Some days she feels like she went to sleep on that hospital bed and woke up where she is now, with Bodhi four years old. Her eyes travel his classroom as she waits impatiently for his teacher to join her.
When she woke up at the hospital, it was to find that not only was she no longer pregnant but that her heart had been extracted, taken out of her chest, and transplanted into this beautiful little boy. She now watches her heart play trucks with two other boys his age. Her moon baby. Her wildflower. Her ocean soul.
Around her, the classroom is a museum of enthusiastic art displays: colorful handprints, a kindness tree, a guess-the-smell chart on which one little girl answered “wine,” and tissue collages. The colorful rug at the center of the room has all the letters of the alphabet and ten wooden cubbies house ten individual lunch boxes—hearts, superheroes, princesses—each a little dingier than when they were so lovingly selected at the start of the year.
It wasn’t that long ago that Rhea’s experience at this school had been not as a parent, but as a nanny, though she doesn’t advertise that. To a little blond girl who, at just three years old, attended Kumon for tutoring, loved sloths, and hated the smell of yogurt, and Rhea thought, as she took in the sparkling school, slightly dumbfounded, slightly awestruck: If I ever have a baby, this is it.
This is Little Academy, a small, private preschool on the campus of RiverRock Church. Rhea’s not religious, but she sees the value in a strong moral upbringing at this age, good versus evil, wrong and right, and all that.
Over by the sink, Bodhi’s teacher, Miss Ollie, helps Noelle Brandt unscrew the top of an Elmer’s glue, then comes over to join Rhea.
“I’m glad we could connect finally,” says Miss Ollie, dusting her hands off on a bright yellow maxi skirt as she sits. The tails of a chambray top are tied at her waist. She looks like a Disney princess, with her candy-apple cheeks and pearly pageant teeth. “It’s been hard to reach you by email.”
Rhea runs her fingers through her long strands of inky black hair, interlaced with a few subtle streaks of mauve. A gorgeous willow tree tattoo with deep, intricate roots appears to sway on the pale inside of her forearm. It’s not easy to look dignified while squatting on a tiny chair made for tiny-assed children, but she’s making it work.
“I must not have gotten them,” says Rhea, which might be true, who knows. She gets hundreds of emails a week. Her burgeoning business, Terrene, a curated essential oil collection （super easy to use and accessible） is a one-woman show and she’s that woman.
“Or phone.”
“I’m here now.” Though only because Miss Ollie waylaid her at drop-off this morning.
There was a big fuss amongst the other parents when Miss Erin Ollie joined the staff of Little Academy. She has a PhD in child development and Rhea doesn’t have one clue what she’s doing here teaching toddlers like some kind of Preschool Poppins, but you do you.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Bodhi pick up a toy bus and move out of her line of sight. She resists the urge to keep her eyes on him. The instinct to watch over him is nearly impossible to turn off in his presence. She missed his first cry, his first breath. She doesn’t know what the first thing her son experienced in this world was, but it wasn’t her. Maybe it’s because she was still asleep when the umbilical cord was cut that she still feels it tying her to Bodhi like a phantom limb.
“Bodhi’s looking a little thin,” says Miss Ollie. “For his age, I mean.”
“Okay,” Rhea answers carefully. “He was a chunky baby. Now he’s growing like crazy.” Her son has beautiful brown skin and thick, brown shoulder-length locks. If Rhea had a dollar for every person who asked if he’s adopted, she could afford the down payment on a house.
“For sure. One hundred percent. I just wanted to point out that it’s noticeable compared to the other children and I—” Miss Ollie wrings her hands like she’s getting ready to break up with a boyfriend, but feels really badly about it. “Restrictive diets can have a number of health benefits, I know—but in adults.”
“Excuse me?”
“I see his lunches. The dried seaweed and purple cauliflower and vegetable grits. He’s hardly eating any of it. I know you want him to eat healthfully. I just wonder if it would be better, you know, for Bodhi, if he had a few more normal, higher-calorie options day-to-day.”
“Better … for Bodhi?” Rhea’s not hard of hearing, she just wants to give this twentysomething a chance to run that back. Better for Bodhi. Did she really just say that?
Rhea gives nothing away. She is the still pond. She is the tree trunk, unruffled by the wind. She is the horizon in the distance. But underneath, Rhea feels undulations of rage crashing at her seams. Who the fuck does this woman think she is?
“You know,” Miss Ollie continues like this is all just occurring to her, “it might be worth including Bodhi’s father in this conversation.”
“I can talk to Marcus just fine, thanks.”
She knows most people, her friends included, refer to Marcus as her “ex,” though ex-what she has no idea. When she got pregnant with Bodhi, she had only just started a new type of birth control, a last-ditch attempt to curb the chronically vicious menstrual cramps that had been wrecking her world. She chalked up her missing period to the new pills for longer than she might have otherwise. She didn’t get cramps anymore. But she got a baby.
And mostly, single motherhood suits her. She makes what she wants for dinner. She decorates the apartment to her taste. Lets Bodhi watch television or doesn’t, her rules. She starts a business, her money.
“Right.” Miss Ollie chews her lip, waiting for Rhea to make this less awkward. She’s going to be waiting awhile. “I could provide a list of easy lunch ideas. I just want to be a—” But right at that moment, it’s as though the ground beneath her sentence crumbles. Her whole demeanor transforms. “No!” she bellows, jumping from her chair. “No! No! No!”
Rhea whips around at the same time as a single, panicked cry of agony splits the room. A small pile of children writhes on the story mat. An empty shoe flops out of the mess. Rhea’s eyes dart to every corner—where’s Bodhi? Where is Bodhi?
“Where’s my son?” This time out loud.
A girl whines. Then— “You’re hurting him.”
“Mommy.” His voice is small and muffled. The word throbs inside her. “Mommy?”
“Bodhi? Bodhi!” Rhea drops to her hands and knees and crawls toward the fray. Her own sandal loses its grip between her toes and she slips out of it. The stiff carpet dimples the thin skin over her kneecaps as she stretches an arm into the tangle of tiny limbs. The willow tree disappears within.
A distinct growl from somewhere in the broil and Miss Ollie’s face goes red as she heaves a toddler by the armpits. “Off! Off! There are grown-ups here!”
The two kids remaining scatter, but the bottom one stays put, shaking uncontrollably with silent sobs.
Bodhi.
His long hair fans out around his head. He still clutches the large plastic bus in his arms as blood soaks through the cotton collar of a sky-blue T-shirt. Rhea drags him up and pulls him tight to her chest. “Shhhh, shhhhh, shhhhhh,” she soothes. “Mama’s got you.”