Eleven

Hooky

Barnum’s number was displayed on my caller ID. I immediately broke my no incoming calls rule. “Please excuse me. It’s an emergency,” I told the couple I was seeing.

Stepping into the office’s tiny kitchen area, I closed the door and answered the call. “Dr. Bryant. I’m calling about Rachel’s absence. When she’s out sick, we ask you to call first thing in the morning.”

“Absence—are you sure?” Panic gripped my chest. I’d dropped my daughter off and watched her walk toward the building.

“I’m certain.”

My hands shook as I promised to ring her back and dialed Rachel’s cell. It was a relief when she answered on the first ring.

“Are you okay? Where are you?”

“Home.”

I waited. “I had another stomachache. So I went to the parking lot. Some mom offered to give me a ride home.”

My head was spinning. Who takes a ten-year-old off school grounds without checking? “What mom?”

“She said her name was Leslie. I didn’t know her.”

“This is serious, Rachel. You played hooky and got in the car with a stranger. I know you’ve been getting stomachaches, but leaving without checking in is not okay. DO YOU HEAR ME?”

Her voice was quiet. “I won’t do that again.”

I told her we’d talk later and warned her that I’d be taking her phone for the next week, and would increase the punishment, if she ever pulled a stunt like that again.

I went back into the session and apologized to my patients. When I got home that night, I went straight upstairs to her room. “Let’s go back to this morning, Rachel,” I said, sitting down on her bed.

“I know it was wrong. Don’t you ever just need a break?”

I crossed my arms and waited. “Okay. I know I’m punished,” she said, handing me the phone.

A knot of anger pooled in my chest. “It’s not about the punishment. What made you leave school?”

“I just saw them all standing and whispering, and it really did make my stomach hurt. I wanted a day off. I’ll go back tomorrow and hang out with Maya and Neil. I’m just sick of those girls.”

“Try not to let them get to you. Life isn’t static, and things won’t always be this way.”

Rachel was twisting a strand of hair around her pointer finger, her forehead one big crease. Watching her puzzle over the school situation reminded me of another serious talk we’d had years ago. She’d furrowed her forehead and twirled her hair then too, asking why people would want to hurt dolphins.

And now Rachel’s mannerisms told me she was thinking long and hard about what had happened that morning outside of school. When she finally nodded and said “Cutting school was stupid. I’m sorry,” I knew she understood the gravity of the situation. We could move on.

I leaned in to hug her. “Love you. Good night.”

“Do I get my phone back now?”

“Not a chance.” I turned the lights out and closed her door behind me.

The next morning Maureen buzzed into the Mayfair office. I knew what was coming.

She sat down in the patient’s chair. “So, you have a fifth grader at Barnum?” she asked. “How come you didn’t just say that when I asked that other time?”

I did my best to remember the response I’d prepared, one that acknowledged reality, but left room for my patient to react. “I’d be glad to answer. I’m just wondering if you’d be comfortable telling me why you’re bringing this up right now.”

“I heard a while ago that you moved across town and had a girl the same age as my daughter, Hannah. I meant to bring it up but forgot.”

She had me. The best way to handle it was to reaffirm her perception of the truth and then ask her to explore what she imagined.

I nodded in response to her question and tried to dampen down my feelings of annoyance. Maureen was the last person I felt like discussing my child with. She certainly had it easy, being best friends with Lee, and her Hannah not having to endure any of the loneliness and exclusion my daughter had faced. I had the urge to tell her that so far I really wasn’t impressed with her clique-y friends and their daughters, but kept it professional, allowing her to react. I said, “That’s true. I do live in Mayfair and have a fifth grader. Any feelings about that?”

“I don’t know. It’s weird to think of running into you at meetings and open houses. Your daughter is in Collette’s class. That’s what I heard. We won’t see each other on parent/teacher night.”

Maureen was picking at a cuticle. “You’ve been helpful, and coming here has made things better. So . . . I want to tell you something. It has to do with Lee.” She shifted uncomfortably.

This couldn’t be good.

The air in the room felt heavy. Was the PTA president so powerful that the tides shifted at the mention of her name?

“I don’t know if I should say this . . . .” Maureen crossed her arms over her chest and then unfolded them again. “So, uh, she’s my friend and all, but there was an incident when they lived in New Jersey, out in horse country.”

Before I could process what Maureen was saying, she barreled on. “This was when their older daughter was in fourth or fifth grade, something with texting or maybe Facebook. Lee was accused of making destructive comments about a kid in town, someone her older daughter didn’t like. After Lee was done with that girl, she, the kid, was distraught, cutting herself on the thigh, talking about suicide. She had to be hospitalized. It was a terrible situation. She’s okay now, I heard. And Jack got the charges dropped, but they had to leave the school. That’s when they moved here.”

So Lee had been accused of bullying a ten-year-old in another town, and that kid had become suicidal. It was a sad story, but not a total surprise.

Maureen leaned forward in her chair. “I’d watch out for Lee if I were you. She doesn’t like you. And in case you’re not aware, there’s a Mayfair Moms Page on Facebook. Lee runs it, and decides who can join. There are maybe ninety or one hundred of us; I’ve lost track. She’s been posting, warning about her plans to ‘put someone in her place.’”

My heart was hammering in my chest. The warning was concerning. I’d deal with that after I ran through the clinical conflict issue.

Arguing in public with one patient, then discussing it in session with another was an ethics nightmare. The silver lining was that I was in familiar territory. If a person made a specific threat toward a known person, psychologists were required to break confidentiality and file a report—it was the law. I almost hoped Maureen would say that Lee had threatened to come after me. Then I could call the police.

Instead of addressing the boundary question head-on, I took the safe route, parroting her words: “Put someone in her place?” I asked, sounding like a caricature of a bad therapist.

“Yeah. She never said who. Obviously, this could all be just dumb talk. Lee loves to exaggerate.” She shifted in her chair and regarded me with a steady gaze. “So I thought I’d mention all of this, since you went off on her . . . .”

As Maureen continued, exploring her wishes to protect me, I felt myself beginning to panic. Lee was after my daughter and me. And she was dangerous.

It was becoming hard to listen to my patient. My mind had started to spin. Maureen said that Lee bullied a girl who’d become suicidal and that she was the type to get even.

Rachel had already developed stomachaches and played hooky. What else was Lee planning, and how much lower would she go?

When Maureen’s session ended, I left Julie a voice mail, filling her in about the warning and last weekend’s game, asking when she could give me some peer supervision. Since Julie was also a licensed psychologist, consulting on cases was allowed as long as everything was above board—no names or identifying information.

I waited for a call back, breathing in to steady myself, trying to slow my mind. I’d left time between appointments to do paperwork, but that could wait. There were now more pressing concerns. Lee was only human (or so I assumed). Finding out about her might put me on a more equal footing and calm me down.

I opened my laptop and googled. The results were nothing out of the ordinary. Listed were charitable foundations, boards, and public works she and her husband had endowed, along with photos of the two of them, arm-in-arm at benefits and galas. I scrolled through the causes she supported: dolphins, political candidates, and orphans. I was about to close the laptop when I noticed something interesting on page seven: a photo of Lee and a bunch of women, all in navy sweatshirts emblazoned with a yellow M for University of Michigan, which was Colin’s alma mater. That was an odd coincidence.

Julie finally called.

“What’s up?”

“It’s too much, living here in small-town hell, being stuck in Westchester with Opie and Aunt Bee. When I inherited the house everything happened quickly. I didn’t look through my caseload or speak with each person about potential conflicts. Although I did make sure the principal didn’t put Rachel in a class with the children of patients. Since a woman I’ve been seeing for years has also recently moved out here, it’s only been a matter of weeks that any overlap has occurred.”

Julie was sympathetic, and offered to help me refer Maureen and Amy out, though we agreed that Amy was fragile and an immediate switch was fraught.

I was ready to hang up and go home, but she wasn’t letting me off so easily. “We need to talk about Lee. What the hell, Vic? I get that she’s an uber-bitch who has gone after Rachel, but you can’t antagonize the PTA president in public. It’ll tarnish your professional reputation. I think you should apologize.”

“What you don’t know is that a patient warned me not to start with Lee and told me Lee was accused of bullying a girl in another town. That kid was hospitalized for suicidal thoughts.”

Julie sucked in her breath. “That’s awful. But as far as Lee being a threat, you have no concrete proof. Even if she allows her daughter to exclude yours, this kind of thing happens—no matter how much it sucks. I think you should write her a quick note of apology. Please don’t make comments or antagonize her again, especially in public. You’ll only make things worse.” We hung up, agreeing to touch base the following week.

I sent a short email to Lee, apologizing for my comment at the basketball game. She responded immediately: “So glad to clear the air. Hoping Rachel is all right.” Give me a break. Our détente went no deeper than the characters on the screen, and I’d never trust a thing she said.

That night I slept fitfully, knowing Lee tended to get even and wondering what her next move would be.

It had been a trying week, and I couldn’t shake my fear that Lee would come after Rachel and me. The thought persisted into Friday evening. I tried to act normal, baking brownies and smiling when Rachel insisted on licking the mixing spoon, even though she’d refused to eat the chicken Alva had prepared.

After my daughter had gone into the living room to watch TV, I grabbed my slinkiest dress and strappiest shoes, and took the quickest shower in history. Alva was staying late, and Jim was taking me to a romantic place near his apartment, a restaurant housed in a building that had once been an old carriage house.

They seated us in a quiet corner and a server came by with a tray of hors d’oeuvres.

“Escargot?” He extended a silver tray toward me. I smiled and shook my head, and he backed away.

“I don’t really like snails,” I whispered.

Jim was a head taller, even when we were sitting. He looked down at me and took my hand. I felt a familiar excitement in my chest as the server came back to ask if we had any questions about the menu. “Not yet, but please bring us a bottle of this,” Jim said pointing. I thought about how comfortable he was, ordering wine and asking for more time.

As we sipped rosé, Jim smiled at me and moved closer. I leaned in and started kissing his neck and earlobes, and he put down his glass and whispered, “If you keep that up I’ll never be able to stay long enough to order dinner.”

The wine was starting to make me giddy. “Promise?”

Just then another server arrived and began refilling our water glasses. After he moved away, Jim laughed: “That guy’s timing is the worst,” he said, grabbing my hand again. “So, I’ve been meaning to ask, what do you think of Mayfair?”

“Believe it or not, some of the places are landmarked, and even older than this building. George Washington once stopped on our road so he could feed his horse and have some bread, or so the story goes.”

Jim bit into a roll and grimaced. “I think this piece came from the same loaf as George’s.” I giggled and had to bite my lip when our waiter came back to ask if we needed anything.

Jim told me about work, and I entertained him with a story about my commute the day before, how a train conductor had argued with a drunken passenger. He poured some more wine and we nibbled on the bread. All I could think about was that I couldn’t wait to get out of there.

Jim played with my hand, holding my fingers as he curled and uncurled his grip. And before I realized what was happening, he’d left the servers some money, grabbed his jacket, and steered me down the street. We were at his building.

The elevator ride took forever, but as soon as the door to the apartment closed, we embraced and found ourselves in a tangle of arms, legs, and skin. I couldn’t see much in the dark—bookshelves, an area rug, and large leather sofa—not that I cared.

Jim scooped me up and brought me to his bedroom. With anyone else I would have said that carrying me over the threshold bordered on cliché, but in this case I hardly noticed.

He kissed me slowly at first, then more insistently, before depositing me gently on the bed. As he cupped my chin in his hands and raised my lips toward his, I felt a slow heat spread across my chest and down into the rest of my body.

We kissed over and over, until Jim reached for my thong, rolling the fabric between his fingers. I moved his hand and snapped the lace gently, smiling as he groaned.

We moved together quickly and deliberately, and time stood still. We were lost in each other, and I knew then that nothing would ever be the same again.

After we’d made love, I touched the crinkles around his eyes, tracing each tiny line softly, following a gentle path to his temples.

“When we’re together, it’s like an electric current,” Jim said, kissing me again.

I knew what he meant. I was falling for him, and didn’t even try to stop myself.

We kissed again slowly. After a few minutes, he turned on the nighttable light and said, “So tell me about your new house.” He was leaning on an elbow and looking down at me.

“It’s fine. The extra rooms are great, and the yard is nice for Rachel.” Noticing that his apartment was small, I was uncomfortable talking about the home’s large proportions, and felt myself freezing up.

“Did I say something wrong?”

Note to self: never play poker. “Not at all,” I kissed his cheek. “I’m censoring my X-rated thoughts.”

He pulled me in close. “X-rated is good. But I was interested. How do you really like Mayfair?”

It was too soon to go into the school situation. “It’s convenient and the schools’ academics are great, overall a very nice town. Do you know it?”

“Actually, I grew up there.”

As Jim adjusted his posture, I searched his face, wondering if he’d say more.

We lay quietly on the bed, Jim leaning on one elbow, looking down on me. I snuggled next to him. “So, how about you. Do you like living in Northfield?” He nodded slightly, and I barreled on. “What made you choose it?”

“You know,” he shrugged, “all the usual reasons.”

I resisted the impulse to ask additional questions, like did winding up in the apartment have something to do with his ex, and what was it like growing up in a small Westchester town? But he had a few for me. “You always tell me about Rachel, and often mention your aunt. What about your parents?”

I exhaled. “I lost them when I was a teenager.”

Jim stroked my cheek. “That’s terrible. It must have been very hard.”

“It was awful, but my aunt saved me in every way. And you? How long since you broke up with your ex?”

He shifted slightly and began kissing my neck. I was excited, floating, but aware my questions still hung in the air. He slid down on the bed, kissing my thigh, and working his way across my hip and up over my waist, before looking up.

“Evasive maneuvers?” I asked, being sure to keep my tone light.

Jim laughed. “Okay. You got me. My ex, the apartment, those are fifth date stories. So I guess we’ll have to go out a couple more times.”

We hugged and kissed until my watch buzzed, breaking the mood. I didn’t want to leave—though I was eager to chew on his fifth date comment. After another buzz of the wrist, I groaned. “It’s after nine thirty. I have to leave now. Babysitter’s rules.”

He kissed me again while I was grabbing my clothing from the floor by the bed. I felt a familiar tingle, and could barely shake off my excitement, the intrigue of the entire night. I pulled on my clothes. He wrapped himself in a towel, and hid behind the door as I opened it. I allowed myself to be drawn back one last time when he pulled me close. My watch sounded again. I’d never have made it out of the apartment if the thing hadn’t gone off.

When I was about to start the car, Rachel texted: “When will you be home?”

“Soon! What’s up?”

“Nothing.” She went silent, probably resuming whatever activity she’d been involved in. I tried a little back and forth when the cars in front of me stopped at a clogged intersection: “How was school?” But she signed off. “Fine. Biiiii.”

I used the rest of the ride home to consider my romantic situation: hot, smart, funny guy who seemed really into me, and I definitely liked him. Great sex, too. Our relationship was picking up steam, and that was terrifying. Caring and getting attached meant being vulnerable, which I definitely was.

I was really into Jim, but he seemed guarded about his past.

There was definitely something he wasn’t telling me.