Cutting Teeth: A Novel

by Julia Fierro

  She belonged to neither. And that was exactly the way she liked it.

  out of sight, out of mind

  Leigh

  Leigh closed her eyes and sank into the wicker chair, into the coppery sun that streamed through salt-streaked windows. Four-month-old Charlotte sucked sleepily on her nipple.

  It was just as Nicole had promised. A lovely end-of-summer getaway filled with the scent of sunscreen and BBQ.

  Maybe the last, Leigh thought with a shiver. Before autumn bore down, before everything withered in anticipation of the imprisonment of winter—every parent’s cross to bear.

  She wished she could lock herself in this moment forever. She and Charlotte. The warming sun and the shushing sea. A current of seaweed-scented air trickled through the window and the swaddle blanket draped over Charlotte rippled, tickling Leigh’s naked breast. She shivered and pulled her cashmere cardigan over her shoulders. The screen door thwacked gently in the breeze, and beyond it, Leigh heard Tiffany’s throaty laugh rise from the beach. Leigh had almost forgotten about the others, even about her own son Chase, who, Leigh thought with a guilty wince, was certain to disrupt this peace.

  They would return soon.

  It had been at least an hour since Tiffany had led the parade of children—like a voluptuous pied piper, Leigh thought—along with Nicole and the other parents down to the beach for what Tiffany had promised was a seaside dance-a-thon!

  Tiffany’s voice, the elongated vowels that sashayed from her ever-pouty lips, had always seemed seductive to Leigh, even when Tiffany was being playful with Chase and the other boys in the Monday afternoon Tiff’s Riffs music classes. Especially, Leigh thought, when Tiffany’s attention focused on Rip, the playgroup’s token dad, whom Leigh found inauthentic and undergroomed.

  Once a week, Leigh, with Chase and Charlotte, and the other playgroup parents and children, clapped, danced and even squirmed like caterpillars on the colorful mats at a local yoga studio in Tiffany’s Tiff’s Riffs classes. They sang songs about mermaids who drove taxicabs under the sea, about children who rode the F train to the moon—songs written by Tiffany herself. Songs that Leigh had, at first, disliked for their fantastical nature. She’d felt compelled to explain to Chase that cars couldn’t really drive under the ocean.

  As the familiar melodies trickled through the screen, as she stroked baby Charlotte’s pale arm, memories of the day before crept in. The Olive Tree Preschool Fundraising Committee meeting. The sour heat of the rec room where the committee had met—just a few doors away from the classroom where Chase spent four mornings a week. The slither of queasy fear that had snaked through Leigh’s gut as she, committee treasurer, had presented the group with the latest account balances—numbers she had tweaked again and again in the week leading up to the meeting.

  Stop, she told herself, willing herself into the right now, into mindful presence, which is what Leigh’s nanny, Tenzin, a Tibetan Buddhist, had taught her.

  “Too much worrying not good for mommies,” Leigh imagined Tenzin saying as she pressed her palms together—pleading or praying, Leigh wasn’t sure which. “And worrying not good for mommies’ babies either.”

  Now, now, now, Leigh chanted, in sync with the baby’s sucking.

  She’s a Tibetan peace activist seeking U.S. asylum, Leigh had told the mommies four months ago when she had first hired Tenzin.

  Wow, they had said, how interesting.

  As if it were Leigh who was special.

  She was relieved that her husband Brad had gone away that weekend. Giving her the excuse to book Tenzin for the trip to the beach house. Brad had been a pill since the stock market slumped three weeks ago, and Leigh had urged him to get away. Finally, he had arranged a four-day “man-cation” golfing in North Carolina with his three older brothers. Brad had openly disapproved of the weekend at Nicole’s. Only because Tiffany was there, Leigh thought. He’d become suspicious—jealous even—of the time Leigh spent texting with Tiffany each night. He claimed to have a feeling about Tiffany.

  “She’s a slut,” he’d said after a weekend playgroup brunch at their own brownstone, an event orchestrated to include the playgroup parents’ significant others.

  Leigh hadn’t bothered to defend Tiffany. The woman did have a stripperesque name, and there was something overtly sensual in the way she swiveled her hips and puffed her lips out cutely. But Leigh was certain Brad was making room for sluts of his own that weekend. A ritual of the Marshall boys’ getaways was the mandatory visit to the local titty bar.

  Since Tiffany had introduced Leigh to Tenzin over a year ago—Tenzin’s effortless smiles and girlish laugh filling Leigh’s life, she had needed Brad less and less, a sense of freedom she hadn’t felt in years, not since Chase’s birth almost four years ago.

  Never had she imagined that she would rely on Brad as she had in the months after Chase’s birth. After the emergency C-section that had punctuated the failure of her dream birth plan, she had been grateful to Brad, who had taken a monthlong leave from his position at Manning & Lambert, the investment firm founded by Leigh’s father, August Lambert, III. They had strolled around the neighborhood on brisk spring mornings with their blue-eyed blond baby boy. The neighborhood grandmas in their polyester housedresses and slippers had climbed down their stoop steps to ooh and ah over cherubic Chase. God bless him, they said, and Brad had beamed.

  But as soon as Chase’s behavior (a term his therapists used) revealed itself before his first birthday, as soon as it became impossible to take him out of the house without an episode (more therapy-speak), Leigh had watched Brad retreat. Once they’d accepted that Chase was likely to have global delays that would affect the rest of his life (and theirs), Brad had emotionally disowned doe-eyed Chase.

  Leigh knew Brad found it difficult to admire their son, even when Chase behaved. The first time Chase had sat at the table for an entire meal, instead of wandering around it (Helen Keller–style, Brad often joked aloud), Leigh had praised Chase, promised him they’d tell his therapists what a good boy he’d been, even served him a small scoop of ice cream for dessert—breaking the no-sugar commandment preached by those same therapists. Brad had sat there quietly, forcing a smile, and later suggested to Leigh that she was “handicapping” the boy by rewarding him for normal behavior. Brad had used the word most outlawed in the coded therapy-speak of the special-needs world. Normal, Leigh thought now as the sun warmed the crown of her head and she let herself drift into half-sleep.

  Charlotte had finally surrendered Leigh’s breast, her blond-fuzzed head falling back, her lips parting, her sweet milky breath wafting upward.

  And then they returned. A tsunami of whining and whimpering, the half-language/half-grunt speak of children between the ages of three and four.

  There were demands of “juice, juice!”

  Dimple-cheeked Wyatt and the twins—dark-haired Dash and honey-complexioned Levi—slid to their bellies, grasping for toy cars and trucks.

  “Mine, mine!”

  Leigh looked for Chase but did not see her son.

  She did spot Rip’s son Hank standing a few feet from the door, already whining, “I want a car too.” Hank’s eyes were swollen with tears. Angry red splotches rouged his plump cheeks.

  Hank was sensitive, which created a unique challenge for Leigh—mother of the rough kid, which was how she imagined the other playgroup parents might describe Chase, especially on one of his off days. Her mission was to keep sensory-seeking Chase, with his hug-tackles and impulsive grabbing, away from the sensory-avoidant Hank.

  “Aaaaah,” Hank wailed, “I got sand in my eyeball!”

  Chase appeared, galloping to where Leigh sat. His freckles seemed to glimmer over his sun-pinked skin.

  He exclaimed breathily, “Mommy!” as he jumped in place—his long limbs swinging. Even with his jerky movements, he was stunning. Anyone would think so, Leigh thought. Other mothers, especially her friends on Facebook, where her status updates were all photos of Chase and Charlotte,
commented on how Chase should be a model. Get that kid an agent! He needs to be in a J. Crew catalogue! He would totally win that GAP cutest kid contest! She smiled and nodded gratefully in person, or responded with Thanks! We think he’s cute too!;) on Facebook, not bothering to point out that models had to sit still and follow directions. Not pointing out that Chase could follow through on a task (therapy-speak) only if it was self-directed (more therapy-speak).

  “Hi, sweetie,” Leigh said. “Did you have a fun time on the beach?”

  Chase’s cheeks were flecked with grains of sand, and when Leigh’s fingers brushed his cheek, he recoiled like a stretched spring.

  “Did you have fun at the beach, honey?” Leigh asked again, knowing she wouldn’t get a response. Chase was too excited to hear her. “What did you do? Did you go in the water?” She heard the sugarcoated strain in her voice.

  He tugged at his wet swimsuit, and drops of cold water stung her naked calves.

  “I can’t do it. I can’t do it,” he moaned.

  “Oh-kay,” Leigh said in a slow voice. Chase’s therapists claimed speaking slowly had a calming effect. “Try not to get frustrated.”

  She sang a song from his favorite television show as she searched the room for Tenzin.

  “Keep trying, keep trying,” Leigh sang quietly. “Don’t give up. Never give up.”

  “Don’t! Sing! That! Song!” Chase lifted to the balls of his feet, the tendons in his neck stretching.

  “Peepee-making time!” Tenzin sang as she hurried over. She laid one large hand on his back and escorted him toward the bathroom.

  If it wasn’t for Tenzin. The thought of life without her nanny blew a bubble of anxiety in Leigh’s chest. Her Tibetan Mary Poppins.

  “Thank you, Tenzin,” Leigh called over her shoulder.

  She smiled appreciatively because she was grateful for Tenzin, but also just in case any of the other parents were looking. Although they weren’t necessarily people Leigh would call friends, their opinion of her mattered.

  The neighborhood mommies’ acceptance of Leigh was the currency that determined status in this new life with little children. Before she had measured her worth by her salary as an art educator, by the success of the benefits she planned, the annual 5k race she organized in honor of her late cousin, who had died from Lou Gehrig’s Disease. And there had been the more superficial successes—her tennis-trimmed body and her rigorous schedule of exfoliation and moisturizing. There was no denying the importance of appearance in the weight of a woman’s worth, she thought, you’d be naïve to think anything else.

  Now, her identity boiled down to a) good mommy or b) bad mommy. She scanned the room, relieved that Rip was nowhere in sight. Daddy Rip, which was what an often inappropriately flirtatious Tiffany called him, was the most judgmental of all. Leigh knew Rip thought himself a better parent than the mommies, and he spent most of each Friday’s playgroup time criticizing the mother who was absent that week. He was probably out on the deck chugging beers. She had felt his alcohol-flushed cheeks earlier as he’d given her that awkward hello, how are you kiss when Leigh, Tenzin, a groggy Charlotte, and a carsick Chase had first arrived at the beach house. Leigh disliked the exuberant hellos and good-byes that bookended playdates, but the way of the mommies was to hug all around.

  Grace, Rip’s wife, was tugging a wet swimsuit off whimpering Hank. She wore pressed capris and a plaid headband that pulled her thick Asian hair into a flawless curtain down her back. Leigh thought she seemed like the last match on earth for Rip, with his baggy shorts and hippie sandals.

  “Stop!” a shrill voice piped into the room, and everyone, even the boys sifting through the bins of toys, fell silent and looked to the front door.

  The source of the command was Harper, the playgroup’s only little girl.

  As Harper watched the spastic throng of boys, the sun glinting off her tight red-gold curls, the girl’s upper lip lifted. Leigh tried to push aside the dislike she felt for Harper. It made Leigh feel like some kind of monster.

  Harper was a pint-sized early-childhood package the elite private schools were sure to drool over. Tiffany was aiming high and had begged Leigh, whose niece Peyton attended the crème de la crème St. Ann’s School, to arrange for an interview, and so Leigh had called her sister-in-law Caroline, who was secretary of the school board.

  Leigh had texted Tiffany with the news that the interview was on. And Tiffany had responded with thank you!!! fingers crossed!!! trailed by a row of plump, red, heart emoticons.

  Leigh had no trouble envisioning Harper at St. Ann’s. Not even four years old, Harper had a precocious self-control. Leigh had studied the girl. In music class. At the public library’s storytime. While the other children fidgeted, and Chase careened around like an entranced whirling dervish, Harper sat with her little hands folded in her lap. During snacktime, she sipped from an open cup without spilling a drop, even patting her lips with a napkin when she was finished. A perfect performance. One moment, the girl was a miniature version of the debutantes Leigh had come out with so many years ago at the Waldorf Astoria. The next, she was a fearless tomboy leaping off the roof of the playhouse at the park.

  Just then, Chase dashed past and gave a shriek of excitement when he spotted the plastic bin of matchbox cars.

  “Slow down,” Leigh called right before Chase fell to his knees with a thud.

  Grace gasped, but Leigh knew Chase didn’t feel pain like other children. He had “sensory issues”—the term his therapists used again and again, as if they were casting a spell, and Leigh had been enchanted, because she found herself using the term more with each week as she apologized for her son. At the playground. At playspaces. At the playgroup. I’m so sorry, she whispered, like it was a secret. He has sensory issues.

  The preschool, (which was, Leigh thought, little more than an overpriced day care) had called her twice this month to pick up Chase because he’d bitten someone, and just that week, the director, a sweaty woman who put on grandmotherly airs, had suggested Chase might need a school with a smaller class size, where children had the same “issues.” Leigh had parroted the therapy-speak: Chase has trouble relating his body within the space around him. Chase can’t measure his movements, his pace, the volume of his voice. She felt like a proselytizer trying to convert the preschool director to see (and believe) that Chase’s behavior wasn’t intentional, just a side effect of his faulty neurology. He was a good boy.

  “Are you sure he’s okay?” Grace asked. “Hank would be hysterical.”

  Hank was hysterical about most things, Leigh thought.

  “He’s fine,” Leigh said, remembering to smile.

  She knew the weekend would be full of her commands.

  Stop running, Chase.

  No grabbing, Chase.

  Use your inside voice, Chase.

  Hands to yourself, Chase.

  “The boys are sooo out of control,” Harper said, rolling her eyes in a perfect mime of the mommies.

  The parents laughed—Michael the hardest.

  In the harried pace of life after children, Leigh rarely noticed men. But Michael’s long lean torso and his lash-fringed eyes reminded her of a young Sylvester Stallone. He was noticeable.

  “I don’t know where she gets this stuff from,” he said, and Leigh heard the hint of a rural upbringing in his accent.

  “Hello?” Nicole said as she hurried past Michael with an armful of damp beach towels. “Have you met the girl’s mother? She’s a B-A-L-L buster.”

  “That’s our ginger-haired girl,” Tiffany said, appearing in the doorway. Her hair was a radiant mess of kinky dark waves. Her cleavage glistened with oil when she leaned over to comb the sand out of Harper’s curls with her fingers.

  Leigh knew what Tiffany was thinking. That’s our exceptional girl. So advanced. So much better than all these testosterone-laden spastic little boys. Tiffany talked about Harper’s intellect as if it were a burden, but Leigh knew it was false humility.

  Ti
ffany looked up, searching the room, as if she had heard Leigh’s thoughts.

  “Hey, Leigh,” Tiffany asked. “Isn’t that your mom’s name? Ginger?”

  Leigh nodded, smiling. “Ginny,” she said.

  “You got to love those country-club names,” Tiffany said.

  Leigh felt a prickle of annoyance. Tiffany was always pointing out Leigh’s family, and their money, as if they were something immoral Leigh had done. Despite the many times Leigh had tried to explain to Tiffany that the family firm had taken a huge hit in the crash of 2008. Brad’s poor investments had nearly ruined them and Leigh’s father had cut her off, as if she should be punished for Brad’s mistakes.

  Leigh thought of the lockbox in the back of her closet, under the stacked shoeboxes of heels she hadn’t worn since Chase’s birth, and which she knew she would never wear again. Inside that lockbox sat a pile of financial papers, the last year of bank statements for the Preschool Fundraising Committee, numbers that Leigh had to fix before Monday.

  If fixing was at all possible, she thought.

  Tiffany rolled on. “Bunny. Muffy. What else?”

  “Don’t forget Baby in Dirty Dancing,” Nicole called from the kitchen.

  Susanna sighed as she lowered herself onto the sofa, one arm searching behind her, the other supporting her pregnant belly. “God, I had such a crush on Jennifer Grey. That movie was, like, my coming out.”

  A tour commenced, Tenzin left in the living room to look over the children. Leigh trailed the playgroup parents, with Charlotte stuffed into the baby carrier—the straps already damp with Leigh’s sweat. They started outside, where Nicole pointed out the public beach in the distance, past the wall of boulders. Leigh could make out the colorful dots that were beach umbrellas, and the silhouettes of fishermen waist high in the water. Nicole explained that they were to find her immediately if any stragglers from the public beach made their way past the boulders, especially if they had dogs.

  Also, Nicole added gravely, her eyebrows lifting. They were to be on the lookout for any of the children slipping into the woods. She pointed to the dunes that rose between the public beach and the woodland. Beyond the fluttering sea grass that sprouted thickly from the sand, Nicole told them there was a trail that led to hundreds of acres of untouched state-park grounds.