Without waiting for a reply, she flees to the bathroom, which is bare-bones and reminds her of middle school, with its dirty grout and penny-round tiles the color of pink Tums. She slumps down onto the toilet seat and drops her sweaty forehead into her open hands.
It’s not fair. She can’t even be mad properly. She can only feel stupid. Her children deprive her of any ability to feel remotely sexy and the moment she does feel the slightest bit hot and bothered, sensuous, flirtatious （fine）， in waltzes their teacher.
Pain has started to shish kebab her right eyeball. Go away, she wills it. Not now.
She removes a fistful of toilet paper and dabs at her nose and around her eye.
The socket throbs, agony dancing around the rim of bone. She feels like she’s brought it on herself somehow. It’s not full-blown yet, this terrible head implosion with which she’s becoming all too familiar. Nevertheless, she persists, she thinks, with only a touch of irony. Because isn’t that what motherhood is? Tiny acts of heroism and daily sacrifice. Where is her Purple Heart?
She takes stock. She feels like she’s crash-landed into this tiny restroom stall that stinks of blue toilet bowl disks and urine, bottom first, right back into her life as Mom. Not enough fuel in the tank to go or be anywhere else; she’s marooned here. So she grants herself one last heaving, dramatic sigh because it’s both that bad and not really that bad at all being Mary Beth Brandt. What she’s got to do now is get ready for Thursday and figure out how to break the news to Darby that, difficult as it may be to hear, Lola needs help before she gets completely out of hand.
SIX
Lola is on her best behavior as Dr. Meckler crab-scuttles around on his rolling stool, listening to her heart and pointing an LED light up her nostrils. The examination room is haphazardly decorated to the theme of fish with peeling vinyl stickers—seaweed, bubbles, blowfish—stuck to the walls. Of all things, this has deeply impressed Lola, who loves marine life with the sort of reckless abandon most children reserve for candy.
“Kids bite,” he says, bumping Darby’s knees again as he rolls past. “It’s a way of testing their limits or expressing feelings.”
“She’s four. She’s never bitten before. Never.”
“It’s a normal part of childhood development. Probably just a very brief but frustrating phase. And it can start even as old as four.”
She chose Dr. Meckler that many years ago because he had jovial wrinkles around his eyes and a very comforting look about him, probably a favorite grandpa, a man who reads Mitch Albom novels by the fire, but “comforted” isn’t what Darby’s feeling right now. She’s actually frightened of her daughter, if she’s being completely honest. It’s like she’s built her home on an active minefield.
“It wasn’t normal,” she insists. “She came after me like I was prime rib.” Something thick and hard swims up her throat. “I think she might have actually … swallowed blood.”
A flicker of a frown for Dr. Meckler.
Her search history from last night was the work of a masochist. A litany of every horrible, unthinkable malady that could have befallen her daughter. Darby may not always love the grind of motherhood, but she’s still spent every year since entering it mentally running through each terrifying potential calamity like a pilot through a flight simulator. How she could throw her body in front of a moving vehicle, what she would do in the event of a home intruder or choking incident, the complete inventory of precious items she’d sell off in a heartbeat if she ever needed to pay for her children’s medical bills.
“You’re sure it’s not rabies?” She tries again when he doesn’t immediately snap into problem-solving mode. Her daughter’s lips had glistened with blood.
“There’s no sign of a bite mark on her anywhere. She doesn’t have a fever, no headache, no vomiting. She’s swallowing perfectly, doesn’t seem confused. I can promise you, this isn’t a kid with rabies. If it makes you feel better, I’m happy to order tests. Blood, saliva, skin biopsy, the works, if it’s what you need.”
His suggestion makes her feel dippy.
When it comes to parenthood, people love to tell you that everything that happens along the way is so normal. As though that makes it better. Your feet have grown a size during pregnancy—normal! You need to go on bed rest for four weeks—normal! Your baby has acid reflux—normal! You haven’t slept for ten months—normal! You pee when you sneeze—normal! Your child still isn’t talking at two, you had a miscarriage, your toddler still wears pull-ups at night—normal, normal, NOR-MAL!
But the worst part, the absolute shittiest bit about the word normal, is how the word itself gives permission to take whatever it is that’s normal for granted. Why not? Who needs to appreciate the unremarkable?
“Could she be sick?” Doesn’t hurt to brainstorm. “Can’t pets become aggressive when they’ve injured a leg or something?” What if Darby missed some vital sign related to Lola’s health and now it’s too late? That would be so infuriatingly like Darby, who feels like she’s missing whatever gene moms have that helps them remember to schedule their children’s dentist appointments.
Dr. Meckler ropes his stethoscope over the back of his neck and Darby steels herself. “She’s fine, she’s healthy.”
“I know—I just—” She doesn’t mean to be rude. It’s simply occurring to her that she’s never seen a pediatrician do anything other than press on her children’s bellies and stick flashlights up their noses. It seems like there should be a level two for bigger emergencies. “Then what about something … mental? My husband and I, well, we have different opinions. That’s putting it lightly, actually. We’ve been arguing—not in front of the kids, or at least not loudly—about whether we need the school counselor to do a full evaluation. I think maybe he’s just being impatient—she’s a kid, you know how men are sometimes, sorry, Dr. Meckler, but you must know and I guess, though, I’m asking you: Does she need help?”
She holds her breath. Darby will admit that Lola is more sensitive than other children, that she likes things a certain way, that she struggles with transition, but she’s always believed in her heart that Lola is a good person. She just needs direction. A bit of guidance. And patience. A lot of patience.
He types notes into her daughter’s chart. “I know it’s hard as a parent not to feel anxious over every little thing.”
Darby rubs the spot on her arm, which doesn’t feel little. She’s not one of those parents whose children act as socially acceptable outlets for their varying neuroses. Depending on the day of the week, Darby can either feel proud or negligent for being one of the “laid-back moms,” but always one or the other, as if her brand of mothering is a choice and not mere survival.
She doesn’t agree with Griff, but that doesn’t mean she automatically agrees with Dr. Meckler either.
“I think I’d like to go ahead and order those tests, please.” And she resigns herself to saying goodbye to the rest of her morning.
* * *
“I’m thirsty, Mom.” From the back seat, Lola stares too hard into the rearview mirror through her fringe of bangs. Darby doesn’t like this “Mom” business. None of the other four-year-olds call their mothers Mom. It’s weird.