Safe in My Arms

by Sara Shepard

  Ronnie inspected the bracelet and shrugged. “Some guy gave it to me—my boyfriend and I did a meal-delivery service for him and his wife over the summer, after those wildfires? It’s like a cancer bracelet or something?”

  “Does the guy have Willy Wonka hair?” Andrea’s voice had an edge. “Bulgy eyes?”

  “Yeah, that sounds right. His name was . . . Jerome?”

  “Jerry.” Andrea looked more and more uneasy. “Do you . . . know him?”

  “Only in passing.” Ronnie sipped. “He seemed nice, though.”

  “Ah.” Andrea’s shoulders relaxed a little. “He is nice. His wife has cancer. The bracelets, look”—here she showed her own wrist; she was wearing a similar yellow bracelet—“his daughter made them. Flora. She launched a sportswear brand last year, and I guess this was part of the line.”

  “Impressive.” Ronnie smiled, and then added, to Andrea, “I bet you have a lot of cool friends like that. Designers and whatnot. You have that look.”

  “Me? Oh, not really.” Andrea blushed. “And Flora moved up the coast, actually—we weren’t even friends. I actually don’t know another soul in Raisin Beach.”

  “Me neither,” Ronnie admitted. “I mean, not really.” She mentioned that she, like Andrea and Lauren, hadn’t moved there that long ago.

  Lauren took a sip and looked at Ronnie. “Do you work?”

  “Me?” Ronnie froze. “Um, yeah. At this . . . nonprofit. It’s really boring.”

  “Your looks are wasted on a nonprofit!” Lauren chided, then pointed to herself. “My looks, however, are not wasted on being a stay-at-home mom.” Then she looked at Andrea. “How about you?”

  Andrea took another big swig of her coffee. “I run this blog/support group thing. For people transitioning.” Again, she gestured to herself, shrugging. “Or anyone dealing with micro-aggressions, actually. It’s not limited to just one group of people.”

  Lauren looked intrigued. “Does mom-shaming about how I should love breastfeeding even though my nipples still feel like they’re going to fall off count as a micro-aggression?”

  “Absolutely. You’re welcome to chat anytime.”

  Lauren smiled. Then Ronnie raised her cup. “Well, cheers! Nice to meet some normal people.”

  They toasted and smiled at one another. From across the room, they noticed Carson, the assistant, looking their way. “Think he knows what we’re drinking?” Lauren whispered, stifling a giggle.

  “Maybe he needs some,” Andrea said. “The kid needs to lighten up.”

  Then Piper clapped her hands. “Everyone? Can we gather around?” She stood in front of the loft’s massive stone fireplace. Everyone dutifully quieted down and turned to her.

  “I just want to say, welcome—or welcome back—to Silver Swans Academy.” Piper’s voice was honeyed and regal. “I’m glad we’re all back on track and here together.” She laced her hands together like she was doing a cat’s cradle. “For those of you who are new, I want to give you our origin story. Our birth story, if you will. Though don’t worry, it doesn’t involve eating the placenta.”

  A few men chuckled uncomfortably.

  “So. Once upon a time, I had recently moved to Raisin Beach after a very difficult relationship. And I was walking with my son down this very block, and I passed this very building.” Piper waved her arms about the space. “Back then, it was called Glory Be Nursery School. Maybe some of you knew it?”

  Most faces were blank. Five years ago, when Piper had started as director, was a long time in the parent world. Most of those who had preschool children at Glory Be were long gone. And even though many parents had grown up in this town, it wasn’t like they kept tabs on the preschools until it was a necessity to do so.

  “And it . . . well, it was beautiful . . . but it needed TLC. And I just felt . . . called. I wanted to teach, but I didn’t want to teach just anywhere. I wanted to make a difference. I thought about working where my son went to school—he was in elementary school by then—but I thought, Oh, North, he’ll be okay. But I remembered him as a younger child. He wasn’t fine then—the separation from his father was hard on him. And I thought, That’s the age group that needs me. Such formative years, you know? So much can go wrong.”

  Everyone murmured appreciatively. When Piper became director at Glory Be, she’d inherited an already thriving preschool. Maybe it wasn’t the choicest preschool in town, the one with the miles-long waiting list that required an entrance exam, but the parents who brought their children there were fashionable and professional and educated. Yet after Piper started, she rebranded it into Silver Swans and turned it into the only school that mattered.

  “Now, if it had been last year, this would be the part of the speech where I’d talk about our programs,” Piper went on. “Our art installations. Our playground renovation. Our impressive list of famous guests who will teach and inspire your kids, everything from cooking to botany. And while all of that is still in place, the world is a little different, isn’t it? In the past year, a lot of us have had a wake-up call. A lot of us have learned valuable lessons about what matters . . . and what’s superficial.” She cleared her throat. “And maybe some of you—more than some—felt so uncertain that things would bounce back. I just want to say we hear you. We see you. It’s been hard for us at Silver Swans, too. And I just want to say, thank you for making the investment in us again this year. I know that for some, it might be more of a hardship, and maybe it doesn’t seem as important. But education is important, and we will try our hardest and do our best and always be a place of support and caring.”

  A few people murmured. The economic disaster—or Grand Recession, as it was called, a market bubble that burst for a variety of reasons and set off a chain reaction of sell-offs and layoffs—was still on everyone’s minds. And Silver Swans cost upwards of $16,000 a year for baby care, $20,000 for full-day preschool services, and even more for kindergarten. This year, the school had instated some new ways to pay—through credit cards, or through monthly withdrawals from a bank account—but to some, it was more of a struggle. Most knew they were still privileged—first-world problems and all that, to worry about a pricey preschool instead of putting food on the table. But for some parents who thought of where their children went to school as a status symbol, the struggle represented something much bigger.

  “Anyway, I just want to say thank you for being part of the tribe. You mean so much to me, and I hope that this year will be a bright spot after a bit of clouds.” There was a smattering of applause, but she held up a finger. “Before we go back to the donuts—some of them are vegan, by the way, so look for the placards—I also want to talk about an exciting opportunity that’s come up.” She stood straighter. “I’ve been approached to work on a . . . project. A documentary television series, actually, produced by and broadcast on Hulu. They’re hoping to shoot a story about parenting. Mothering. Children. Education, especially in changing times. I have to admit, I pitched them hard. I talked about how I’m a single parent, and I talked about Silver Swans, and I talked about all of you, hardworking people who only want the best for your kids. And . . . I just found out they went for it. Silver Swans is going to be a featured school.”

  Carson let out a whoop. “I knew they’d choose you!”

  Others started to murmur. Andrea spluttered up a sip of coffee, sending Lauren, who was standing next to her, jerking away from the spray. “Sorry, sorry!” Andrea cried, grabbing napkins. The air smelled slightly like crème liqueur. “Wrong pipe!”

  “This won’t take any time away from my commitment to your children,” Piper said, her voice raising. “However, I wanted to give you a heads-up that there may be a few cameras around. Your children might be recorded, as this is partly a documentary about kids. Unless, of course, you don’t want that, and you can sign a waiver, and they’ll pixelate out your children’s faces in postproduction. Absolutely up to y
ou—however, please consider the merits of participating. Your child, if you choose to be involved, will be interviewed carefully and sensitively. You may find out insights about them. You also might treasure the professionally shot footage once they get older. And, of course, if there are any budding actors, this might be a way to find representation!” She laughed mirthfully. “Kidding! Kind of!”

  Hands shot up. “How many episodes?” This from a very blond, very tiny woman at the fireplace.

  “I’m not sure,” Piper said. “Ten, to start. For the first season, anyway.”

  “If we’d like to be interviewed, do we have to apply?” asked another mother.

  “Check in with me, and I’ll connect you with Kelsey, the producer who’s handling all of that.”

  “Is this like a reality show?” That was from a balding, bearded father at the front.

  Piper looked mortified. “Oh no. Far from it. It’s a documentary.”

  Ronnie now looked faint. Lane, who’d reappeared by her side, took her arm. “You okay?”

  “I . . .” Ronnie ran her hand across the back of her neck, then nodded. “Uh-huh. Sure. Whatever.”

  “Anyway, enough of me. Thank you for coming to our breakfast.” Piper did that prayer-hands thing again. “Thank you for being part of our tribe. And enjoy the breakfast! Please, stay as long as you like! Mingle and meet—I always say that Silver Swans parents are the best this town has to offer.”

  Everyone smiled and clapped as Piper waved and exited the building—quickly, like she had somewhere important to be. Ronnie, Lauren, and Andrea applauded: they still felt full of hope, like they were accepted members of this shiny group.

  Little did they know that what was going to happen next had already been put into motion. Someone watching had already made up their mind. The notes came so soon afterward, after all.

  Someone in the room was already preparing a plan.

  Two

  A half hour later, after the breakfast ended, Lauren went to pick up her son from the nursery. This morning was just a trial run at Silver Swans, only an hour of time for the teachers and kids to meet one another.

  Piper had vanished, but her assistant, Carson, stood at the big red door that led to the classroom building, trafficking families along. Bizarre that this dude would want to work at a preschool, Lauren thought as she stood in line at the door. But then, maybe he just wanted to work with Piper. That woman sure did have a fan club.

  Ahead of Lauren, moms were chatting like old friends, which made her feel lonely. She looked around for the drinking buddies she’d made inside, but they’d gotten lost in the throng. And . . . were some of the moms looking at her strangely? She glanced down and mentally compared her wrinkled skirt to the polished outfits on everyone around her. She hadn’t known this was going to be such a fashion show. You’d think after so many people lost their life savings and jobs, people wouldn’t care about fashion as much.

  She also couldn’t help but notice how many couples there were—moms and dads. She glanced over her shoulder for her husband, Graham, and could just make out his head through the windows of her car. Still on the phone! He was going to miss out on picking up his son for the first time. Graham was missing out on everything. Even Matthew’s birth, for God’s sake: Lauren’s water broke while Graham was out of town for work, and her labor progressed so quickly that he couldn’t get back in time. As the contractions came on stronger, sad-eyed nurses hovered over Lauren, their pity palpable.

  “Dad’s going to regret not seeing this,” one of them said, and Lauren wanted to punch her. She’d imagined her birth going wrong in a lot of ways—accidentally having the baby at home, the need for an episiotomy, an emergency C-section—but she’d never imagined she’d have to do it without the baby’s father.

  Even after Matthew slid out relatively easily, a perfectly formed child, Lauren still throbbed with the wrongness of having to go through it alone. There was no doubt she had a touch of PTSD from the whole ordeal. Maybe, in fact, the birth was what led to what Lauren was going through now. This . . . darkness. The growing feeling inside her she couldn’t quite describe or control. And the sleeping, all the sleeping, just to escape.

  Her phone bleeped. It was her mother. How are things?

  Lauren felt a confusing rush. On the one hand, she wanted to tell her mother the truth. On the other, she was too proud. And there was yet another part of her that was annoyed because her mother had barely reached out. Didn’t she remember how hard a newborn was? Shouldn’t a mother know her daughter was struggling? It was a bizarre tug-of-war.

  She slid the phone back in her pocket without responding.

  It was finally her turn at the door, but still no Graham. Lauren put aside her annoyance when she saw her baby, who gave her a big, gummy smile. “Your first day!” she cried at him. “Aren’t you a big boy!”

  She gathered Matthew from the caretaker, a kind woman named Rose, and scooped up his raccoon-shaped backpack that stored his bottles, diapers, wipes, and other necessities. The parking lot was crowded with people; a different crossing guard waved vehicles through onto one of Raisin Beach’s busiest streets.

  Lauren pulled open the door just as Graham was jumping out to help get Matthew in the baby seat. He looked cowed. “I’m so sorry, babe. The call ended, but then all these texts started, and I knew that if I went inside, I’d look rude. I figured it was better for you to meet Piper anyway, since you’ll be seeing her more.”

  “It’s a shame you missed it,” Lauren said airily. “Cool loft, the director reminds me of a dark-haired Gwyneth Paltrow, there’s going to be some sort of documentary, oh, and also, it was adorable seeing Matthew in the classroom.” She opened the passenger door and slid into the seat. “You mind driving?”

  Graham looked put out. “Actually, I have a few more texts to send.”

  “I had some Baileys inside. I don’t feel right being behind the wheel.”

  Graham’s eyes widened. “You were drinking? What about your milk?”

  “It was only a few sips.”

  Begrudgingly, Graham sat down behind the wheel. As he backed out, Lauren glanced once more at the Silver Swans building, then at Matthew’s reflection in the little baby mirror affixed to the back seat. “How was it?” she cooed to him. “Did you like your teachers?”

  Matthew answered by waggling a Mickey Mouse rattle. The kid was Mickey obsessed—when he was upset, no other blanket, stuffed animal, or song would do.

  Then Lauren looked at Graham, realizing something. “How did you know the director’s name was Piper?”

  Graham kept his eyes on the road. “Because we’ve had whole conversations about her. You read me her biography. You don’t remember?”

  Lauren felt a swoop in her chest. “Did I?”

  “Just yesterday, hun.” Graham tapped her temple good-naturedly. “Mom brain!”

  Lauren hated the term mom brain, but maybe it was accurate. Things were slipping past her far more often since she’d given birth. This particular memory, the deep dive into Piper Jovan—it felt ephemeral, like it had only happened in a dream. But how else did she know Piper had been at Silver Swans for five years, that she’d won awards, and that she had a son?

  As he was taking the turnoff to a busier road, Graham’s phone pinged, and he glanced quickly at the screen. “Oh, shit. Gracie wants me to come in today after all.”

  Lauren felt her stomach dip. “Ugh. Are you serious?”

  Gracie Lord was Graham’s quasi-new boss, the female show runner of the hit network comedy Ketchup, which shot in Los Angeles. When Lauren and Graham met two years ago, when they were both living in Silver Lake, Graham was an aspiring screenwriter with a degree in the craft from UCLA, picking up bartending shifts to make ends meet. He’d charmed Lauren from behind the bar at her regular dinner haunt up the street. He was witty and confident and good-looking with his height a
nd deep-set eyes and scruffy beard, the kind of guy she figured would go for a young, blond, dime-a-dozen LA stereotype, and Lauren had been flattered that he’d chosen her: four inches too short, about fifteen pounds heavier than the city’s median, and thirty-eight years old.

  Graham always said she was beautiful. And that he loved her because she was smart, and honest, and made bold decisions. He loved her always-laughing family from Massachusetts, how her childhood was all about homemade granola bars and a tangle of shoes in the front foyer and her mother penning a chore schedule Sunday night. “It’s like a seventies sitcom,” he said wistfully. Graham had grown up with a single mother in a little town in central California; his extended family were bone-dry, serious Evangelical Christians whose interests and values were alien to him.

  And maybe Lauren’s family was seventies-sitcom perfect. All five Lowry kids set up homework stations at the dining room table, and Lauren never had a room of her own, and yet her mother always managed to find the perfect Christmas present for each of them. There were summers on the Cape, cheering on her brothers at soccer games, sitting through her sister’s school plays. While her older sisters were “the pretty one” and the “theatrical one” and her brothers were both athletes, Lauren was “the brainy one,” which wasn’t exactly a compliment. She went to science camps every summer, and she was part of a nerdy band of kids who played a lot of D&D and fantasy video games. She always felt a little out of step with her siblings, who had an easy knowledge of pop culture and how to act in social situations and who, in adulthood, settled into lives not unlike their parents’. Her sister Gwen lived not ten miles from where they grew up and was a stay-at-home mom, her husband a prestigious doctor. Her sister Mel lived in New Jersey with her two kids, now almost teenagers, and dabbled with a bunch of careers as hobbies, not because she needed the money. Her brothers had blond, pretty-enough wives who faded into the background and fell into their typical gender roles. It was like the seventies, including how they all looked at Lauren a little pityingly because she hadn’t made the same choices.