“I’ll check it out,” she cuts him off.
He looks hard at her. “You okay? You seem, like, stressed or something.”
“I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow after school, Bodhi—love you.” Her heart jams up in her chest.
Marcus lingers another beat and, for a second, she wonders: Does he know? Is he testing her? Is she failing by not communicating about Miss Ollie and the lunches? She holds her breath, unsure of what to do or why this thought has even occurred to her.
“Later, Rhea.” He pulls the door gently closed behind him.
Dear Little Academy Parents,
I hope your weekends have been restful. I’m writing to keep you apprised of a few developments in our classroom. While I would never discuss any particular child’s health status or concerns, I do want to mention that a number of parents have informed me that something seems to be going around, the first instance having been reported to me right around Thursday morning. We don’t currently know the cause, so for now, if your child is acting “off” or doesn’t seem like him-or herself, please do take them to see their pediatrician as soon as possible. Thank you for your cooperation.
Yours truly,
Miss Ollie
* * *
By morning, the pads of Rhea’s fingertips are raw from pulling at packing tape and wrestling cardboard boxes into submission. She put together each shipment of Terrene by hand, finishing the latest batch sometime around three in the morning and realizing, at that point, that she’d hardly get any sleep anyway, so she might as well spend the wee hours putting together the pitch deck for the angel investors.
Two weeks ago, she hired a brand consultant and paid 500 of her own hard-earned dollars to meet with her for an hour. It turned out mostly to be a crock. A bleached-blond lady with hot pink crocodile-leather shoes and a turquoise portfolio who suggested Rhea become the Earth Mama version of Gwyneth Paltrow—effortless, aspirational, more design-forward, less folksy.
Last night, she stared at profit-and-loss statements, at account numbers, and at scaling projections until it felt as though her eyes would bleed, praying that her numbers weren’t wrong. Almost everything she knows about running a business has come from a mix of Google and trial and error. Each slide preparation, each calculation takes Rhea twice as long as it would someone with formal training. Investors would change that. She could get an assistant, a bookkeeper, a warehouse that wasn’t her living room. But not today.
Today, her insides feel like a growl. In and out, that’s all she’s got to do. Grab Bodhi and go.
On her way onto campus, a group of old church ladies wave from the Mobile Loaves and Fishes truck—“Good morning!”—back from their morning rounds feeding the community’s homeless. Rhea smiles back at them, tight-lipped.
She presses the passcode into the preschool hallway keypad and holds the door open to enter the upper-age-range hall. Everything smells like apple juice, but not how Rhea makes it. No, the kind with “made from concentrate” stamped across the box. Surely parents wouldn’t choose to rot their children’s teeth with that junk if they knew what kind of pesticides and growth hormones went into it, but, then again, she’s always surprised what parents will and won’t do.
Rhea joins the other parents in line to pick up their children. She watches the class through the doorway and, for a moment, she forgets herself, forgets her foul mood, forgets that she’s avoiding Bodhi’s teacher. She loves the time at the end of Bodhi’s school day when she gets to watch him play, stolen seconds before he senses her presence.
She scribbles gibberish across the sign-out sheet and, when Miss Ollie’s back is turned, waves to get Bodhi’s attention. Miss Ollie helps one of the little girls gently collect a stack of not-quite-dry art projects.
Come on. Rhea gestures to her son enthusiastically. And you know, she’s about to get away with it, too. Other parents collect their children, other parents leave. And Bodhi moves slowly.
Like he’s got some kind of Mommy’s-in-a-hurry radar that taps his internal brakes upon detection. The boy can mosey. Mosey to gather his artwork. Mosey to retrieve his backpack. Mosey to locate his water bottle. Easy like Sunday morning.
And here’s Rhea, losing her mind.
“Rhea?” Out of nowhere, Miss Ollie turns and registers her. “I wanted to say again how sorry I am about what happened to Bodhi. It looks like it really hurt. He seems to be doing much better today, though. I’m sure you saw my message,” she continues. “If it’s any comfort, I’ll just say that Bodhi isn’t the only one, and we’re working on the biting behaviors. We’ll be talking about it in class—”
“That’s all right.” Rhea leans in, looking for Bodhi again.
“Also.” Miss Ollie pushes back into Rhea’s line of vision. “I was thinking that I really would like to speak with Bodhi’s father about what we discussed last time.”
“Not necessary,” says Rhea.
“I know.” She gently touches Rhea’s arm; Rhea’s whole body goes rigid. “I would just feel more comfortable. I wanted to give you a heads-up and make sure you had the opportunity to catch up with him first if you wanted.” Miss Ollie beckons and Bodhi comes trotting over. The teacher helps him loop his skinny arms through the straps of his backpack. “Please feel free to have Marcus contact me. If I haven’t heard from him by Friday, then I’ll go ahead and reach out directly.”
Finally, Bodhi rushes out the door, headlong into his mother’s body. He wraps his arms tightly around her waist, pressing his face into her belly button. Her fingers find the familiar flat spot on the back of his skull. Ears ringing, her feet feel like they’ve been planted there and put down roots.
Miss Ollie busies herself with the other children. A hot flush rises between Rhea’s breasts, sweat building in the pockets beneath her arms. Is it because of what Rhea said, about none of the children being hers? Could Miss Ollie, a whole-ass adult, really be that petty? Is this some kind of power trip? Is this because Rhea is the only single mother in the class? Would she be making a thing about contacting the father if Rhea and Marcus were together? Or how about if Rhea looked more like one of the Lululemon moms, the PTA moms, the moms who wear Tom Ford lipstick and consider drag queen brunch a wild girls’ outing, and who are not “alternative,” as Mary Beth once described Rhea?
“Mommy? Mommy?” Rhea feels the tug on her skirt and understands her son has been trying to get her attention. Mommy. Mommy.
The world and its sounds come crashing back in, fast and loud.
“What, honey?” She takes his wrist gently in her hand. Mommy. Mommy.
The spit that hits the back of her throat feels tacky. She tries to let the name soak in—Mommy. What business does Erin Ollie think she has stepping between her and her child? She has half a mind to—
“Can we go?” Bodhi whines.
Rhea looks down at her beautifully innocent son and sees how rare and precious a thing that is.
Adults, in comparison, are garbage. If Erin Ollie doesn’t understand the line between doing her job and meddling, then Rhea will have to show her.
TRANSCRIPT OF INTERVIEW OF WITNESS, GEORGE HALL