Cutting Teeth(86)

“We are not going to hide ourselves away.” Darby pulls up to the school with both of her children buckled into the back seat, prisoners to their mother’s monologue. She feels like a whole new person. Less self-deprecating, less compliant, maybe she has been hardened by the system. “We’re not going to lay low until things have blown over. You’re not Typhoid Mary. We pay tuition. On time. Most of the time.”

“Is Noelle going to be there?” Lola shakes her bangs, which are in desperate need of a trim, out of her eyes.

“Of course, sweetie. Okay, just remember to keep your head held high. I know you didn’t do anything wrong. And you know you didn’t do anything wrong.” Though Darby’s conviction on this point has wobbled over the last couple of days. The thing is, Darby bought those Crocs for Lola’s birthday. They’re her favorite shoes because of the hideous sparkles. And now they’ve vanished into thin air. There has to be a logical explanation except, for the life of her, she can’t think of one. She can’t remember which shoes Lola wore on which day.

Lola nods, all business. Darby goes around the sides of the car and gets her kids out. She and Lola high-five and she feels a little braver, a little more justified. The Morton ladies have got this covered. Lola is Lola. And Darby will make every single person at this school look her in the eye before condemning her or her child. So there.

“Mom.” Lola skips alongside the stroller. “What’s Daddy doing here?”

“Daddy’s not here. Daddy’s at work.” Darby is power walking to make up for her jumpy stomach.

“No, he’s right there.” Lola drags on Darby’s arm. “Mom, right there. I promise. See!”

Despite herself, Darby follows her daughter’s finger across the campus to a nook on the side of the church sanctuary where, to her surprise, Griff—tall, dark, lean, unfairly defined rear end—is standing with his back to them, talking to a woman dressed in all black.

“You’re right,” Darby says, amazed. “That is Daddy.”

“I told you.” Lola pouts. “I don’t tell you guys things because you never believe me but I wasn’t lying about my nice new water bottle and I wasn’t lying about this.”

“We do believe you. We always believe you.” Darby isn’t paying enough attention to sound convincing about it. “What’s Daddy doing?” She weaves her head, trying for a better angle.

He could do drop-off. She would gladly let him. It’d be more convenient for her anyway. She might actually log on to work on time for once. So, fine, if he’s so keen to come to school, have at it.

Griff turns to gesture. Only Griff’s not Griff. He’s tall like Griff and dark haired like Griff and lean and from the back anyone, even his wife, could easily mistake him for Griff, but that’s not Griff.





THIRTY-SIX




Beneath the safety of her cool, linen sheets, Rhea curls herself into a ball on top of her mattress and thinks about what she’s become: the most hated woman in America. Or at least this zip code.

She worried she might have forgotten how to wallow—like, who is this person in her pajamas at 2:00 P.M.? Twenty-three-year-old Rhea would know. But it’s coming back to her. Hour by hour, the longer she stays put.

She feels herself coming undone, moving backward through time. Into the dark again, to the moments before she was put to sleep, and this time it feels like she wakes up in reverse, childless, not a mother. Who would she be? Who would she become without Bodhi?

She once read that as early as the second week of pregnancy, there is a two-way flow of cells and DNA between the fetus and the mother. Having a baby literally changes who you are at the most basic level, but not always for the better. Gather all the famous mothers—fairy godmothers and Mother Earth and Mother Teresa—and you might think those baby cells have some sort of magical powers that transform women into benevolent entities instead of regular bag-of-bones people with the same reserves of patience and honesty and self-control as everybody else.

Alone without her son, Rhea must come face-to-face with all the ways motherhood has brought out the worst in her. Nobody likes that story.

Seconds, minutes, or hours later, Rhea doesn’t kick off the covers when the lock on the front door turns and she hears, “Rhea! Rhea, it’s just us, Marcus and Bodhi. Don’t shoot.”

She rolls her eyes as Marcus laughs at his own joke. Over in the kitchen, she hears the refrigerator door crack open. “What are you still doing in bed? Don’t you have work to do?” Marcus leans against the doorframe wearing real pants and a real shirt like he’s trying to rub it in.

“What are you doing in my bedroom?” She keeps her head on the pillow.

“You weren’t answering your door. Or your phone. And I’ve got a spare key, remember?” He holds it up with a big grin. She rolls over. She doesn’t even know where her phone is. Last time she saw it there were six missed calls from her investment advisor, not to mention a couple texts—a phony, a fraud, untrustworthy, false pretenses, pulling letters of intent, not all but some—and that was enough for her to go off the grid. Little Academy parents sure do talk quick. “Come on,” he groans. “You’re better than this, Rhea.”

“Actually, Marcus.” She listens to Bodhi rummage around the kitchen for snacks. Can she even pretend to care what he gets into anymore? “Maybe I’m not. Maybe I kind of suck.”