Cutting Teeth: A Novel

by Julia Fierro

  Leigh saw Nicole’s eyes flicking to catch Susanna’s, a here she goes look passing between them. The air in the room fell flat, the same tense silence that always accompanied Tiffany’s lectures on child development.

  Tiffany continued, sweetly. As if talking to the children during music class, Leigh thought. “Studies show time-outs don’t work as effectively as we might think they do.”

  “Oh. Really?” Grace said. A skeptic’s wrinkle creased her forehead, and Leigh could see she was a woman unused to criticism, trigger-quick to bat down any challenge. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Well,” Tiffany said, “I don’t know if you’ve heard of the Waldorf philosophy? It focuses on imitation. It suggests you guide the child to more appropriate behavior. In a gentle way.” Tiffany gestured toward Harper. “Harp goes to a Waldorf school.”

  As if to say, Leigh thought, look at this perfect specimen.

  Tiffany took Hank’s free hand, and the little boy, his sobs ceasing, looked up at her expectantly. Leigh could see that Grace’s lips had parted. In astonishment, or irritation.

  “I’ll start on the kids’ dinner,” Nicole called out before vanishing into the kitchen.

  “Let me give you a hand,” Susanna said, waddling after Nicole.

  The fear Tiffany inspired in the playgroup parents baffled Leigh. Tiffany had been nothing but kind toward her. Even loving.

  “For example,” Tiffany continued, “if a child was acting in a disruptive manner, the teacher would redirect. By leading them away with an outstretched hand.” Tiffany mimed the gesture. “Suggesting an alternative activity.”

  Tiffany grabbed a beach towel hanging over the back of a chair. She held it out to Hank and smiled. Her voice was soft. Seductive even, Leigh thought.

  “Here, Hank. You may help me fold the towel.”

  The little boy reached for the towel, but his mother jerked him away and, for a moment, there was an absurd tug-of-war.

  “That’s so very interesting, Tiffany,” Grace said with a beaming smile of her own.

  Grace’s calculatedly cordial tone made the back of Leigh’s neck prickle.

  “I’m a child-development specialist.” Tiffany shrugged modestly. “With a master’s in music therapy.”

  “And where was that?” Grace asked. “The Columbia School for Teachers?”

  “No. City College.”

  “Oh,” Grace said, and smiled. With a barely perceptible nod of pity, Leigh thought. Then Grace ushered the still-whimpering Hank to the screen door and out onto the deck.

  Even before the screen door thwacked shut, Tiffany had pulled out her phone and was jabbing at the keypad.

  Three seconds later, Leigh’s phone vibrated.

  The text message read:

  ok! she’s a fucking cunt!

  Leigh’s hand jumped to her mouth to smother a laugh. When she looked up, Tiffany winked at her, seemingly unscathed.

  Tenzin rushed by, shuffling after Chase, singing, “Potty time! Make a peepee on potty time!”

  Chase cried, “Can’t get me!” and leapt onto the sofa seat next to Leigh, jumping up and down, his hip knocking the arm cradling Charlotte.

  “Chase, sweetie, careful,” Leigh said. “You’ll wake the baby.”

  “You can’t get me, Tenzie,” Chase sang with an openmouthed smile.

  “No, no, no, Chase, my boy,” Tenzin clucked quietly, reaching for him.

  With each jab of his elbow, Leigh felt the coil tighten in her chest.

  “Stop, Chase. Please!” she heard herself begging. Then she took a slow breath and tried a more rational approach, “You’re not doing good listening, Chase.”

  With each thudding jump, each dip of the cushion seat, Leigh felt a sense of unsteadiness grow, and when he fell against her, his fingers catching in her hair, a white-hot stinging at her temple, she almost laid her palm on his bare chest, imagining his skin still sun-warmed under her fingers, him on the floor, on his back, his elbows skidding across the thin carpet at her feet.

  But Tenzin was there to save Chase (and Leigh) again, scooping the boy up under the armpits and swinging him up in the air and away, his giggles trailing behind them.

  Leigh relatched the baby’s mouth around her nipple, the hot gush of her milk letting down a relief. Only then did she dare to look around the room, bracing herself for the disapproving stares. But no one looked her way. She couldn’t tell if their busy chatter was intentional. Maybe they were embarrassed for her. More than once, Nicole, and even Susanna (a mother to twins!) had said things like I don’t know how you do it, Leigh. As if Chase were a trial she must endure, as if she were a mother to be pitied.

  But now she had her Charlotte.

  Nicole, Susanna, and Tiffany stood in the kitchen doorway, their shoulders touching in a conspiratorial huddle as they watched Tenzin hop among the boys, plucking brightly colored foam sandals from their sun-browned feet. Leigh sensed a hint of mischief in their amused smiles. Even from Tiffany, who, as Tiffany loved to remind Leigh, had “discovered” Tenzin, and who called Tenzin a goddess to her face.

  The Tibetan woman did look a bit comical, Leigh thought, and instantly felt it a betrayal to think this, as if she had joined forces with those judgy mommies against her precious Tenzin. Tenzin didn’t own a bathing suit and was wearing one of Leigh’s. It was too small in the trunk and left her hip bones exposed. But it was too big in the chest; the empty cups two pockets of air-filled fabric. She wore white men’s athletic socks and sweatpants rolled up to her knees. Her SAVE TIBET! baseball cap was perched atop her head. Still, Leigh thought, there was beauty in Tenzin’s effortless smile, in the simplicity of her unwrinkled golden skin that left little to distract from those loving black eyes.

  When Leigh saw children look at Tenzin with lip-curled disgust, as Harper sometimes did, as the parents in the playgroup did now, Leigh felt a swelling urge to defend her.

  “Tenzin going to clean up,” Tenzin sang in her usual cheer.

  The only way Leigh could make sense of Tenzin’s playful energy, and her habit of referring to herself in the third person, was that she’d been a first-grade teacher back in India, where her husband and three children still lived. Leigh preferred to think of Tenzin’s clowning as intentional. An act. Tenzin’s daily performance was just as seamless as Leigh’s own. But lately, as she grew to rely on Tenzin for more than child caregiving, but also for comfort and even for guidance, Leigh sometimes feared that Tenzin was as clueless as she appeared. The nanny might actually believe there was goodness in everyone. After all, Leigh thought, Tenzin’s most-used American cliché was look on the bright side.

  The din had woken the baby, who, unlike big brother Chase, was all smiles after a nap, even one interrupted. Leigh tried to avoid comparing them, but it felt impossible when they were such opposites. When the Leigh who was Chase’s mommy was a stranger to the Leigh who was Charlotte’s mommy.

  Leigh jumped when she felt the hand on her shoulder.

  The scent of Tiffany’s musky perspiration swarmed her.

  “Jumpy, a bit?” Tiffany asked with an amused lift of her eyebrows.

  “You scared me, silly.”

  She gave Tiffany’s cool dry fingers a squeeze, counting one-two-three before releasing. Recently, Tiffany had pointed out, with a tone of exaggerated hurt, that Leigh didn’t hug her back, so Leigh had been making an extra effort.

  Tiffany tucked herself between Leigh and the arm of the sofa, curling her naked legs under her. Like a cat looking to be scratched, Leigh thought. Harper ran over and climbed onto Tiffany’s lap. The girl’s long legs, spotted with yellowing bruises, spilled across Leigh’s thighs. The soles of Harper’s feet were filthy, and Leigh scooted over to make room.

  “Milky-time, Mama,” Harper pleaded. She fell back so her head rested in the crook of Tiffany’s elbow. A cradle position. The same way Leigh held Charlotte.

  But Charlotte was three months old. Harper nearly four years old. Again Leigh wondered when Tiffany
would put an end to the sullying of this naturally beautiful act that, in Leigh’s opinion, Tiffany had made wholly unnatural.

  Tiffany lifted a heavy breast over the neckline of her shirt, and Harper cupped it in her hands, closed her eyes and opened wide before pulling the bright pink nipple into her own pink mouth.

  “Gentle, Harp,” Tiffany said, “I know you love mama’s yaybies and all, but ouch.”

  Leigh smiled, more of a reflex, when Tiffany used her embarrassing alternative for boobies. Boob has negative connotations, Tiffany had once explained.

  Leigh pressed her fingertips into the hollows above her eyes.

  “Do you have any painkiller?” she asked.

  “Nope. But,” Tiffany’s voice fell to a whisper, “Nicole has like a grab bag of pharmaceuticals in the bathroom upstairs.”

  Leigh was about to stand and head for the stairs when Tiffany clutched her elbow and pulled her back into the sofa.

  “Did you get a chance to think about the babysitting schedule?” Tiffany asked. “I really really need those hours on Thursdays.”

  Not this again. How many times did she have to tell Tiffany no, without actually saying no? Tenzin was hers on Thursday—the only weekday Chase’s preschool did not have a spot, which meant twelve hours alone with the kids. Twelve hours trying to protect Chase from himself while she nursed the baby through the 5–7 P.M. witching hour. Don’t jump headfirst off the couch, Chase. Don’t stick Cheerios up your nose, honey. Don’t chew on Mommy’s cell phone, please.

  “I’m sorry,” Leigh started, but Tiffany interrupted.

  “Tenzin says she’s cool with it. She really wants the cash.”

  Leigh felt a blush of humiliation at the thought of Tenzin and Tiffany conspiring behind her back.

  “Other side,” Harper demanded, and swiveled around in her mother’s lap. Wordlessly, Tiffany tucked one breast back into her shirt and extracted the other.

  “And Tenzin said she’s super happy to do a share,” Tiffany said, leaning close until Leigh could see the depression in the woman’s nostril where her nose had once been pierced. “Which would be great, Leigh. ’Cause it would save sooo much money.”

  And, Leigh thought, I’d come home to Chase in hysterics after hours of Harper-abuse. No one riled Chase like Harper, and Tiffany’s laissez-faire discipline only made matters worse.

  The lusty suck of Harper’s nursing deepened, and Leigh felt the girl’s shining eyes watching her, waiting for a reaction. As if Harper hoped Leigh would defy Tiffany, knowing it would make for entertainment. All the kids were drama junkies, their little noses in the air, sniffing out the slightest hint of blood drawn between the mommies. Especially Harper.

  Leigh slid out of Tiffany’s grasp and stood. She sniffed at Charlotte and wrinkled her nose. “Oopsy! Got to change this baby girl’s diaper.”

  “Just think about it, okay?” Tiffany tugged on the hem of Leigh’s seersucker skirt. “Okay? If I can’t promise Shabbat Tots Tuesdays and Thursdays they won’t give me either.”

  “Okay,” Leigh said, hoping she could smooth this Tenzin business out later because suddenly she was exhausted. Her mouth was so dry that her lips stuck together when she tried to speak, to explain that she needed more time to think about it, but Tiffany interrupted her again.

  “Oh my God, I love you!” Tiffany squealed and pounced on her, pulling Leigh into a hug, nearly jostling the baby out of Leigh’s arms and sending Harper tumbling to the floor.

  Tiffany’s hot breath was in her ear. “You really are my best mommy friend. I’ll make this up to you. I fucking swear it.”

  Leigh couldn’t tell Tiffany right then she’d meant okay, as in okay, I’ll think about it. Not okay, you can have the hours. You can have Tenzin. The throbbing behind her eyes sent a wave of nausea crashing over her, and Leigh thought she’d vomit right there, with the baby in her arms. Tiffany had pulled her knitting project from her tote bag, and her fingers were already dancing at the tips of the bamboo needles, the yarn trailing over Harper’s boob-absorbed face.

  Leigh retreated to the darkest corner, by the fireplace, trying to avoid the sun that glinted off every surface in the white-walled room.

  Nothing is permanent, she told herself, yet another Tenzin mantra. This pain is temporary.

  She was no different from the other mommies, she thought. She was scared of Tiffany.

  She remembered the night at Jakewalk a few weeks earlier, when Susanna, with Nicole’s assistance, had tried to coax Tiffany into leaving the bar with them. Tiffany was practically sitting in that guy’s lap, Leigh thought, remembering Tiffany’s eyes, which had grown impossibly wide with rage, the look of someone unhinged.

  Harper, her cheeks flushed pink, climbed off Tiffany’s lap and joined Hank in threading yarn through tiny nature-made holes in the shells they had collected. A task Leigh knew Chase would never sit for.

  Chase skipped over and planted a kiss on Harper’s cheek.

  “That’s very sweet, Chase,” Leigh said, trying to mask the surprise in her voice.

  Her son stepped back and chewed his lower lip in shy satisfaction.

  Harper scoured her cheek with the heel of her hand. “Yuck!”

  Leigh longed to yank the girl’s red-gold hair.

  “But. I miss you, Harper,” Chase said.

  Leigh knew this was his way—his only way—of saying I love you.

  He was a good boy. He was. Despite what the city’s Early Intervention psychologist had said about Chase’s “social-emotional delays” preventing him from forming “purposeful relationships” with the other children, on and on until Leigh’s eyes had stung with contained tears.

  Her boy loved people. Why couldn’t they see that?

  bosom buddies

  Rip

  Rip had just cracked open another beer when the screen door opened again, and Hank appeared, squinting against the fiery orange globe that rested on the horizon. Grace stood behind Hank, her hand nudging him out the door.

  “What’s up?” Rip asked.

  “Go to Daddy,” Grace said.

  The screen door slapped shut.

  “Hey, buddy,” Rip said, taking one of Hank’s warm hands in his own, pulling him gently away from the door. “Mommy sounds frustrated.”

  Mommy sounds effing pissed off, Rip thought.

  “Are, are there buggies?” Hank asked as his fearful eyes scanned the deck.

  “Hey, bud,” Rip said. “Come on over here and check out this awesome sunset.”

  Hank shuffled forward like a timid baby penguin. “No ’squitos?”

  “No mosquitoes,” Rip repeated, and wondered, for the hundredth time, how Hank was going to survive the big bad world.

  “Daddy?”

  “What’s wrong?” Rip asked when he saw Hank’s raised eyebrows and the tremor in his chin.

  “I’m sad,” Hank said in a breathy whisper.

  “Why, sweetheart?” Rip asked as he ruffled the boy’s hair, as thick and black as Grace’s and, Rip imagined, the generations of Chos before her.

  “’Cause Mommy got mad at Mama Tiff.”

  “Oh, I see,” Rip said, making a mental note to tell Grace to cool it. These were his friends, after all. “I’m sure Mommy was just being a silly old thing.”

  “And ’cause I missed you, Daddy.”

  Rip felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. He wanted to run into the house and drop to his knees in front of Grace, beg her to give him another baby so that this feeling of being needed could be prolonged, even if just for another few years.

  He pulled Hank into his arms and squeezed, breathing in the apple-scented shampoo he (he!) had made for his little boy, until Hank squealed, “Ouchy, Daddy!”

  He lifted Hank and slung the boy’s pudgy legs over the rail. Hank stiffened, scrambling for Rip’s neck.

  “Don’t worry. Daddy’s got you.” He wrapped an arm around Hank’s waist. “See?”

  Hank relaxed and looked down at his feet dangling over the ma
ssive boulders that formed a double seawall. The occasional wave splashed over the rocks, spritzing foam up onto Hank’s naked brown feet.

  “Oooooh, Daddy,” Hank giggled. “It’s freezing.”

  The pink light of the sunset magnified Hank’s delicate beauty. The cherubic face and rose-tinted cheeks. The puckered mouth, lips ever apart, and those thick lashes Rip both loved and despised because they made strangers on the street stop and exclaim, What a beautiful little girl! Those weren’t Grace’s lashes, and they certainly weren’t his, and he hated himself, as he always did when he ruined a moment full of love for Hank with that reminder. Hank wasn’t his. He was Grace + anonymous sperm donor #1332.

  The still surface of the water rippled, and a slice of silver rose against the bruised sky. Rip’s breath caught in his throat. Then another flash rose and another, until the air just above the blue plain was slashed with tiny glimmering fish flipping in and out of the water.

  “Daddy! Do you see? Do you see?”

  “It’s a school of magical fish,” Rip said, and winked.

  “Daddy, look! You missing it,” Hank cried, and laid one warm, cookie-scented hand on each of Rip’s unshaven cheeks, turning Rip’s head to the water.

  “Okay, buddy, okay.” Rip laughed, certain the fish had been sent, their dance choreographed, just for him and his son.

  He heard the screen door squeak open behind them and when he turned he saw Michael, Tiffany’s fiancé, step onto the deck. He wore a scuffed black motorcycle jacket, and the sun made the silver studs wink a fiery light. Harper ran out from behind him.

  Hank shouted with breathy excitement, “Hah-per! We saw magic silver fish. Jumping and flipping.”

  Harper was Hank’s only real playmate in the group, and Rip knew this friendship was born from necessity. Only Harper had the focus to sit for the passive activities Hank loved, like drawing, painting, or making necklaces from Cheerios and uncooked elbow macaroni. And only Hank would do whatever Harper commanded when the other boys abandoned her for a game of you-can’t-catch-me or superheroes.

  As if she could read Rip’s mind, Harper ordered, “Come on, Hank,” and pointed to the corner of the deck where they had secreted their hoard of seashells, pebbles, and a few pieces of blanched driftwood.