by Julie Clark
A tiny woman with sleek black hair and a pencil skirt stands outside the door to Miles’s classroom, having a loud conversation with her husband, who for some reason felt the need to wear a bow tie to tonight’s presentation. When I get closer, I recognize him. Ethan’s dad, from the camping store fiasco.
“I just wish people would arrive on time,” the woman says. “The email clearly said arrive early to sign up for volunteer slots.” This must be Ethan’s mother.
I walk past them into Miles’s classroom. The walls are papered, floor to ceiling, family tree projects crowding every inch of space. I look around for Miles’s project and spot it, tucked into a corner in the back. The flower design stands out—if only because it looks different from everyone else’s.
This project has been a source of stress since it was assigned. Create a family tree with pictures and names going back at least three generations. I’d emailed Ms. Denny, who seemed sympathetic but inflexible. I can’t start making exceptions, so just do the best you can! I scoured the insemination message boards and found a modification, displaying our heritage as a flower, with Miles’s picture at the center and the rest of us surrounding him as petals. Miles insisted Ms. Denny would never allow it. But the alternative was to have half a tree, and that was unacceptable to him as well.
“All right, moms and dads!” Ms. Denny stands in front of the classroom, her cropped gray hair matching her gray suit, making her look like a dirty snowball, round and uneven. “If everyone will take a seat, we can start.”
I slide into a chair in the back corner, letting the other chattering parents take the front seats. I tug my phone from my purse to make sure it’s on vibrate when Ms. Denny’s voice silences everyone.
“Please make sure you put your phones away, moms and dads.” When I look up, she’s glaring at me. “The information I’ve got for you tonight is critical to your child’s success in my classroom.”
It’s the third grade. I look around. The room is a study in organized chaos. Tubs and bins in bright colors crowd the shelves. A multicolored rug and fat pillows dominate the one area that’s clear of tables and chairs. In a corner, a giant tree made from twisted brown bags and green construction paper leaves climbs the wall and hangs from the ceiling.
“Homework is critical to success,” Ms. Denny is saying. “If your child misses an assignment, he or she will be kept in at recess. If we don’t start teaching responsible study habits now and holding children accountable, we do them no favors later in life.”
I glance around the room, curious to see the other parents’ reactions. As a college professor, I’d much rather hear about critical thinking and self-advocacy, not blind adherence to a homework policy.
Ethan’s mother sits in front, nodding vigorously. I already know most of what I need to about Ms. Denny from Rose’s kids. As long as Miles behaves and does his work, he’ll be fine. So I have no concerns. He was reading well before kindergarten and taught himself multiplication last year, just for fun. He loves homework and learning. I just wish it wasn’t such a solitary endeavor.
My phone vibrates with a text from Bruno. Please don’t forget we have a staff meeting tomorrow at nine.
I scowl. We have a staff meeting every week. This is a passive-aggressive way to remind me of my earlier mistake and how I need to keep a clear head as we transition into phase two.
Bruno had walked into the office this afternoon and dumped a stack of files onto his desk. “I would have appreciated knowing ahead of time that you were planning to skip the meeting with Jorgensen,” he said.
My eyes shot to the clock and then down at my calendar, where it read 2:00—grant renewal meeting, circled in red.
“Bruno, I’m so sorry.” I pushed my hair off my forehead and rubbed my eyes. “I don’t know where my head is.”
He looked me up and down. “We tabled most of the issues, and I told him you had an emergency with Miles.”
Relief flooded me. Dr. Jorgensen was not someone we could afford to anger.
“Thank you.”
“What’s going on with you?”
The last thing I needed was another lecture, so I kept it vague. “I don’t know. Distracted, I guess.” But the truth was, I’d been unsettled since my conversation the other night with Liam, at his suggestion that Miles might benefit from time with his grandfather.
“It’s not like you to forget something like this,” he said.
“I’m sorry. I’m just tired, that’s all.”
He stared at me a moment longer, and I could tell he didn’t believe me. “Go home and get a good night’s sleep.”
“I don’t know what I would do without you.”
“I don’t know either,” he said.
Ms. Denny’s voice yanks me back. “And now we’ll hear from Nan, Ethan’s mom, about the exciting volunteer opportunities you can look forward to this year.”
Nan stands and glances around the room, waiting for everyone to look at her before beginning. “Thanks, Ms. Denny.” Her voice is sugary sweet.
“We are so lucky to be in this class.” I look to see if anyone is agreeing with her, but all I can see are the backs of the parents in front of me. “Ms. Denny is the best third-grade teacher at this school. It’s important we support her in every way we can, and there are so many ways to help. Ms. Denny needs volunteers to run her learning centers—word sorts, number tiles, reading groups—they’re really fun because you can come into the classroom and see your kids in action.” Nan consults her clipboard. “That’s daily, between nine thirty and noon. We also need parents to help with dismissal at three and snack at ten twenty-five. There are school-wide ways you can volunteer as well, running the book fairs in the fall and spring or coordinating our after-school enrichment classes from three to four.”
A hand goes up in front—a woman with wild dark hair and gold bangles on her wrists. “What about parents who work? Are there ways they can get involved? It sounds like most of the opportunities to volunteer happen during the school day.”
“Um . . .” Nan frowns, looking to Ms. Denny for help. “Well, maybe they could take a day off to chaperone a field trip. Or go in late one day a week and help out in the morning. I’m sure something can be arranged.”
Before anyone can ask any of the obvious follow-up questions to such a ridiculous suggestion, Nan says, “I almost forgot! Our back-to-school picnic is next week on the big yard. Food trucks, games, dessert. Bring your blankets and make some new friends!”
Her enthusiasm makes my head hurt. She can’t be that excited about a picnic at a school playground. But I file the information away, though I’m doubtful Miles will be interested.
Nan’s still talking. “And now please enjoy the beautiful family tree projects and have some refreshments. I’ll be coming around with the volunteer sign-ups, so please see me before you leave. It’s going to be a great year!”
Parents stand and stretch, so I do too. They gather in groups, friends since their kids were in kindergarten. No one seems interested in meeting the new mom. I take a deep breath, steeling myself. When I decided to have Miles, my mother warned me it would be like this—single parenting sets you apart. People don’t know how to include you, so they avoid you. I didn’t believe her. Maybe that was what it was like in the seventies, I told her. But it’s the twenty-first century. Things have changed.
But nothing has changed. Even though there are several other mothers on their own, I feel the separateness that’s been my constant companion since Miles was born. I swallow my discomfort and study some of the projects near me. An elaborate three-dimensional oak tree looks like it has ancestors going all the way back to the Mayflower. I worry about Miles’s simple, inadequate flower and wonder if I should just leave. Then I hear Nan’s low voice.
“I mean, it’s a flower. How hard is it to follow the directions?”
Her husband mumbles something I can’t hear.
I freeze, but a different voice says, “Wow. That’s a shitty thing to say.�
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I sneak a peek. It’s the woman who asked about working parents. She’s tall and wears a colorful caftan belted around her waist over tights and boots, stylish and funky in a way I wish I could pull off.
Nan’s cheeks flush. “I only meant—”
“Has it ever occurred to you that maybe not every family looks like yours?” The wild-haired woman gestures toward the fancy 3-D tree I was admiring a few minutes earlier. I look closer. Of course. Ethan.
“I have a lot of sympathy for families less fortunate than mine. I’m a Christian,” Nan huffs.
“Here’s something to pray on,” the stylish woman says. “Just because a family looks different doesn’t make it less fortunate.”
The crowd has thinned, parents unwilling to get caught in the crossfire, so it’s just the three of us standing there, with Nan’s mute husband looking on. I think back to the camping store, when he was unable to string together a sentence in the face of his son’s cruelty. We move away, leaving Nan sputtering to her husband behind us.
“Sorry about that,” she says. “I’m sure you’re capable of speaking up for yourself. But Nan has been pissing me off since kindergarten.”
She holds out her hand, and I shake it. “I’m Jackie,” she says. “Nick’s mom.”
I smile, recognizing the name. “Paige,” I say, releasing her hand.
Jackie grins. “Apparently, our boys enjoy doing word puzzles together at recess.”
Miles has a friend. Relief and joy fizz through me, and I have to hold back from hugging her.
“So how are you guys settling in to Elmwood Elementary?” she asks.
“Pretty well,” I tell her.
“What was your old school?”
“Iverson. It was fine, but they didn’t have much of a gifted program. We were so happy when a spot opened up this year.”
Jackie nods. “We’ve been here since kindergarten. At first, we worried Nick would get lost in such a big school. My husband went to a small private school in the Valley, and we heard no end of criticism from his mother. But I grew up on Long Island when everyone went to the local public school. So far it’s been great.”
Her eyes—brown and sparkling—light her from within, and her smile is wide and engaging.
“Ms. Denny seems to have quite a system here,” I say, gesturing toward the labeled tubs and elaborate charts on the walls.
Jackie leans in closer. “The woman is a fucking drill sergeant.”
I laugh at her unexpected word choice.
In a high-pitched voice that almost perfectly mimics Ms. Denny, she says, “Students must line up in alphabetical order. Homework is to be turned in on the right and backpacks hung on the left. It’s like a work camp.” She holds up her plastic cup. “Do you want anything? Organic, fair-trade coffee? Cardboard cookie? They’re gluten free.”
I laugh. “I’ll pass, thanks. I’m allergic to anything that doesn’t have high-fructose corn syrup in it.”
Jackie grins. “Finally. A living soul among the zombies.” She gestures around, lowering her voice. “Most of the parents here are nice, if a little bland. Have you met anyone yet?”
“Not really. I don’t linger too long at drop-off since I have to work.”
“What do you do?
“I’m a geneticist.”
Jackie’s face registers surprise, like most who discover a female scientist. “Fascinating. Tell me, what does a geneticist do?”
“Lots of things. Some work on cures for diseases like Parkinson’s. Others focus on the sociological side, studying human behavior and the genetic reasons for it. Then you have forensics—crime-scene stuff you hear about in the news.”
“And what’s your area?” she asks.
“I run a small research lab at Annesley. We’re studying the link between a genetic marker and paternal bonding. And I do a little teaching as well.”
“Wow.” Jackie swipes the hair out of her eyes. “That sounds like fun.”
I think of Mara and Sophie. My job is interesting and challenging. But I’ve surrounded myself with men like my father, and there’s nothing fun about watching kids struggle to make sense of a disengaged parent.
A man approaches us from across the room. “I signed you up for helping with morning snack every Tuesday and Thursday,” he says to Jackie, grinning. “And gate duty on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”
His face isn’t extraordinary, but his hazel eyes are gentle, with laugh lines framing them like fans.
“This is my husband, Aaron,” Jackie says to me. “He thinks he’s a comedian.” To him she says, “This is Miles’s mom, Paige.”
Aaron’s eyes brighten in recognition. “Miles! We hear a lot about him at home. His library on outer space is on Nick’s must-see list.”
I smile. “It’s a work in progress.”
The room has cleared significantly, with only a few parents lingering by the snacks. Nan, clutching her volunteer clipboard, is one of them. She’s looking our way, and I want to escape before she can pin me down to wash paintbrushes every week.
“I should go,” I tell Jackie and Aaron.
“Us too. But let’s get the boys together soon,” Jackie says.
“We’d like that,” I say, desperately hoping Miles is as interested in being friends with Nick as Nick seems to be with him. “It was nice to meet you both,” I tell them.
Aaron holds up his hand in a silent farewell. Jackie offers a warm smile. “You too. See you soon.”
I exit onto a dark and empty playground. The night air smells like wisteria, and I walk to my car, buoyed by the fact that Miles has a new friend, and maybe I do too.
ENTANGLEMENT THEORY
* * *
Entanglement theory is based on quantum physics. Physicists have learned that two particles—like electrons—that have interacted in the past but moved on will still behave as if they’re the same entity. Meaning, if you change one, the other changes instantly and to the same degree. They’re always connected. Always in tune with each other, no matter where they are. Obviously, entanglement theory doesn’t apply to humans or genetics, but I think of the way a mother’s heartbeat rises and falls, always in sync with her child’s, and I wonder if there isn’t something we don’t know yet.
* * *
Chapter Six
Since parents’ night, Miles keeps mentioning Nick, telling me about his tree house or showing me a rock Nick loaned him. It seems like a real friendship, and I feel weightless with relief.
“And then,” Miles says, finishing a story from the back seat, “Nick gave me the rest of his cookies.”
We’re on our way home, but stopping at the grocery store for our weekly shopping trip. “That’s pretty generous,” I say, putting the car in park. “Maybe we can buy some cookies for your lunch tomorrow to share with him.”
I lock the car and we make our way through the crowded parking lot toward the bright lights of the store. As we approach the doors, Miles says, “Do you have the list?”
I pull it out of my purse and rip it in half, holding the two pieces behind my back.
Miles taps my left hand, and I hand him his half. He looks at it, and his face falls. “I got produce. Again.”
“Fate does not smile kindly on you,” I say as we enter the market and each grab a cart. “Time?” I ask, and he looks at his watch.
“Five minutes after five,” he says.
“Okay. Same rules as always. Fifteen minutes. We meet in the bakery, and the person who has the most items on their list wins.” We start to move away from each other, and I call over my shoulder, “No running.”
He calls back, “No cheating.”
I widen my eyes in mock offense. Miles and I have been playing this game for a little over a year. It was the only way I could squeeze in the grocery shopping without constant complaining. He has fun racing the clock, I get food for the week, and I pretend I don’t notice the two or three snack items he sneaks into his cart until we’re home.
I
zip around, gathering the things from my list as fast as I can. We pass each other near the canned goods. I glance in his cart and say, “You’re slow tonight.”
He rolls his eyes. “Nice try.” He heads toward the paper goods, and I move toward the pasta sauce.
When the fifteen minutes are up, we meet in the bakery, where we tally the results. This time, Miles wins by two items, and he does a victory dance around the doughnuts.
I pretend to be disappointed, but I actually love it when he wins. The joy on his face is worth it, every time.
“I’m going to get Starbursts.” He quickly transfers his groceries into my cart before heading toward the candy aisle, and I realize he’s going for one of those mega bags. I want to stop him, but the rules for this game were set a long time ago. The winner gets to pick anything, any size, no veto. So I settle for stealing several every night until they’re gone.
As I make my way toward the checkout lines, I hook my finger around a bottle of wine as I pass a display. Miles isn’t the only one who sneaks treats into his cart.
He finds me in line and tosses the bag of candy in with the rest of our groceries. Next to the tabloids, on a low rack where kids can see them, is a display of children’s books. Miles pulls one off the rack—Chemistry for Kids—and begins reading immediately. As I unload our cart onto the conveyor belt, the man in front of us turns. It’s Aaron.
His eyes brighten. “Paige, right?” He looks over my shoulder at Miles, who doesn’t look up from the chemistry book.
