Tessa slides the paperwork across the desk to Maybelle, who looks it over and then tilts her head and says to me, “Marnie, are you Fritzie’s stepmother then?”
And so then it has to be discussed that I am not really the stepmother, because Patrick and I didn’t get married yet. And Fritzie pipes up that she asked Patrick about it, and he said we’re not ready yet.
“When do you think you’re going to get ready, Marnie?” Fritzie asks. “Did you decide that part yet?”
“Never you mind, it’s all fine,” says Maybelle.
“Well, shall we all walk down to Karen and Josie’s room?” I say. “Meet the teachers and see about these jokes?”
“Okay,” Fritzie says. She looks longingly at Tessa. “You coming, Mama?”
“I’ve got a phone call to make,” says Tessa. “You two go ahead.”
“But don’t you want to see my teachers?”
“It’s fine. They’re going to be busy this morning, and the important thing is that you and Marnie see them. They’ll just be confused if they see two moms coming in.”
Fritzie puts down her backpack and goes over to Tessa, starts fingering her sleeve, running her hands along the hem. She puts her face up close to Tessa’s and whispers something to her. For a moment their heads are together, and then Tessa pats her daughter’s arm.
“You go yourself, Fritz, with Marnie. It’s okay. You’re going to be fine.”
Fritzie hangs back. “But, Mama, when I talk to you on the phone, and I tell about Josie, I want you to know who I’m talking about.”
“I’ll know. Of course I’ll know.”
“Mama.”
“You know what?” I say brightly. “Your mom can meet them on a different day. Or maybe at the pickup this afternoon.”
Fritzie and Tessa just keep looking at each other. All around us people are swirling about, with their papers and their questions and their cell phones buzzing, their toddlers whining. But here they are, like they’re in a bubble or something. Separate. There’s something odd.
Fritzie keeps touching her. Tessa keeps looking away. “Mama, you look very pretty, Mama.” She puts her hands in Tessa’s hair, and Tessa tolerates it for a moment and then reaches up and takes Fritzie’s hands down. She stands up.
“Okay then. Go to your classroom. And be good for the teachers. Don’t make trouble the first day. You’ll do your best? All right?”
“Okay.”
Maybelle and I make eye contact, and she widens her eyes, like what the actual hell is going on here, and I shrug just the slightest bit. Fritzie is licking her lips in a manic way, and I put my hand on her shoulder and say, “You ready, honey? Let’s go meet Karen and Josie.”
I don’t know what I’ve just seen, but my heart hurts.
The hallway is paved with moms and kids, all hugging and greeting each other, catching up after the summer, paying us no attention at all. A few of the moms have fat, gurgling, chunky babies on their hips, or toddlers in tow—and I love how they pass the kids around and also how they get so excited talking about how much everybody has grown. They explain about their vacations and the catastrophes, they make plans to get together, to meet on the playground, to schedule a potluck for the end of the week, to go away for Columbus Day. They are so delightfully scary, these moms, with their shiny, just-shampooed hair, and glowing, makeup-free faces, their familiarity with each other’s habits and problems and needs, their stylish clogs and skinny jeans and big leather bags. The universality of motherhood, the oldest language. Not one of them has been into Best Buds seeking a new love, I realize. No, these are the settled Park Slope young moms, the ones you see marching down the street with their Perego strollers. They have found their partners in life and are striving forward, not looking back.
“Are you going to be class mom this year? Oh yeah, well, what if they ask you?”
“Do you know if Vanessa is babysitting for Adam again?”
“Is Raven going to run the fourth-grade musical?”
“Does Maybelle have your contact info? She was looking for you!”
This is mom talk, I think with surprise. I’ll get fluent in this. I’ll be one of them, coming in at pickup time, sighing as I get the homework folder and ask Fritzie if she remembered her sweater or her lunch box. I’ll be the one saying, “Why don’t we invite Annabelle over for a playdate? And we can make some vegan brownies!”
“You know what’s weird about this school?” Fritzie says to me as we thread our way between collections of parents and kids, all talking at earsplitting levels. She practically has to yell over the din: “Why are the teachers called by their first names? I think their names should start with Ms.”
“It’s the way this school does things, I guess. I think it’s kind of nice and friendly, though, don’t you?”
“Aren’t they supposed to be the bosses of us, or what?” she wants to know. “Am I s’posed to say, ‘Hey, Karen, get this kid to stop bothering me’? I mean, how’s that gonna work? Is the kid gonna even listen to somebody named Karen?”
And then she falls quiet. I look over at her, in her blue-and-purple plaid shorts and her sequin shirt—it says HELLO in pink when the sequins are pointed upward, and GOODBYE in blue, when you mash them downward. She has her hair tucked behind her ears and she’s wearing a white baseball cap on sideways and pink plastic clogs. I had some questions about this as a first-day outfit, but when Tessa didn’t say anything, I realized I shouldn’t either.
But now I wonder if Fritzie has suddenly caught the same trepidation I have, if I’ve transmitted it to her like the flu. All these bouncing children and parents, all of them knowing each other, running back and forth, tagging. A little boy bumps into Fritzie, and she yells, “Hey!” and he says, “Sorry!” and keeps going. I should think of something encouraging and positive to say, so I say that there’s a lot of love in this school.
“Don’t get mixed up,” Fritzie says. “This is school, Marnie.”
Then we get to Karen and Josie’s room, or so it says on a piece of blue construction paper decorated with brightly colored hats and horns. Inside the room are tables pushed together in groups of three, and the bulletin boards are bright and festive. The place is filled with parents and kids, all talking at once. Karen and Josie are wearing jeans and identical big smiles, and they welcome the children to their colorful, busy, warm classroom.
“Ah, so you’re Fritzie?” says the one called Karen, who has a blonde high ponytail and big, smiling blue eyes. “There’s a chair for you over there, with a folder on it. And here’s a little companion to keep you company in third grade.” She hands Fritzie a teddy bear and then turns to me. “Hi—welcome to the classroom. You’re welcome to stay for as long as you like, but I’m hoping to get the class all together for introductions and some games by about nine, so if you’re comfortable leaving then, that would be great.” She gives me a big, toothy, Miss Congeniality grin.
“Okay, sure,” I say. I look around at the other parents, some of whom seem to be getting ready to say good-bye. There’s no drama except for a toddler who has decided he’s staying here no matter what, and his mom has to chase him down as he’s starting to dismantle the cute, cheerful folders that have kids’ names written on them. He’s carrying a bunch of them around in his sweet little hands, and then he has a meltdown when it turns out he can’t take them with him.
There’s a class hamster who is doggedly running on his wheel, like that could help him throw off some of the existential angst he must feel, being surrounded by twenty-four curious eight-year-olds and their parents. Fritzie, who isn’t very interested in her chair or her folder, stands and looks at him for a long time.
“You know,” she says to a little boy who has come over to see the hamster, too, “I think we should let him out and see how fast he can run. Do you want to?”
“No,” says the little boy.
“Come on. We could see if he runs into the coat closet or out the door, or maybe he’s going to run under
the radiator.”
I’m about to intervene, but the little boy moves away, giving Fritzie a strange look. She shrugs and starts fiddling with the latch on the cage, and I go over and shake my head at her. I do the Mom Microscopic Head Shaking, nothing that would embarrass her. She looks down at her shoes and her cheeks get two bright pink spots on them, and I want to hug her and tell her I’m so sorry.
Just then Josie claps her hands for attention, and she gets the class to come forward and sit on the circular rug in the front of the room. “Parents, you can leave now, since you probably already completed third grade,” she says, and everyone laughs.
I go out in the tide of people leaving, waving to Fritzie, who looks at me with big, round blue eyes as I’m departing.
Is she unhappy? Are those eyes about to fill with tears? Or is she going to have liberated a hamster by the end of the day, and be expelled?
I do not think I’m going to be quite the same until twelve o’clock comes when I know for sure she’s survived the first half day.
Tessa and I walk back to the subway together. She is tromping along in her high-heeled boots, lugging her carpetbag and being exceptionally quiet, staring down at the sidewalk while she walks.
“Well, I think that went really well, and I think she’s going to be just fine,” I say. “I found myself actually getting kind of emotional, you know? Leaving her there? She looked for a moment like she felt emotional, too. What did you think of the school?”
“Yes. It was all fine.” Her face is unreadable, especially since she’s walking slightly faster than I am.
“Do you want to go and get some breakfast? There’s a funny story about the class hamster I want to tell you.”
“I can’t.” She stops walking, so I stop, too. The sun is blazing in a very early September way, filtering down through the green maple leaves. Tessa’s face is in shadow.
“What is it?” I say.
When she looks up at me, her eyes are opaque. “Listen,” she says. “I’m not going back with you.”
“You’re not? Where are you going?” I think she means maybe she’s going for coffee somewhere by herself, or to buy something for Fritzie for school.
She looks from side to side. “Richard is here. And I’m going to meet him.”
“Richard . . . came here? But that’s great!” I say. I immediately start thinking of a nice dinner up on the rooftop, with all of us. I’ll have time to make lasagna and I can get some of Paco’s snowflake rolls and the Irish butter. Maybe a cake. It will be so civilized, us getting to wish them well. “We can all get to meet each other, and—”
I stop talking because she has closed her eyes. I think she’s so embarrassed for me.
“Oh,” I say, getting it. Then I look at the carpetbag and say, “Ohhhh.”
“We’re leaving this afternoon.”
“For Italy.”
“Yes.” She shifts her bag to her other shoulder.
“But why are you doing it this way? You could have brought Richard around—wait, why is he here anyway? How long has he been here?”
“He showed up day before yesterday with a ticket for me. He said he didn’t think I was really going to come so he wanted to come get me.” She takes out her scrunchie and tosses her hair in a way I’ve never seen her do, like a woman in a shampoo commercial.
“Of course he didn’t think you were coming. Because you’ve done nothing but say you were coming.”
“Is that sarcasm?”
“It is sarcasm. Yes. It’s the way I’m choosing to express my dismay at what you’re doing. Wow. You’re just . . . you’re sneaking off, and Fritzie is going to be devastated, and you know it.”
“No, she’s not. You don’t know her. She doesn’t care.”
“She does care. You’re her mom.”
“Well, but it will pass quickly. I know her. I’ve left her a thousand times before, and she gets over it.”
“Not like this time, you haven’t. Not for months. Come with me right back into that school, and let’s tell her together. Come on.”
“No. I’m not going to. Trust me. It’s better this way. She’ll be better off, not having some long, drawn-out good-bye scene. That doesn’t do anybody any good.” She reaches into her bag and hands me an envelope. “Here’s this. Her birth certificate. In case you need it.”
“I can’t believe you would do this. I can’t get over it.”
“Listen, I’ll call her tonight. My Uber is here.”
Sure enough, almost as if by magic, a black Lincoln Town Car slides up to the curb, and she holds up her hand to the driver.
Then she turns and looks at me, and her eyes look just the slightest bit guilty—or maybe I am merely hoping she looks guilty. “Really. I didn’t know he was going to do this,” she says. “But maybe it’s best because I suck at good-byes.”
“Everybody sucks at good-byes,” I say.
The driver has gotten out of the car by now. “Are you coming?” he says. When she says yes, he opens the car door, and she puts her bag on the seat and then scoots in next to it.
She looks over at me and says, “I’m sorry you’re so mad at me. But I want to say thank you. The other night, when you said you would love her—that meant everything to me.”
The driver walks around to his side and gets in, starts the car, and puts on his turn signal, and after a moment the car pulls away, into traffic.
She’s gone. And everything that comes next is going to be up to me. Tears are pressing behind my eyes. I could honestly sit right down on the curb and start crying.
A slight breeze kicks up, sending some leaves spinning in a circle. I text Patrick. She left! LEFT WITHOUT SAYING GOOD-BYE TO FRITZIE. She freaking just got in an Uber and went to the airport. Said she sucks at saying good-bye.
I don’t know what I’m expecting him to say—a full expression of outrage over this? Maybe he’ll suggest getting in an Uber himself and racing to the airport to yell at her.
Instead, after a few minutes, he texts: Marnie. We are not and never have been dealing with an intact human being. That is why we’re in this situation to begin with. What did you expect? We’ll deal with it. Somehow.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MARNIE
Around eleven thirty, after stomping around and ranting and raving about Tessa’s poor decision-making skills to the Best Buds crowd for nearly two hours before settling down to fill flower orders, I head back to Brooklyn Kind School.
Josie and Karen, Josie and Karen, Josie and Karen, I say on the way, like a mantra. I need these two to be everything and more. We may need to get a whole team of psychologists and social workers and playdate moms to help this little girl not feel like an abandoned child. I get off the subway and walk the three blocks to the school crossing, and uncrossing my fingers, smiling at the other moms, sizing them up for possible friendships later on. Emily Turner catches up to me when I’m about a half block away.
“Hi! How did she do at the drop-off?” she asks breathlessly. “And isn’t this just the best school? Did you adore Josie and Karen?”
“Hi,” I say. “Yes, it went well. And she actually seemed fine. Talked to the other kids, didn’t blink an eye over my leaving, and was even looking like she was going to stage a coup to let the hamster run races around the classroom. So I’m perfecting my Mom Eyebrow Raise.”
“Let’s see it,” says Emily.
“It’s not all there yet. So no judging.” I take off my sunglasses and arrange my facial expression just so, so that my right eyebrow can arch slightly menacingly. I’ve seen my mother silence an entire minivan carpool of screaming little girls with this trick.
“Hmm,” says Emily. “I find it helps if you crook your mouth around just so, too. But you’ll get it. Like this.” She demonstrates by making perhaps the scariest face I’ve ever seen. She actually shows a glint of teeth. “Hey, so how are you? Do you have the first-day jitters, too? No offense, but you look a little stressed.”
“Her mom left,
” I say.
“But that was the plan, wasn’t it?”
I tell her the whole story: no good-bye, no warning, not even a visit to the classroom to look the teachers over and say nice things about what a great year it’s going to be. Changed Fritzie’s official last name on the forms to Patrick’s and vanished.
Emily reaches over and touches my arm. “Come to the playground with us this afternoon. Do you want to? Maybe Fritzie is going to need to work off a little bit of steam.”
“I’m supposed to go back to work. I have a wedding consult to do at four.”
“Just stay for a little while then. We’ll get treats from the ice cream truck and let the kids do their thing. I think the sprinkler system is on, and they can run through the fountain and cool off. And you can meet the other moms. We’re going to be your people now. Might as well come get to know us in our native habitat: the playground.”
“Thank you. I do have questions.”
“I’ll bet you do. Like, what the hell are we doing? Is that one of the questions?”
“That’ll come later. Mainly now I want to know what everybody carries in their giant bags.”
“Oh,” she says airily. “Three-course meals, including appetizers and snacks. Thermoses of vitamin water. Tourniquets, antibiotics, antipsychotic drugs. A bottle or two of wine. A corkscrew. A laptop. Headphones. iPhones. A thousand dollars in small bills. A stun gun.”
You see? This is why I love Emily Turner. Something tells me I may need to borrow somebody’s stun gun right away.
When Emily and I get to the school cafeteria, where we parents are supposed to wait for our kids’ dismissal, I see Fritzie hanging with a group of little boys, still wearing her baseball cap and hopping around like she’s perfectly at home. Her face lights up when she sees me, and she comes running over, only to get stopped by one of the teachers. Apparently kids must wait in a certain area until they’re fetched.
Karen sees me and frowns just the slightest bit. Which—I’m not going to lie—makes my heart sink a little bit. Did there end up being a hamster incident despite my amateur Microscopic Head Shaking? Am I going to have to resort to using words next time?
A Happy Catastrophe Page 11
