Cutting Teeth(25)
That night, Darby calls out from work for the next day because that’s what you do after your child’s teacher is brutally murdered on school grounds. She goes to bed alone and dreams of a school full of little vampires, only when she wakes up it’s still true.
* * *
Mary Beth texts her early that morning: We’re meeting at Sun Tree Park to let the kids run off some energy.
Darby bangs her shin while opening Jack’s stroller in the parking lot and asks Lola to help her carry the water bottles. Lola says no and heads straight underneath the bright blue fort to play with mulch.
Nearby, the mothers gather on a set of picnic tables, diaper bags clumped together on the ground. Six mothers total, more than half the class. Darby scoots in beside Mary Beth, always a tiny bit proud to have her as her closest mommy friend, like their relationship must be proof of something, namely that Darby is a better mother than she seems. Noelle always says please and thank you and sits still during story time; it’s very aspirational for Darby.
“Does anyone have any picture book recommendations that cover coping with grief?” Megan’s black hair is barely long enough to pull back into a nub of a ponytail. She wears Hoka running shoes with clean purple hospital scrubs and no makeup.
“I asked my neighborhood mom text chain the same question last night,” Charlotte Higsby says. She’s George’s mother, though they have different last names, Darby recently realized, and she’s still married, which is actually fairly modern for a woman like Charlotte, who loves—like, truly loves—Lilly Pulitzer dresses. “I can send some titles to the group if that would be helpful.”
They all nod like this is the best idea ever. Darby wants to ask all the wrong questions, like if anyone knows what killed Miss Ollie—a gun, a knife, strangulation. She wants to ask who called Miss Ollie’s parents and if they screamed when they found out. She wants to know if Miss Ollie secretly did drugs or had a lot of sex.
“Where’s Rhea?” she murmurs to Mary Beth.
“She wasn’t answering her phone.” Which is pretty par-for-the-course Rhea behavior, so at least one thing is normal.
“She really should be here,” muses Mary Beth absently. “We need to be in community.”
“Yes, well.” Darby shrugs. Rhea’s a bit of a lone wolf, which is why she and Mary Beth don’t always get along. Darby understands both sides, probably because she’s got Griff and he hates people, so it evens out.
Chelsea Sawyer twists the top off an applesauce pouch for Lincoln. Less than ten minutes in and the snacks have already started flowing.
“I called my therapist yesterday,” says Roxy, one of the younger moms, with too much filler in her lips and a husband who’s some kind of surgeon with vanity plates on his Porsche. “She said they’re probably too young to really understand and that we only have to explain as much as we want to. It’s perfectly fine if we prefer to make something up.”
“Like say Miss Ollie went to the farm?” asks Darby.
“Exactly.” Roxy tousles her hair with long acrylic nails, which make a satisfying scratching noise against her scalp.
“Okay.” Darby tries not to let on that she thinks this is a stupid suggestion, no offense to Roxy’s therapist. “But I think that’s ignoring the fact that they were there.” She looks around to the other mothers for support. “There’s a certain amount of time that is completely unaccounted for. We don’t know what happened, what they witnessed. Miss Ollie was murdered literal steps away from her classroom. You’re telling me you don’t think any of them saw anything relevant?”
She leaves out her own whereabouts and whether she might have seen something relevant because that’s not really what this is about right now. Is it?
The beautiful Charlotte Higsby, who has probably never once raised her voice at her children, shifts her weight between her bony ass cheeks. “Don’t you think one of the kids would have said something by now? They’re four. They aren’t exactly known for their secret-keeping skills.”
“That’s true.” Darby sits on her side of the picnic bench with bad posture. Something weird is happening amongst the women gathered here. They’re both very upset and also trying to seem very upset. You wouldn’t think the second would need to be true when the first is, and yet she, too, feels the pressure to perform this unfamiliar ritual properly. She would even welcome a few tears, if they were to flow.
Zeke comes over to hang on his mother, tugging on her arm, asking her to come push him on the tire swing. Mommy, mommy, mommy. Darby watches Megan’s body lurch as she strains against the forty-odd pounds of her son. Not right now, maybe later. I would love to play with you, sweetie. Grown-ups are talking. Her whole voice changes. Darby watches, wondering if this is how Megan sounds when she and Zeke are alone or if this is just the parent she is when she has an audience.
“This is just awful,” says Chelsea. “Genuinely awful. I can’t believe how awful, and it’s going to get worse. Robin says there’s bound to be media coverage. She was so young and—”
“The kids,” says Bex’s mother, Lena.
“What about them?” asks Charlotte.
Lena’s eyes travel over all of their faces. “They’re biting,” Lena prompts. “Oh, come on. I know I’m not the only one. The … licking blood. They’re drinking it now, more or less.”