“Lola, honey,” she says more firmly. “We need to calm down.”
For the first time since the start of this particular meltdown, Lola sits up, rubbing her eyes. Her chest still heaves. Tears hurtle down her face. But there’s movement. “I won’t,” she shrieks at a pitch that literally hurts Darby’s eardrums. “I won’t! I won’t! I won’t!”
“Maybe you should let her.” Griff keeps his voice low.
“Let her what?”
“You know, bite you? I mean, just this once.”
“She lost her teacher today, Griff. I’m pretty sure that probably has something to do with all this.”
“Exactly. That’s what I mean. Given what happened.”
They stare down at Lola, this tiny hijacker of their lives.
“The dads have said it can help. It’s comforting. One of them has done some research and this isn’t even unprecedented. You said yourself that Dr. Meckler called it a normal phase of childhood development, so, you know, thinking of it like that, but just veering off in a different direction it’s—”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it hurts. If you’re so sure, then you do it.”
“Okay. Yeah. No problem.” He squats down and pushes up the sleeve of a black sweater that Darby doesn’t recognize. “Lola, sweetie, do you— I mean, would it help do you think if you—are you having the urge to bite, because it’s okay if you are and maybe I can help you with that?”
The decibel level drops, just a little, just enough not to make Darby wish she were dead.
Lola looks at Griff. “It’s okay,” he encourages. “It’s okay.”
Lola leans into him, sniffs—does she sniff or sniffle?—and cautiously wraps her mouth around the base of his meaty man thumb. A fresh set of tears runs like bathwater from a faucet. Nothing happens.
“I want my mommy.” A wail. She leaves behind a slug trail of saliva on her daddy’s hand. “I want Mommy!”
Griff looks up at Darby expectantly, like he just knows some maternal instinct inside her is about to click in. The sheer entitlement they all have to her, from Jack all the way up to Griff, is a joke. Does no one here remember the last year of her life that she sacrificed to breastfeed Jack, who was allergic to dairy, soy, eggs, wheat, nuts—everything? She lived on plain chicken and rice for months and cried when Griff ate a cookie. Every day felt as though it would never end. But she’d done it. Because the pediatricians and the mommy groups said it would be best and what was a few months of not eating anything that made her happy compared to doing what was best for her child? Except that Darby also had a very real need—for brownies—every so often and she hadn’t eaten them, not once.
The wonderful thing about breastfeeding is that it’s free, she had read. But was it? Did it cost her nothing? Because if so, her time and energy and mental health must be valued at zero, in which case, in everyone else’s opinion, she hadn’t made a sacrifice at all. She hadn’t given anything.
But less than a year later, here they are, coming back for more: more sweat, more tears, and, more to the point, blood.
“She’s asking for you,” Griff says as though he’s the expert. He is on a goddamn text chain, everyone!
“I’m sorry, I guess I missed this chapter in What to Expect When You’re Expecting.” She crosses her arms, angles her body away. Why does no one tell you what it’s going to be like as a parent? Why did nobody explain that she and her husband would argue over who got to run out to buy AAA batteries like it was a free ticket to Bora Bora?
“I’m not saying—I’m just—” Griff pleads. “Let’s just try it, that’s all.” It’s kind of amazing, the way their daughter’s tantrums instantly age her husband. “Her favorite teacher, Darby. You’ve said they have—had—a very special bond. Please.”
She gives in, as if there’s another option. She cries when Lola draws blood and not just because it hurts, that’s not even the half of it.
* * *
“I’m sorry, but I have to go back to the office tonight again,” he says, stripping off his sweater and wrestling his arms and head through a midnight-blue T-shirt. He doesn’t turn away; he’s not self-conscious. He doesn’t even appreciate that there isn’t a spot directly above his belly button that will always sag no matter what.
“Tonight?” Lola crashed soon after she finished drinking.
“Yes. The litigation partners are getting new desktop computers.” Head down as he rifles through his sock drawer.
“Okay. But like you said, Miss Ollie died and Lola liked her.”
“But you weren’t that close to her, were you?” His interest is genuine, curious. He’ll stay if she wants him to because he’s her husband, her sweet, clingy husband, who, yes, likes computers as much as people, but there are worse things.
She doesn’t know how to answer the question. There’s so much to explain—what she thought, where she was, what she saw, and how close she really got to Miss Ollie in the end. She pushes herself up onto the big bed. She’s tired and her brain is mashed potatoes and she really should get a good night’s sleep before jumping to any rash conclusions.
“Go,” she tells him. “I’m fine.”
Earlier that day, she had followed the paths through the church campus, past the Charity Fountain, by the Remembrance Gardens. The memory is already growing hazy. Between the chapel and the stone auditorium building to the place where the sidewalk ended, to an empty foyer, chasing what must have been a mirage. The forest of her mind feels thick with stress and fogged up by flagging adrenaline.
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.”