When he sees I am making no move, he walks over and glances at it. “It’s Morningside House.” He tosses the phone at me a little too roughly, but I catch it.
“Allie Ross?” a woman asks once I bring the phone to my ear. “This is Lydia from Morningside. We’ve had an incident with your mother. She’s attacked one of our aides.”
28
Absorbed in my phone, I almost bump into a parked car as I walk Cole to school. Susan is not available to pick up Cole from early release, but thankfully, Leah can.
No problem! At doctor, will be home by noon. Ava will be thrilled.
Once that is sorted, I tap out a message to the Realtor in Westport.
GM! Please call me. Looks like I’m going to need to put house on market ASAP.
I press Send and pray that Barb DeSoto is the type who checks her work phone obsessively.
“Mommy, are you listening?” Cole tugs at my coat. “You’re not even listening. Put away your screens.”
I smile tightly. The first time he fed my own words back to me, it was cute. Now it’s just grating. “I’m listening, Cole.”
Lydia made it clear Sharon would have to be moved, and soon. My mind spins with calculations. The Memory Care unit will cost much more, putting us in a monthly deficit. One that I will have to cover until we sell the house. Where will I get the money?
“Cole, do you wish I made eggs more often?” I take his hand in mine.
Cole stops skipping for a moment and frowns in confusion. “Eggs?”
“You know,” I press on. “Hard-boiled eggs. Scrambled eggs.”
He screws up his nose in disgust. “Eww. I don’t like eggs.”
“Exactly.”
“But I wish you would make pumpkin muffins like Susan. They’re really, really good.”
That stings a little. I plaster a smile on my face. “But we’re so lucky that Susan bakes for us, so we don’t need to, right?”
He narrows his eyes into slits, unconvinced. “We were supposed to bake last night.”
“Yes, I know. But you can do it another time.”
“For International Night? International Night is Tuesday, you know. Don’t forget.” His tone is that of a jaded office supervisor.
“I won’t forget. Leah and Ava are bringing a Jewish pastry called rugelach, and you and Susan are—”
“We’re going to make shortbread, because she says that’s very English and Scottish. Shortbread is like cookies.”
He lets go of my hand.
“Can I run to the stop sign?” He doesn’t wait for an answer but takes off. I break into a half-hearted jog. At the stop sign, he pauses a moment and then continues on. I catch up to him at the edge of the playground. The monkey bars and climbing equipment are crawling with the younger kids. The fifth graders are huddled, staring at their phones.
A herd of moms stands in a cluster around the little lending library. These small structures, which resemble birdhouses on posts and can hold about a dozen books, are everywhere. It’s ironic that in this community—where everyone can afford to buy as many books as they want and where there is an excellent public library down the road—these have popped up on every other corner.
The only books I remember in our home growing up were romance novels that came in boxes of Hefty garbage bags as part of a promotional campaign. I used to have to take two buses growing up to get to the library.
I scan the women with the acuity of a gazelle evaluating the dangers of the other animals at a watering hole. I find my whole body tensing, wondering who has heard what about me. I know none by name, but I recognize a few of the faces. I steel myself. I hold my chin up and squeeze Cole’s hand tighter. It’s pathetic. He feels like protection. There’s no telling who has seen my fake Facebook page and that nude photo of me.
“Okay, honey, let’s say goodbye now. I have to go.” The drive up to Sharon’s during rush hour won’t be pretty. I may not make it into the studio at all.
“No! You have to wait for the bell like the other moms.”
“Cole, c’mon, sweetie.”
With no warning, Cole begins pulling me toward the group of women.
“That’s Oliver’s mommy.” He points at a tall woman with a messy updo. I recognize her from Daisy’s party—she insisted I had gone to law school. “I want a playdate with Oliver. Oliver said you should ask her.”
“I’ll ask her later. Today, you’re going to have a playdate with Ava.” I try to stand my ground.
Cole pulls harder. “No, ask her now, Mommy. Oliver said so.”
He breaks free of my grip and makes a beeline toward the group. The circle of women parts to make way for Cole. They remind me of a pen-and-ink illustration from a book I read as a girl. It chronicled the death of a young Puritan girl at the hands of the other women in her village, who thought she was a witch. I remember how good and wholesome the women were rendered, with their plump cheeks and sparkling eyes, and how at odds it was with their vicious behavior.
Only these women are clad in black yoga pants and fleeces, not modest Puritan dresses.
A woman standing next to Oliver’s mom bends down a little to say something to Cole. I wonder what my son is saying to her. I have no choice. I walk over.
“Hi,” I say. “It’s Tanya, right? We met at the Gordons’ party.”
The woman, ruddy-cheeked as if she’s just run a half marathon, straightens up. “Yes, that’s right.”
“Cole was saying that Oliver and he had talked about having a playdate? I’m happy to host.”
I sense the mood shift without anyone saying a word, like a cool front moving across a summer’s day. They know, or they think they know. Tanya’s wide mouth folds into a facsimile of
