Cutting Teeth: A Novel (24 page)

Squeals from the children collided with screeches from the gulls.

“Let’s get ’em!” a boy yelled.

“Um, while we’re on the topic.” Leigh began, her pulse quickening, the way it did when she knew she was about to confess something to Tiffany. Usually, these confessions were via text. In person, she was blushing. “I wanted to ask you something about Chase. And school for next year.”

“Shoot,” said Tiffany, crooking her elbow over her forehead. “Damn, it’s hot. I need another drink and half a cigarette.”

“Well,” Leigh said, “you know I respect Chase’s therapists. They’ve changed our lives immeasurably. But”—she paused—“they’re saying he needs a closed classroom next year. One of the small ones for special-needs kids.”

Tiffany nodded solemnly, “Okay. Well, there were twenty-nine in the gen-ed pre-K classes last year.”

“Jesus,” Leigh whispered.

“I know. It’s fucking tragic.”

“I mean, I just thought he was doing so much better,” Leigh said. “There’s been more listening. Less hitting. He’s even telling stories. Like little fantasies he has in his head. It’s so sweet. And age-appropriate! It just seems”—she paused—“I mean, have you seen those kids? The kids in the closed classrooms? They’re just so delayed. I mean … there are kids with Down’s.”

“You don’t have to whisper the word.” Tiffany laughed. “It’s not like they have cancer.”

Before Leigh could defend herself, explain that she certainly did
not
mean
that,
Tiffany spoke again. “Chase has been regressing in music class.” She squinted, as if it hurt to be the bearer of bad news. “And he did bite Harper last week.”

Leigh felt as if time had slowed. A shift occurred. Hadn’t Tiffany just said she adored Chase?

“I guess,” Leigh said slowly. “But they were both bugging each other. You know how they are? Harper kind of nags at him.”

She wanted to say,
Harper incessantly criticizes him, picks at him. Tells him he’s too loud, too messy, too this, and too that.

“She
is
going through a bit of a bossy phase,” Tiffany whispered, as if Harper were nearby.

You mean an oppositional defiant phase,
Leigh thought, plucking a term from Tiffany’s own early child development–speak.

“It’s hard for Chase.” Leigh knew she was defending him. Worse, she was defending herself. “Harper is so”—she searched for a safe word—“
attached
to her toys.”

Your little girl was breaking the cardinal rule of playgroups,
Leigh thought. Harper wasn’t sharing
.
She was torturing Chase, taking away toy after toy, every single pony (and there were a dozen at least) and hiding them in her bedroom. Tiffany, as usual, had done nothing, ignoring Harper’s cruel game until Leigh had worried she couldn’t trust her own interpretation, that maybe she was just falling prey to her dislike of the little girl.

“Like you say in music class,” Leigh forced herself to say, “sharing is caring.”

Tiffany picked at the peeling green polish on her toenails.

“I don’t know, Leigh. A contained class might be the best fit for Chase.”

How could she say that? That Chase would be better off with the kids who had behavior issues so severe they were destined never to be mainstreamed? Her Chase didn’t even have a diagnosis. He was just a little slow at developing. Wasn’t it Tiffany herself who had reassured Leigh that most boys like Chase caught up by age four?

“There’s a difference,” Leigh said, “between biting and being stuffed in a class with retarded children.”

As the R-word—absolutely forbidden from the lexicon of a sancti-mommy like Tiffany—flew from Leigh’s mouth, she knew there was no turning back. She had crossed the line.

Tiffany pushed herself off the chaise lounge with a dancer’s grace, keeping her back to Leigh.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” Tiffany said, pressing both hands onto the seawall and lifting up onto her toes to stretch. “I mean, come on, Leigh. What century are you living in?”

“Sorry,” Leigh said, reclaiming her spot on the chaise lounge, emboldened and fearful at the same time. “I’m just so stressed out about this. On top of potentially losing Tenzin on Thursdays…” She trailed off intentionally.

Tiffany whirled around, hair flaring. “Not
potentially,
Leigh. It’s a done deal. Tenzin is with Harp on Thursdays. Period.”

“You misunderstood me. I didn’t say yes. I still need to talk to Brad about it. I need a few more days. I’m sure Shabbat Tots will understand. Or maybe you can teach another afternoon? Or bring Harper with you. You can just…”

Tiffany interrupted her. “No, I already accepted the job.”

Leigh was at a loss. “Oh-kay,” she said with a huff of a laugh. “We’ll talk about it later.”

“Please don’t be mad, Leigh-Leigh.” Tiffany sashayed back to the chaise and ruffled Leigh’s hair. “I’m sorry.”

Don’t touch me,
Leigh wanted to say. Tiffany’s apology was as fake as her engagement ring, which she claimed was IF grade and two carats, supposedly inherited from Michael’s grandmother. Leigh had been embarrassed for Tiffany when she told Leigh this; the ring was obviously flawed and no more than a carat and a half. But she’d said nothing. She’d been kind. Now, she wanted to fling the lie back in Tiffany’s face. Remind her that she, Leigh, was a Locust Valley Lambert who could spot a good diamond from ten feet away.

“I’m going to find a cigarette,” Tiffany said. “Allie looks like a smoker, doesn’t she? Be right back.”

Before Leigh could answer, Tiffany shimmied off the deck and into the house.

Leigh stared at the clots of thick cloud that seemed to float atop the water and thought of her family’s country house in Sag Harbor—the lawn that rolled into the sea and the swarms of fireflies that lit upon it in the blue dusk. She wondered if she would see it again.

Tiffany had been the only one she’d trusted. The only mommy to whom she’d bared her soul. The only one who praised her parenting, who soothed her guilt.

Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re doing your best.

And there had been the months of late-night texts, the two women tapping out secrets and confessions to each other for hours. All the affection that poured from Tiffany, the empathy via cartoony emoticons. Little red hearts. Smiling suns. Smiley faces with their mouths pursed as if blowing a kiss.
I Love U
and
U r the best
and
BFFs 4evah.
Tongue-in-cheek, of course, Leigh knew, but Tiffany had chosen her from all the other mommies. The more confident, educated, hipper, and wittier masses of mommies who filled their neighborhood playgrounds and playspaces.

Tiffany was her only friend.

waste not, want not

Tenzin

Tenzin examined the half-eaten banana
sitting on top of the trash, still wrapped in its skin and nestled in a pile of used coffee grounds and globs of yogurt. She glanced out the kitchen window and counted,
one, two, three mommies. One, two, three daddies.
She wasn’t sure if Allie was to be called a mommy or a daddy.

The coast is clear,
she thought, a phrase she had heard on an American television show.

She stepped closer to the trash can.

After breakfast, during cleanup time, Tenzin had watched Susanna hold the half-eaten fruit by her thumb and finger—the same way the mommies held the poopie and peepee diapers of the children (
peeyou!
). Susanna had complained about the smell, gagging as she exiled the perfectly good banana to the trash.

They were a mystery, these lesbians and their life. The night before, Tenzin had asked Leigh if it was okay to give Susanna and Allie congratulations on their wedding. Leigh had laughed, “It’s not a secret, Tenzin. Of course you can!”

Tenzin had tried to explain they didn’t have lesbians in Tibet, but Leigh had looked at her in the same way you look at a silly child.

Poor Mommy Susanna, Tenzin thought as she stared at the banana. So much throwing up of food. That morning, Tenzin had walked on the beach with Susanna, while Chase and the twins played pirates with sticks of driftwood. Susanna had invited Tenzin to visit the twins’ home in Brooklyn, to see if she was a
good match.
Tenzin had added this to her vocabulary list to look up later, but Nicole had told her that the twins’ mommies needed someone to watch the new baby, and so Tenzin had guessed the walk was a kind of interview. She knew she had passed Susanna’s test because the woman had hugged her afterward, her swollen belly pressing into Tenzin’s own belly, soft and slack from three pregnancies. It had sparked a brief, but bright, yearning in Tenzin for a baby. A child who would never know a day apart from its mother.

Now, staring at the banana, Tenzin felt her mood sink. She and Leigh, and maybe the other mommies, too, were due for their flow. Women everywhere, in Tibet, in India, in America, when the routine of women’s lives matched, so did their cycle. She wanted to blame her tears during her last Skype with her family on this.

In one swift movement, Tenzin plucked the banana from the garbage, peeled back the mottled brown skin and ate the remaining fruit in two big bites.

“Tenzin?”

She turned to face Leigh, who stood with her mouth open, an alert and sweaty Charlotte in her arms. Leigh’s face was red with what Tenzin guessed was too much sun, but as her good employer walked closer, Tenzin saw it was the flush of emotion that pinked Leigh’s cheeks.

Tenzin smiled with her eyes and nodded, pointing to her banana-stuffed mouth.

“The baby’s up,” Leigh said.

The concern on Leigh’s face made Tenzin wish she could give her good employer a great big squeezie-hug, just like the kind Chase’s therapist had taught her to give Chase when he was so excited that his hands shook, and he clucked like a little chicken.

“You didn’t have to eat that, Tenzin.”

“Yes, I do. No biggie.”

She thought of the two-day-old rice she once ate from out of Leigh’s garbage. There was nothing wrong with the rice, and Tenzin had wondered if the newspaper laid over the mound of rice had been too neatly placed, as if Leigh had been trying to hide her wastefulness. The Dalai Lama says not to waste life, then why not avoid wasting anything at all?

Leigh had passed on many things to Tenzin. A set of pots and pans the color of poppies, flawless but for a few scratches. A plastic pitcher for cold tea Leigh no longer used. A pretty diaper-wipe holder with a Velcro flap that Tenzin used as a purse. Tiffany had given her dresses that wrapped around your body and tied at the hip, and red clogs so shiny Tenzin only wore them to temple on Wednesdays and Saturdays.

God had been so good to her. Why should she choke on perfectly yummy two-day-old rice and stale cereal and cans of cold beans past the expiration date? This is what she ate for lunch at Leigh’s house, choosing an item she predicted might be thrown away because it had sat in the cupboard too long, or because Leigh had found a brand she liked better.

“Okay,” Leigh said. “That was terrible to throw away food like that.” She paused, closing her eyes. “I’m sorry, Tenzin.”

Leigh was still wearing the same shocked look, and Tenzin knew it had nothing to do with her eating the rescued banana. There was something wrong.

“Tenzin,” Leigh said. She stopped and wiped at her face with baby Charlie’s swaddle cloth. “I’m so happy you are here with us.”

Her good employer was near tears.

Tenzin had seen this expression on the faces of protesters in India outside the Chinese embassy, as gangs of officers approached, destined to leave many broken and bloodied in their wake.

Terror.

The protesters had not run, even as the officers’ approaching boots made the ground tremble. They sang of the sun, moon, and stars, songs that would have had put Tenzin and her husband Lobsang on trial in China, maybe cost them their lives. Tenzin had sung the forbidden name of her God-King, the Dalai Lama. It had been her last protest before leaving India for America, and she had sung until her throat ached and sweat and tears darkened the front of her silk chuba. She’d felt fierce and satisfied—praising him, the great Sun—but she had also felt broken, for she and all the Tibetans were homeless.

The mommies, even sweet Leigh, did not understand.
Tenzin,
they laughed politely,
but you’re not homeless!
How could she explain, or make them understand, that it was only in exile in India, far from the Chinese government, that she would dare sing of how
the sun, moon, and stars are no longer in Tibetan lands. The lands are dark, and we are very sad that we can’t see them.

Her daughter Samten had wept, her chin wrinkling, her nose running, as the police dragged Tenzin and her husband away. Tenzin had smiled at her, shouting again and again, one of the few sayings Samten had taught her, in anticipation of Tenzin’s trip to the U.S.,
Do not worry, do not worry, do not worry!

She said the same now, to Leigh in the beach-house kitchen, wrapping her arm around the woman’s narrow birdlike shoulders.

“No worries, my good employer. No worries.”

try your luck

Rip

Rip woke to Grace’s tossing
a piece of paper on his chest.

“What’s this?” he said, as his eyes came into focus in the sun-filled room.

He felt the empty space next to him and sat up so quickly his head spun.

“Where’s Hank?”

“Oh,” Grace said, feigning surprise. “You’re up. He’s with Harper. Michael’s watching them. He’s definitely Tiffany’s better half.”

She was refolding the clothes he had already folded and stacked on the bedside table.

“Well,” he said, “it’s kind of hard not to wake up. When someone opens every shade in the room.”

No apology from Grace. Which meant, he knew, that she was still pissed, and she was about to introduce a
discussion.

“Is this a love note?” he asked, smoothing the paper she’d tossed at him.