Cutting Teeth: A Novel

by Julia Fierro

  They were released. A quick wave good-bye and Leigh was out into the blue night, her engorged breasts aching as she ran home. She took the stoop steps two at a time until Tenzin stood before her, baby Charlotte in her arms.

  All was well. All was as it should be. Mother and child. Small lips nuzzling at Leigh’s breast until the baby’s mouth caught her nipple and there was the pull of her suck and, finally, the release of milk, the letdown like a gentle current coursing through the blue veins branching across her breast. Leigh was reminded of the need this child (child of my heart) had for her, and only her. This was her redemption.

  * * *

  She sat in a deck chair, her feet on the seawall, the concrete biting into the back of her ankles. Still the same smooth muscles and delicate ankles that had made her proud to wear tennis whites to the Locust Valley Country Club as a girl. She rearranged the swaddle blanket over Charlotte, asleep except for the occasional suckle at Leigh’s nipple.

  Leigh chewed her nails, her mother’s voice in her head.

  Leigh, dear, no boy will want to hold your hand with those ragged fingernails.

  She watched Tiffany run across the sand with the children down on the beach. Though it was only a little after nine and the morning sun weak, Tiffany wore a red-and-white, polka-dotted bikini. With her yoga-toned curves and her hair pulled into a ponytail, she reminded Leigh of one of those long-dead Vargas girls.

  “Somebody decided to turn up the sun today, monkeys!” Tiffany’s voice rang with cheerleader-quality glee.

  It was an energetic frolicking that had been foreign to Leigh for longer than she could remember. Surely, she must have moved like that before Chase had been born. Some of the other mommies had aged in life after children, even in their affluent neighborhood, with its countless yoga studios and salons and spas. With money came babysitters, and time away for the gym and private training sessions and hours sweating off pounds in the sweltering heat of a Bikram studio.

  Tiffany was still beautiful, yes, but it wouldn’t last much longer, Leigh thought. Not if she kept filling her plate, as she had at breakfast that morning. Two thick pads of butter on her toast. Half & Half in her coffee. At that rate, Leigh thought, Tiffany would be just like the rest of them in five years.

  The children scurried away from the seaweed-speckled foam of the waves, back onto the sand dotted with red, white, and blue inflatable beach balls, which they kicked, threw, covered with sand, and the most daring (Harper, of course), set afloat in the cold, dark water. Chase sat on his ball, rocking gently.

  How foolish she’d been to think coming out to the beach house might make him happy. Chase couldn’t be content, or comfortable, anywhere, it seemed. Or was it her? Was her own unhappiness infecting him? When all she had ever wished for him was less suffering? If only everything would be okay. If only Monday’s meeting with the fund-raising-committee chairwoman went smoothly, she would be happy, she promised. She would make Chase happy.

  But Leigh knew that wasn’t true. She knew they would take her to jail. A series of concerns popped into her head, all of which seemed trivial. But what was more important than preserving the children’s day-to-day life? How would breast-milk-exclusive Charlotte thrive? Who would remove all the tags in Chase’s clothing so not one stray thread rubbed against his skin? Who would remind him to howl like a baby wolf in the bathtub, chin lifted to the moon, so soap didn’t run into his eyes? And brush him with the soft-bristled surgical brush his occupational therapist had given Leigh? Up his back, over his shoulders, and down each arm, just the way he liked it, soothing him before bed.

  That morning at breakfast, recharged after a good night’s sleep, as she had spooned scrambled eggs into Chase’s mouth and dabbed his smile with a napkin, the sea outside the window stretching endlessly under the bluest sky, she had felt hope.

  Sure there had been the usual grumbling from Chase about not wanting to eat, his fidgeting, spilling a whole cup of juice across the table (Leigh had apologized to the room—we’re working on our fine motor skills), but once they walked out into the blazing sun, Chase had fallen apart. The sand was too sticky, the wind too cold, the sun too hot. The seagulls hurt his ears. The sea snails, which the other children squealed at gleefully, were scary. The greenhead horseflies were biting him.

  “They’re going to get me!” he had screeched.

  No, Chase.

  Gentle, Chase.

  Share, Chase.

  Use your words, Chase.

  Careful, Chase.

  Calm down, Chase.

  No throwing sand, Chase.

  By nine, Leigh’s patience had been obliterated.

  Then a bikini-clad Tiffany had appeared, skipping down the sun-blanched wooden stairs that led from the deck to the beach, the tops of her tanned breasts jiggling. Chase had left Leigh, running to clasp Tiffany’s hand, looking up at her in a shy but also, Leigh had noted, flirtatious way. His mouth twisted as he tried to hide a smile.

  “Go ahead, Leigh. Take a break,” Tiffany had said with a wink, nodding up to the deck. “Get some sun. We got it covered. Don’t we, Chase, my dear?”

  And so Leigh had retreated.

  Now, over the flapping of the deck umbrellas, she heard Tiffany on the beach.

  “Say cheese! Say cheese!” Tiffany sang.

  Tiffany loved to be photographed, and it made Leigh feel embarrassed for her. Couldn’t Tiffany see how vain she seemed? Not long after the barrage of cheese, Leigh heard Tiffany’s demands. Now to Michael, she imagined.

  “Let me see,” Tiffany commanded. “Are there any good ones?”

  Leigh knew Tiffany would post the photos immediately to her Facebook page, especially the ones showing off her bronzed cleavage. With cheery status updates like: A day at the beach with the Tiff’s Riffs kids!

  Leigh sat up when she heard Chase’s cries, carried up to the deck on a gust of wind.

  “Everything okay down there?” she called out.

  She spotted Tiffany with two children, one at either side. Harper and Chase.

  Leigh shielded her eyes and waved. “Hey! Should I come down?”

  Tiffany shook her head and waved Leigh back, as in we don’t need you. But Chase was hopping from foot to foot like a furious little elf. She followed his pointing finger to the blue-and-white ball floating out to sea, tossed by the waves. Chase pointed to Harper, and Leigh could see that the little girl’s hands were balled on her hips. Leigh read the distress in Chase’s widened eyes, his stretched mouth.

  “Harper,” Leigh whispered. “That little…”

  She readied herself to go down, tucking the edges of the blanket around Charlotte so it wouldn’t fly away, but then Chase was in the air, laughing, landing on Tiffany’s shoulders. Leigh felt relief spread through her limbs, like a drug taking effect, warm and fluid.

  Could Tiffany really be so bad? No one made Chase smile that broadly. Definitely not Leigh herself though she tried, she was sure of it.

  Tiffany was devoted to her, wasn’t she? Not a day went by without a text from Tiffany. An expression of adoration. miss you buddy! or luv ya lots!!

  Leigh had woken that morning to her phone vibrating on the dresser. Texts from Tiffany.

  The first had read:

  Cool if I book Tenzie for Thurs afternoons? Can you let her go at noon, so she’s w me at 12:15? Thx again! U r the bestest!!

  Another text had arrived only ten minutes later:

  Did u get my text? Let me know! Thx xoxo

  Followed by:

  Everything ok? Need to confirm thursdays asap

  Leigh had been changing Charlotte and trying to coax Chase out of bed where he lay puffy-faced and snoring. Then she had dashed into the bathroom after Rip had finished (the air freshener barely disguising the smell of his bowel movement) to shave her bikini line.

  She had decided to ignore the texts, hoping Tiffany got the hint. Thursday afternoon Leigh was free. Free to sit on the Brooklyn Heights Promenade while Charlotte took her nap. Free t
o browse for curtain fabric on Etsy, to share photos of the kids on Facebook, and to strategize on how to get out of this goddamn fundraising-committee mess. She was Chase-free. Didn’t she deserve one afternoon of me time? Wasn’t Tiffany always urging Leigh to do something nice for herself? And there was no one else to ask for help. The weekend sitter, a college student studying education, had admitted to feeling overwhelmed by watching both Chase and Charlotte, or at least when Chase was awake. The few times Nicole had asked her mother to come into the city to sit, her mother had left harried, her meticulously quaffed perm misshapen.

  There was only Tenzin.

  Tiffany’s final text that morning read:

  Ok! Confirmed with Shabbat Tots so it’s all set. Thx a million my mommy bff ( ;

  Leigh felt she’d been slapped across the face. Tiffany taking Tenzin from her, as casually as one child might pluck a toy train from the hand of another. Leigh’s single peaceful afternoon, undone by her so-called friend.

  A huge loss, Leigh thought, when you had so little time left to lose.

  Monday was coming. Her meeting with Kat Richards scheduled for eleven o’clock.

  no worries

  Rip

  Rip watched as Michael chased Harper around the sandbar, a dollop of sunscreen on his outstretched hand. The little girl flitted around like one of the dragonflies skimming the dried seaweed on the beach. She shrieked when her father neared her and giggled as she took off again. Finally, Michael caught her and dabbed gobs of white goo across her forehead and cheeks.

  “Stop! It!” Harper screamed.

  Hank clamped a hand over each of his ears, looked at Rip, and moaned, “Too loud, Hah-per. Make her quiet, Daddy.”

  Hank had been sitting alone on the sand, hiding from the sun under the floral umbrella whose fringe was dotted with dead ladybugs. Hank had folded what Rip guessed was at least twenty origami bunnies. Hank had learned origami at Green Hill, an elite gifted and talented program Grace had bent over backward to secure. Hank’s origami skills were a source of pride for Rip (clearly, the boy was beyond G&T), but who wanted twenty paper bunnies?

  “Get! Off! Me!” Harper screeched, as Michael struggled to complete the sunscreen-application challenge. She flung her head from side to side, and Rip wondered if brain damage was in order.

  Tiffany stood ten feet away, facing the water, silent, unmoving, not even glancing over her shoulder. Tiffany’s blind approach to parenting riled the other mommies to no end, but Rip believed in having a personal philosophy. And what were they going to do about it anyway? Tell Tiffany to give Harper a time-out? As if.

  “Harper, please,” Michael begged.

  Rip jogged over.

  “Hiya, sweetie,” he said to Harper, crouching next to the little girl. Her wiry muscles tensed in defiance.

  She stopped writhing for a moment, just long enough for him to scoop a glob of lotion from her cheek.

  “What’s this?” Rip asked. “Mmm. Vanilla frosting.”

  He pretended to eat it with one hand while the other rubbed in the lotion streaked across her cheeks.

  “Noooo, Daddy Rip.” Harper giggled. “Ew. Don’t eat it!”

  “Yum-yum.”

  He continued his charade as he rubbed the lotion along her hairline and down her nose.

  Harper’s face turned serious. “Your tummy will get sick. And then you’ll have to go to the doctor. And get one hundred shots. And maybe even”—her catlike eyes squinted—“get dead.”

  Rip stood and pulled the bottle of organic sunscreen spray from his back pocket.

  “Thought you might need this,” Rip said, and tossed the bottle to Michael. “Single best invention ever. A gift from the parenting gods.”

  Michael sat back on the sand and leaned his forearms on his knees.

  “You sure you don’t need it?”

  Michael looked up at Rip, one eye squinting Marlboro-Man style.

  “Dude,” Rip said shrugging. “Take it.”

  “Thanks, man,” Michael said. “Wow, I was without a paddle there.”

  Rip grabbed two beers from the cooler, opened one with his car key, and handed it to Michael. With a quick wink. Their fingers touched as the icy beer passed, and Rip almost flinched, remembering, with a sharpness that felt like a hallucination, the citrusy tang of Tiffany’s sweat the day before in the kitchen. Suddenly, he was there again, but this time grinding into her, lifting her skirt up, and—he stopped there, the wild cry of the kids chasing seagulls like an alarm sounding.

  Rip slapped Michael on the back, in the way only dudes do, when he spotted Harper peeling off from the group and skipping toward the end of the sandbar, where the waves resumed.

  “She’s on the run,” Rip said, and pointed toward the little girl—a speck of pale skin topped with flame red, like a birthday candle.

  Michael stood and ran toward the sea. “Catch you later.”

  The next chance he got, Rip decided, he’d invite Michael for a kayak trip out to the marsh. A man-to-man excursion. Maybe he’d even ask Michael for his opinion on Grace and the whole convincing-her-to-have-another-kid dilemma.

  Rip glanced over at Josh, whose face was reddening as Wyatt and Dash tackled him, tugging on his arms, his legs, his swimsuit, trying to pull him into the water.

  “Okay, guys.” Josh laughed. “Let’s take it easy now.”

  Even Tiffany was more of a man than Josh, Rip thought. He had seen her wrench the cap off a beer with her back teeth.

  Fuck it, he thought.

  “Hey, man,” he called to Michael, who was lifting Harper onto a large, barnacle-coated rock.

  Michael gave an up-nod, as in yeah?

  “Want to take the kayak out later? We can head over to the marsh. Nicole says it’s awesome back there.”

  “Hell yeah,” said Michael with a pleased look. One of those uh-huh looks Rip had seen pass between jamming musicians locked in on a groove.

  “Cool,” Rip said, as nonchalant as possible because inside he was a-titter with a thrill he hadn’t felt in years, like the rush after a shot of whiskey, like before he stepped onstage for an improv show. And he wasn’t going to ruin it by asking Michael if he’d ever kayaked before, or by admitting this would be his own first kayaking trip. They were two grown men. They’d figure it out.

  He tilted his head back and let the beer course down his throat.

  all’s fair in love and war

  Allie

  In life before the twins, Allie had described parenthood, to the amused tittering of her unburdened artist friends, as having houseguests who’d overstayed their welcome.

  As she stood at the edge of the water, rolling the soaked cuffs of her black jeans, cold sand oozing between her toes, she felt like that clueless guest right now and wished she could hop in the car and flee to Brooklyn.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t like children. She appreciated the purity of their enthusiasm, their unfiltered view of the world. But her jaw ached from smiling. The mommies smiled so damn much. They smiled when the children fell and when the children cried. They smiled at each other, they smiled as they looked out over the water, where, as far as Allie could see, there was nothing to smile about. They smiled even when the children were bad. When the minibarbarians deserved the very opposite of a smile.

  Like right then, as Harper, clad in just the bottom half of a pink bikini, her tiny nipples as nut brown as the rest of her torso, flung sand at Hank.

  Despite Hank’s cries of “Hah-per, Hah-per, stop!”

  Tiffany just smiled and stood with her hands on her hips—which were gorgeous, Allie couldn’t help but notice. The woman was Marilyn-esque.

  “Harp, sweetie,” Tiffany said, “are you doing good listening? ’Cause it sounds like Hank wants you to stop. What do you say, baby?”

  Allie’s own mother would have yelled, through cigarette smoke, I’m watching you, Allison! And her father? Forget about it. He would have been in front of Harper in two strides and walloped her on the butt, right
there in front of everyone.

  These people were definitely not raised by the kind of people who had raised Allie. Her people had worked with their hands and disciplined with their hands and let it be known when they were pissed off so there was a sharp rise to each conflict, an explosion, maybe a bit of violence, then the matter was quickly forgotten. Life went on. Pass the peas.

  The playgroup parents, especially Tiffany—despite the working-class roots under her perfect highlights—disciplined through talk.

  “Talk, talk, and more talk,” Allie had complained to pale-faced Susanna before breakfast. “Do they ever say no?”

  “Would you rather they hit them with their belts?” Susanna had snapped, which was unfair, Allie thought now, as the waves rippled over her toes, because Susanna knew Allie’s father had used his belt on Allie and her brother.

  If she could just get a break, catch her breath for an hour, away from the talking, the two streams—the children’s chatter and the mommies’ chatter crossing right in front of her, catching her in its crosshairs.

  She couldn’t leave Susanna, who sat with her legs outstretched, the small waves breaking against her enormous belly. Allie tried to imagine the baby in the echo chamber of Susanna’s womb, listening to the waves.

  Poor Susanna.

  How many times had Allie heard people whisper this and shake their head? Allie found herself wanting to say, as if in her own defense, It was Susie’s choice.

  Allie had participated as much as she could. First, there were the months of crack-of-dawn fertility appointments in a pastel-walled office all the way on the Upper East Side, with its waiting room full of desperate women and hangdog husbands. Next, the hormone shots she and Susanna injected into each other’s butt cheeks in the weeks leading up to her egg extraction (and it had hurt). Finally, the wait-and-see anxiety of the in vitro procedure—Susanna lying immobile for days while Allie threatened the boys to leave Mama alone! Not to mention the costs. Allie’s work had paid for their baby. Two in vitro trials equaled a trip around the world, where, Allie imagined, they might have visited the art they’d worshipped in the years before the boys were born.