Seconds later, as the two continue along their yellow brick road, Nick rounds the corner carrying Frank in one arm and an Elmo costume in the other, proving once again that, at least in our house, boys are easier. Ruby’s eyes light up when she sees her father, and she wastes no time in busting me in the highest volume possible.
“Mommy said I could be anything I want for Halloween and now she says I can’t be Sharpay!” she shouts.
Nick raises his brows. “Mommy wouldn’t go back on a promise like that, would she?” he asks.
“Oh, yes she would,” Ruby says, pushing out her lower lip. “She just did.”
Nick glances my way as I reluctantly nod. “See for yourself,” I mumble, pointing at the glammed-up photo, and feeling a rush of secret satisfaction as I read his mind. On the one hand, I know his basic instinct is to indulge his daughter, make her happy at virtually any cost. On the other, he’s as overprotective as they come, with a strong preference that his little girl not roam the neighborhood resembling a child prostitute.
Feeling hopeful, I watch Nick kneel beside Ruby and give it his best shot. “I think this looks a little . . . old for you, Ruby,” he says. “Maybe next year?”
Ruby shakes her head. “It’s not too old, Daddy. It’s my size!” she says, pointing to the 4T in the upper corner of the packaging.
At this first sign of resistance, Nick stands and surrenders, shooting me a helpless look.
“Well, then,” he says to Ruby. “It looks like this is between you and Mommy.”
I think of my mother again—both trying to imagine what she would say to Ruby, and perhaps more important, what she would say about Nick’s laissez-faire fathering. The domestic details will be yours, I hear ringing in my ears. Then I heave the burdened sigh of mothers everywhere and say, “A promise is a promise. Sharpay it is.”
“Yay!” Ruby says, scampering toward the checkout line.
“Yay!” Frank echoes, as he and Nick follow her.
“But no lipstick,” I say, now talking to myself, just as my mother does. “And you’re wearing a turtleneck, young lady. Like it or not.”
Later that night, after the kids are finally in bed, I glance at our calendar and discover that tomorrow is Ruby’s day to be “special helper” at her preschool. This is fantastic news for Ruby who, according to the “special helper” handout, will get to feed the class goldfish, choose the book to be read at story time, and be first in line to the playground. Unfortunately, it also means that it is my day to provide a healthy yet delicious snack for sixteen children, one that does not contain peanut products or tree nuts, because of a lethal allergy in the class—which pretty much rules out anything that we might have on hand.
“Dammit,” I mumble, wondering how I missed the neon-orange highlighter that I used to underline “special helper” only two weeks ago.
“You want the Napa or the Rhone?” Nick says, holding a bottle in each hand.
I point at the Rhone and make another disgruntled sound at the calendar as Nick slides the Napa back onto the wine rack and rifles through the drawer to find an opener. “What’s up?” he says.
“Ruby’s the ‘special helper’ tomorrow . . . In school.”
“So?”
“So we have to bring the snack,” I say, using we even though this assignment falls squarely in my domain—and did even when I was working. Unfortunately, I no longer have the excuse of my job—which I always felt lowered expectations slightly.
“So what’s the problem?” he asks, utterly clueless.
“The cupboards are bare,” I say.
“Oh, c’mon,” Nick says nonchalantly. “I’m sure we have something here.”
“We don’t, actually,” I say, thinking of the piecemeal lunch and dinner I threw together today, using leftovers from last week.
He uncorks the bottle, pours two glasses, and then strolls toward the pantry. “Aha!” he says, pulling out an unopened bag of Oreos—one of my many guilty pleasures.
“Oreos?” I say, smiling.
“Yeah. Oreos. You know—cookies and milk. Old-school.”
I shake my head as I consider the exhilarating freedom of being a man, the daddy. Of thinking that Oreos could possibly, in any school or stratosphere, be brought as a snack, let alone the class snack.
“Wrong on so many levels,” I say, amused. “Aren’t you a doctor? Isn’t this sort of like the preacher’s daughter having sex? A cobbler’s kid going barefoot in the city?”
“Did you really just say cobbler?” Nick says, laughing. And then, “C’mon. Kids love Oreos. Besides, your analogy is suspect—I’m not a dentist. I’m a plastic surgeon.”
“Okay. Oreos are unacceptable.”
“Why?”
“For one, I’m sure they contain peanut products,” I say, scanning the ingredients. “For another, they’re loaded with sugar. For another, they’re not homemade. And they don’t look like they could be homemade . . . Do you have any idea what the other mothers would say behind my back if I handed out Oreos?”
Nick hands me my glass as I continue my playful rant. “I’d be totally shunned for the rest of the year. For years to come. I mean, I might as well go in there, light up a cigarette, and toss out the F-bomb. ‘Fuckin-A, these Oreos hit the spot’ . . . The reply-all button would be in full abuse mode in a mass gossipfest.”
Nick cracks a small smile and says, “Are these mothers really that judgmental?”
“Some,” I say. “More than you could imagine.”
“Do you care?” he asks.
I shrug, thinking this is the crux of the issue. I don’t want to care about this sort of trivia. I don’t want to care about what other people think, but I do. Especially lately.
As if on cue, the phone rings and I see that it’s my friend April calling. April is my second-closest friend, after Cate—and definitely my closest everyday Mommy-friend, even though she makes me feel inadequate much of the time. She doesn’t do it on purpose—but she is just so damn perfect. Her house is tidy, her children well behaved and well dressed, her photo albums and scrapbooks current and filled with gorgeous black-and-white photography (her own, of course). She does everything the right way, especially when it comes to her children—from nutrition to finding the best private school (and requesting the best teacher at that school). She’s read and researched it all and earnestly shares any and all information with me and anyone who will listen, particularly when there is an underlying note of doom. A water bottle contains excessive levels of lead? A suspicious man driving a white van in the neighborhood? A new study linking vaccines to autism? She will be the first to give you the scoop. Unfortunately for me, her daughter, Olivia, is a year older than Ruby and now attending kindergarten at another school (Longmere Country Day—which is, of course, the best in town); otherwise, she would have reminded me of my snack duties.
“It’s April,” I tell Nick. “Let’s ask her about the Oreos.”
He rolls his eyes as I pick up the phone and say hello.
April immediately launches in with an apology for calling so late—which is how she begins almost every conversation. Usually it’s the “I know this is a really bad time” disclaimer—which is interesting because I’ve never seen or heard any evidence that she endures particularly chaotic bedtimes or bath times or mealtimes, the grueling rituals that unravel lesser mothers. At the very least, she’s trained her children not to whine or interrupt when she’s on the phone. In fact, Olivia is the only child I’ve ever heard use the word pardon.
“You know we don’t have a calling curfew,” I say (knowing that she has a firm eight o’clock cutoff and that it is now 7:55). Then, before I let her ramble, I say, “Quick question for you. Ruby’s snack day is tomorrow. Only thing we have in the pantry is Oreos. Do you think that’ll work?”
I put the phone on speaker, but there is only silence on the other end.
“April?” I say, grinning. “Are you there?”
To which she replies, “Oreos, Tess? A
re you for real?”
“No . . . But Nick is,” I say.
She gasps as if I’ve just confided that Nick delivered a left hook to my eye during an argument and then says worriedly, “Tessa? Am I on speaker?”
“Yeah,” I say, knowing she’ll kill me for this later.
“Is . . . Nick right . . . there?” she whispers.
“Yeah. He’s here,” I say, grinning wider.
“Why, hello there, April,” he says, rolling his eyes again. Nick likes April well enough, but doesn’t understand why we’re so close and accuses her of being neurotic and overly intense—both irrefutable. But I’ve explained to him that when you live on the same suburban street, and have children the same ages (her son, Henry, is six months older than Frank), that’s all it really takes to bond. Although, in truth, I think our friendship runs deeper than circumstance or convenience. For one, she is the sort of friend who would do absolutely anything for you—and she doesn’t just make the empty offer; she actually initiates and always follows through. She brings the soup when you’re sick. She loans you the dress when you have nothing suitable to wear and forgot to go shopping. She babysits your kids when you’re in a pinch. For another, she is a planner who consistently puts together fun things for us to do, either with the kids, the couples, or just the two of us. And finally, she is quick to pour a glass of wine—or two or three—and becomes hilariously frank and irreverent when she drinks. It is a surprising quirk in an otherwise utterly disciplined persona and one that always makes for a good time.
But now she is all business—the helpful, earnest perfectionist I love, sometimes in spite of herself.
“It was a good thought,” she says in a patronizing tone I don’t even think she knows she’s adopted. “But I’m sure we can come up with something better.”
I picture her pacing in her kitchen, her lean, tennis-toned arms and legs working overtime as always. “Oh! I got it . . . I just made the most yummy carrot muffins. They’d be perfect.”
Nick winces—he hates food adjectives like yummy and tasty and, his least favorite combination of them all, moist and chewy.
“Hmm. Yeah. Not so sure I have time to make muffins,” I say.
“They’re soo easy, Tessa. A cinch.”
To April, everything is easy. Last year, she actually had the audacity to call beef Wellington “a cinch” when I told her I had to come up with something for Christmas dinner. Incidentally, I ended up ordering the entire meal and then getting busted when my mother-in-law asked me how I made the gravy, and my mind went perfectly blank as to how to make any gravy, let alone the kind residing on my table.
“Yeah. I think I’ll have to go store-bought on this one,” I say, taking the phone off speaker to spare Nick from hearing more.
“Hmm. Well, there’s always fruit skewers,” she says, explaining that I need only pick up little plastic stirrers at the party store and then spear the grapes, strawberries, pineapples, melon. “Then just pick up a few bags of organic popcorn . . . that Pirate’s Booty stuff is pretty tasty . . . although popcorn is listed as a leading choking hazard in a recent consumer report, along with grapes, hot dogs, raisins, gum, and candy . . . So maybe not such a good idea . . . Choking always scares me. That and drowning. And God . . . not to be a total downer, but that’s . . . sort of why I’m calling . . .”
“To warn me against choking hazards?” I say, knowing that it’s not out of the realm of possibility.
“No . . . Didn’t Nick tell you?” she asks, her voice returning to a whisper.
“You’re off speaker,” I say. “Tell me what?”
“About the accident?”
“What accident?”
At the word accident, Nick shoots me a look—somehow, we both know what is coming.
“The little boy in Grayson Croft’s class . . . Charlie Anderson?”
“Yeah?” I say.
“He was burned at Romy’s house—in a campfire accident.”
I am speechless as my mind ticks through the few degrees of separation which are so typical in Wellesley: Romy Croft is one of April’s closest friends on her tennis team. Romy’s son and April’s daughter are in the same kindergarten class at Longmere Country Day, apparently along with Nick’s patient.
Sure enough, April says, “Isn’t Nick his doctor? That’s the word going around . . .”
“Yes,” I say, marveling that the rumor mill can churn so efficiently over the weekend.
“What?” Nick asks, now staring at me.
I put my hand over the phone and say, “Your patient Friday night. He was at Romy Croft’s house when it happened . . .”
“Who?” he asks, proving once again how bad he is with names and any sort of social networking. He is so bad, in fact, that sometimes it seems as if he is doing it on purpose, almost as a point of pride. Especially when it involves a high-profile type, like Romy, who throws lavish, renowned dinner parties, is involved in just about every charity in town, and is on the board of Longmere—which I hope Ruby will attend next year.
I shake my head and hold up one index finger, indicating that he’ll have to wait a second. Meanwhile, April is telling me that Romy is beside herself with worry.
“How did it happen?” I ask.
“I don’t know . . . I swear she must be going through post-traumatic stress syndrome where she sort of blanked out the details.”
“She doesn’t remember anything?”
“Not really . . . No specifics, although she was right there, along with Daniel, carefully supervising . . . But at some point, Daniel ran in to get more Hershey bars or graham crackers or marshmallows . . . and Romy was alone with the boys . . . and I guess a few of them started to roughhouse . . . and somehow Charlie must have tripped and fallen . . . She can’t remember anything after that, other than yelling at Daniel to call 911 . . . God, it’s just so awful.”
“Horrible,” I murmur, picturing the gruesome, terrifying scene.
“I mean, I’ve never seen Romy so upset. She’s usually cool as a cucumber about everything . . . But now . . . She’s mostly worried about Charlie, of course, but Grayson, too. She said he cried himself to sleep—and then woke up with nightmares. She’s going to make an appointment with a child psychiatrist to deal with everything.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I can imagine.”
“And of course this is totally off the record, but Romy and Daniel are freaking out about a potential lawsuit . . .”
“Do you really think they’ll sue?” I say, thinking of the drama that would unfold if one parent in a class sued another. And I thought it was bad when a little boy in Ruby’s class bit another child last week.
“She,” April says. “There is no father. She’s a single mother . . . And nobody really knows her too well . . . Of course, I sent out an e-mail to the other mothers and teachers, letting everyone know what happened . . . But so far, nobody has spoken to her . . . at least as far as I know . . . So it’s really anybody’s guess what she’ll do.”
“Right,” I say, feeling myself tense for a reason I can’t quite place. “I’m sure she’s not even thinking along those lines right now.”
“Of course not,” April says, realizing that her focus, too, might be insensitive. As such, she quickly adds, “So how’s he doing? Charlie?”
“Um . . . I’m not really sure,” I say. “Nick and I haven’t really discussed the specifics . . . I didn’t realize there was . . . a connection.”
“Oh. Well . . . can you ask him?”
“Uh . . . yeah . . . hold on a sec,” I say. Then I look at Nick who vehemently shakes his head, clearly sensing the direction of the conversation. This is no surprise; when it comes to ethics, Nick is by the book.
Sure enough, he whispers, “C’mon, Tess. You know I can’t discuss my patients like that . . .”
“Should I tell her that?”
“I don’t know . . . Just tell her something general—you know, that I haven’t declared the burns yet. That it’s too soon to te
ll.”
“Declared?” I say, recognizing the terminology but forgetting the exact meaning.
“Whether they’re second or third degree. Whether he’ll need surgery,” he says, his voice becoming impatient.
I nod and then walk into the family room, just out of Nick’s earshot, and say, “Hey, I’m back.”
“What did he say?”
“Well, from what I understand,” I say, clearing my throat, “the boy’s face and hand are burned pretty bad . . . but that’s off the record. You know, patient confidentiality and all.”
April sounds the slightest bit defensive as she tells me she totally understands. “I just hope he’s okay. I feel so bad for everyone involved . . .”
“Yeah. It’s really awful. Things can happen so quickly,” I say, wondering why I feel conflicted in this conversation. I tell myself that there are no sides to be taken.
“I think Romy’s going over to the hospital tomorrow,” she says. “To bring a care package and try to speak to the boy’s mother . . . And I’m going to organize a dinner drop-off or something. Pass along a sign-up sheet over at the school. People will want to help. It’s such an amazing community—a really tight-knit place.”
“Have you met her? Charlie’s mother?” I ask, identifying with her rather than Romy, although I’m not sure why.
“No. Although I remember her from the open house the other night.” April then launches into a physical description, saying, “She’s very petite . . . and pretty in a plain sort of way. Dark, straight hair—that slippery wash-and-go kind. She looks young, too . . . so young that you wonder if it wasn’t a teenaged-pregnancy sort of thing . . . Although I could be totally wrong about that. She could be a widow for all I know.”
“Right,” I say, feeling sure that April will get to the bottom of things soon.
She continues, as if reading my mind. “I don’t want to get overly involved, but I am involved . . . You know, as Romy’s friend and a mother at the school . . . And, in a way, as a friend of yours and Nick’s. Jeez, I can’t believe what a small world it is . . .”