were … questions. Lucky for me, those questions came from the two smartest, most insightful readers I know: my agent, Dan Lazar, and my editor, Christine Kopprasch. Thank you both for your honesty and your support, and for asking even more questions during my dark night of the soul when I thought I wanted to stop writing this book.
I feel so at home at Flatiron Books, and that has everything to do with the wonderful team of people I get to work with there. Thank you to Nancy Trypuc, Amelia Possanza, and Katherine Turro—you are the dream team—and to Megan Lynch, Maxine Charles, and the entire sales team—I know how fortunate I am to benefit from your expertise and passion.
Thank you to Dana Spector, Olivia Blaustein, and Paige Holtzman at CAA for helping my books find homes in new mediums.
To my writing friends, Charlotte Huang (who came up with the title of this book) and Lori Goldstein—I know for a fact I wouldn’t have lasted in this business this long without you. Thank you to Julia Teague and Lisa McQueen, who generously helped double-check my work (and please, rest assured any errors left behind are my own). I also have to express my undying love for my book club. It is such a delight to spend time each month with a group of women who love books—happy ten-year anniversary! And speaking of bookish friends, thank you to the Bookstagram community for championing both my work and books in general. You compose such a joyful corner of the internet and I’m happy to be a tiny part of it.
Finally, the biggest, mushiest thank-you goes to my family. While writing a book about parenting, I couldn’t help feeling grateful over and over that I get to parent with my husband, Rob. And to our kids, Elliott and Colin: you are both an inspiration in every sense of the word. Thanks for being a constant presence at my writing desk.