Cutting Teeth(26)

Darby had no intention of discussing what she’d done the night before, the way she closed her eyes and let Lola open up the wounds on her hand, the mix of disgust and perverse pleasure that her pain calmed her daughter, that it worked—what was that?

“The dads have a text chain,” says Darby. She watches her son climb the slide while Lola jumps out from underneath it and makes him giggle. Why won’t she play with kids her own age? Normally, she would commiserate with Griff, give him a play-by-play of what their daughter did and didn’t do on the playground, but not today, she won’t tell him a thing.

Yes, the other moms know about the text chain. Yes, they all find it annoying.

“I talked to Miss Ollie before,” Megan says, as if the “before” time frame isn’t obvious. “And she mentioned a thing I’d never heard of because, you know—because of what happened with Zeke and Bodhi Anderson and how it all played out.”

Go, Megan says to Zeke with her eyes, stopping him before he sets foot again on the concrete slab where the picnic benches live. Play.

“Renfield’s syndrome?” Darby is shocked to hear Mary Beth speak up, a small but discernible quiver in her voice.

“Yes!” says Megan. “That’s it. Pediatric Renfield’s syndrome. I’m not saying I buy it necessarily…” After that, Megan explains the gist of the condition as Miss Ollie explained it to her; none of which has been mentioned even in passing by Lola’s pediatrician, so what is Darby to make of that? On the one hand, Dr. Meckler was dismissive of Darby’s best mom instincts. On the other, Dr. Meckler’s version was much simpler.

Roxy shivers. “That sounds sick, like, seriously disturbed.”

“It makes sense to me.” God, Darby will say almost anything to contradict someone she doesn’t like; she will even say that it makes perfect sense that small children would want to suck blood. Even hers.

“I don’t know what we should do,” says Lena. “I’m at a loss. I’m crushed over what happened to Miss Ollie, of course.” Of course, they all agree. “But our kids. I don’t want our kids to be psychologically damaged once the press sinks their teeth—sorry—into all of this. That’s our responsibility.”

“And we have to keep them safe,” Charlotte continues. “We have to be realistic about who might have done this. Someone with access. A staff member, a teacher, a boyfriend, a parent. Which means our kids might have been exposed to violent behavior, and not just yesterday.”

Darby is suddenly very aware of the stillness of the air, which feels as though it’s sitting on her skin, like hot breath on the back of her neck. She’s having trouble breathing. She needs a stiff breeze, or a stiff drink, preferably both. Maybe it was a mistake coming here to speak with the other moms. A parent, Charlotte said.

“Darby.” Mary Beth puts her hand over her knee. Not helping matters. “I can’t believe I’m only just thinking of this. You could help us.” No one is more surprised by this news than Darby, who isn’t exactly what one would call the “likely candidate.” She tries gingerly to scoot away from Mary Beth’s hand; the touch of skin on skin is making her woozy. “You could help us to navigate all of this. Darby was in PR and now she’s a crisis manager,” she explains to the group, which doesn’t seem all that comforted by the news. She hears Mary Beth’s voice coming from far away. “And this is a crisis.”





THIRTEEN




1962: That’s the earliest record of Renfield’s syndrome that Mary Beth has come across. A group of kindergarteners in Columbus, Ohio, smiling together in a black-and-white school portrait. Bibbed dresses, tapered trousers, plaid sweater-vests documented in a head-scratching yearbook entry for the district’s elementary school, the picture captioned: “Ms. Linda’s Little Leeches.” Did they think it was funny back then? The true start of the sixties, anything goes?

In 1975, two pediatricians from Oklahoma collaborated on a joint article when a group of parents in a suburban neighborhood outside of Ardmore began complaining about a series of violent biting incidents. The ages of the affected children ranged from three to seven and some of the parents reported that if the children were allowed to drink small quantities of blood, they would no longer bite. The doctors hypothesized it might have something to do with the high iron levels that gave the dirt on which the neighborhood was built a red appearance. But no conclusion was reached and the study devolved into quackery when one doctor insisted the number thirteen—the number of children afflicted—bore significance. No photos were taken of the group.

Mary Beth hasn’t been sleeping well. She’s been walking around since the day of Miss Ollie’s murder feeling hopped up on caffeine, though she doesn’t even drink coffee. She’s always excelled in times of adversity. What she lacks in book smarts, she makes up for in life skills. That’s why she’s Room Mom. That’s why she chairs countless galas. She tackles projects like a linebacker. Mary Beth Brandt gets stuff done.

She reviews the neat lines of handwritten notes in her journal.

By the eighties, a few medical schools included “pediatric Renfield’s syndrome,” or the urge to ingest blood, in their list of novelty case studies. Though by 1988, a preschool class was the subject of a nasty bout of angry protests during the height of Satanic Panic, and the tiny bloodsuckers were shortly thereafter expelled. Parents were advised to refuse all urges and to instead employ the use of palatable substitutes such as ketchup. A short newspaper article mentioned behavioral issues amongst the children, but no evidence of anything serious.