She clears her throat. “Apparently, a little girl in Cole’s class said some unkind things to your son—”
“Now I get it,” I say. “What’s this girl’s name?”
Flowers lets out the teeniest squeak of a laugh. “Ms. Ross, you must know that here at Eastbrook, we maintain the strictest confidentiality. We have zero tolerance for gossip.”
“It’s that Piper girl, isn’t it?” My voice sounds shrill, but I don’t care. They’re scapegoating my son. I turn to Mark. “Cole has complained about her before. She won’t let him play on the monkey bars. She makes fun of him for wearing pink.”
“That’s harassment,” Mark says. “Are you bringing her parents in, as well?”
Flowers nods, acquiescing. “The other child’s parents have been notified. But you need to understand that there will be … Procedures need to be followed.”
“Such as?” I ask.
“Cole will have to be evaluated by an outside therapist.”
“What?” I stand up. “That’s insane. My kid has to see a therapist because he stood up to some little bully?”
Mark puts his hand on my wrist. “I think what my wife’s saying is that seems disproportionate. Isn’t there someone he can see at school?” he asks. “You have a guidance counselor, right?”
Flowers’s strained smile suggests that she’s running out of patience. “We have limited resources available. We are simply not equipped to handle these situations. We have Mrs. Jelly Bean—”
“Mrs. Jelly Bean?” Mark scoffs.
“That’s what the kids call Mrs. Genbenito. She sends weekly Jelly Bean blasts in our school emails?” Flowers’s tone implies this is the sort of thing that involved parents already know. “Mrs. Jelly Bean is our resource counselor. She can help to some extent, but she cannot do the evaluation necessary to regain access to school. I have a list of local counselors who are usually quite accommodating in these situations. Cole is welcome to attend school for now, but he’ll need an evaluation within ten business days. After that, if you haven’t turned in an evaluation, he won’t be permitted to attend Eastbrook until you do.”
“This is outrageous!” I say, turning to Mark. I wait for him to object, but he just gives the principal a perfunctory nod.
I follow Mark, and as soon as we are outside in the cold where no one can hear us, I say, “Why didn’t you say more? I felt like I was the only one doing any fighting!”
He spins around. “Maybe fighting isn’t the right response.”
“What does that mean?”
“Allie, do you even see your role in this? This is happening because of you.”
“Me?” My chest tightens, and I start to feel hot. Mark’s comment has awoken my most primal fear: that I am damaging my own son. In my gut, I know that Cole might be responding to everything that’s happening to me. He is so sensitive, and he picks up on everything. There’s no way he hasn’t noticed how freaked out I’ve been this week.
I’ve always joked that Cole got his brown eyes from his dad and inherited his anxiety from me. I really hoped that once we had adjusted to our new neighborhood, his issues would recede, imperceptibly, the way snow melts into the ground and then one day is simply gone. But if anything, his anxiety has gotten worse. He’s become more rigid, more demanding.
And now it’s spilled over into school.
Cole needs me to be balanced and strong, but I feel the opposite, like I can’t find solid footing. I’m stretched so thin, between his needs and Sharon’s dementia care, the house in Westport, and my problems with Mark.
I’m trying to keep it all together, but this Robert Avery thing might be what cracks me apart.
40
“We need to talk.” I am breathless as I catch up to him at the top of the hill. “It’s not my fault some bully attacked our son.”
“I can’t do this right now. I have to be at a meeting in forty minutes.” He stops in front of my car. “Can you give me a ride to the metro? I Ubered here.”
“Sure.”
A look of confusion crosses his face. “Wait, how did you get here so fast? Weren’t you at work?”
For a split second, I consider telling him what happened yesterday, that I have been fired. But the last thing I want is to give him more ammunition against me. Not after overhearing him on the phone last night. Whether I like it or not, Mark is holding something back from me. He’s playing a game, for which I don’t know all the rules. Some instinct tells me not to cede what little power I have. “I’m heading in later.”
Neither of us speaks on the way to the Friendship Heights metro station. I pull in to the driveway entrance to a shopping mall, next to a No Stopping Any Time sign, and put my hazard lights on. This is a popular pickup and drop-off spot for commuters using the metro, and the police usually won’t bother you if you’re fast.
Mark takes a glossy, colorful brochure out of his briefcase and lays it on the console between our seats. On the cover, a woman with a contemplative look on her face stares out at a lake as the wind blows her hair back.
I pick it up.
“What’s this?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Bridgeways Treatment Center,” I read aloud. “We can help.”
“It’s on twenty acres, with hiking trails, on an estuary of the Chesapeake Bay. They have kayaking.”
“You make it sound like summer camp.” I open the brochure. Certain words jump out at me—addiction, mental health, residential program. “This is rehab, Mark. I thought you said you didn’t think I needed rehab, remember?” I put the brochure back on the console.
“You’re taking this the wrong way. Bridgeways is a facility with outpatient counseling, experts who deal with all kinds of mental health issues, including substance abuse.” He sounds like he’s practiced this little speech in front of the mirror. “You don’t have to check in.”
“Mental health issues? I don’t have
