No Ordinary Life

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1

M
olly and I sit outside the principal's office, my eyes staring at my hands in my lap like a defendant awaiting a verdict. Molly's pudgy legs stick off the plastic seat, her pink Crocs bouncing up and down in rhythm with the beat of the class singing in the auditorium beside the office.

The rubber of the soles are too short for her feet, her heels extending a quarter inch beyond the edges. She needs new shoes.
Why haven't I bought her new shoes?
Suddenly embarrassed, I want her to stop bouncing her legs and drawing attention to the evidence of my maternal failing. My eyes shoot to the school secretary. Mercifully, the woman types on her computer, completely oblivious to Molly's too-small shoes and my parental incompetence.

The door on the other side of the room opens, and Tom walks through, his eyes on the ground as he shuffles shamefully forward. The school counselor walks two feet behind, her face turned up haughtily. She's the one who called an hour ago to tell me Tom had gone missing after lunch, which in turn sent the entire campus into lockdown. Half an hour later he was found in an empty classroom, sitting on the floor reading, entirely unaware of the commotion he had caused.

I pull Tom to me, and he buries his face against my hip. Smoothing his honey hair, I open my mouth to make excuses, but already the counselor has turned and is walking back toward the door.

I lift Tom's face so he is looking at me, his blue eyes so sorry that it makes my heart hurt. “Darn cat,” I say, our secret code for the anxiety that wraps around his vocal cords like a serpent whenever he's confronted with a new or difficult social situation, an expression coined from the saying
Cat got your tongue?

He nods and again buries his face against my jeans, his desire to disappear so palpable that I wish I were a magician and could make the wish come true, zap him onto the couch at home and put a mug of steaming hot cocoa in his hands.

The social anxiety disorder Tom suffers from is called selective mutism, an insipid label suggesting he chooses to be silent. Which is ridiculous. No eight-year-old would choose to be a freak other kids make fun of, an outcast unable to voice his opinions or defend himself when he is called stupid, crazy, or a scaredy-cat. Tom is none of those things, and he certainly doesn't choose to be silent so he can be thought of that way. It should be called something more like verbal abandonment, his voice literally deserting him as soon as he steps from our van as if his tongue has been cut from his throat, his ability to speak ripped away, and no matter how desperately he wants to, he is suddenly, inexplicably rendered mute.

“Mrs. Martin?”

I turn to see the school secretary beside us.

“Dr. Keller will see you now.”

“Tom, take Molly and wait for me in the van,” I say, dropping a kiss on his head and handing him my keys.

Like a prisoner being released from a stockade, I feel his sigh of relief as he takes Molly by the hand and leads her toward freedom.

“I get to choose the music,” Molly says, immune to the worry around her.

I follow the secretary to the principal's office and am surprised when I walk in and find another woman already seated in one of the two chairs across from Dr. Keller's desk.

The woman stands, and I need to crane my neck to greet her. Tall as a man and thin as Gandhi, her height is exaggerated by the two-inch pumps she wears, which are perfectly matched to her navy suit, and I'm amazed she can stay upright on her two spindly legs.

I give her extended hand a weak shake, feeling short and disheveled in my T-shirt, jeans, and worn-out Jack Purcells.

“Elizabeth Glenn,” she says, as if it explains her presence.

I look at Dr. Keller in confusion.

“Ms. Glenn is from Children and Family Services,” the principal explains.

My heart thumps in my chest then leaps into my throat, where it lodges behind my tonsils, making it impossible to respond.

“I called her because we are concerned about Tom.”

“Where is Tom?” Ms. Glenn interrupts, looking around me as if I might be concealing him.

“I sent him to wait in the car,” I manage. “With my daughter.”

“Your older daughter?”

“No, my younger one.”

Ms. Glenn opens the manila folder in her hand and scans it. “Your daughter Molly?”

I nod.

“Your four-year-old?”

I nod again, causing the woman's eyes to bulge. “You sent your eight-year-old with your four-year-old to the car by themselves?”

Heat rises in my face, and the pounding in my chest intensifies until it ricochets like cannon fire in my ears.

Dr. Keller stands from behind her desk and brushes past me. “Candice, please go to the parking lot and bring Tom and his sister back into the office. Then please keep an eye on them until we're finished.”

I want to defend myself. The van is parked right outside, in the spot beside the sidewalk. The windows are open. The school is not a dangerous place. Tom and Molly will be more comfortable in the van listening to the radio than sitting in the office doing nothing, with Tom staring at the door aware that we are discussing him. His problems stem from social anxiety associated with the school, and he's phobic about attention being focused on him. I was being a
good
mom.

Of course I say none of these things. The thoughts remain in my head as most of my thoughts do, where I bury them behind the regret that comes from not speaking up when I should. It's not difficult to trace the roots of Tom's shyness. Though I don't have an anxiety disorder, I certainly have anxiety. At the slightest provocation, my tongue grows thick, and at the first sign of conflict, my brain shuts down. And at this moment, I am suffering an acute attack of both afflictions, my pride buried deep beneath my cowardice.

Dr. Keller returns to her seat, and Ms. Glenn smooths her skirt, both women puffing with superiority.

“Faye, please sit,” Dr. Keller says.

I don't want to sit. I want to flee. Already I've failed whatever test I needed to pass in order to avoid Family Services infiltrating my life, and I desperately want to avoid whatever repercussions are to follow. I feel like I've been ambushed. The counselor led me to believe I was in for the same lecture I've been given the last three times I was called in to discuss Tom's issues—
Tom is not improving as much as we would like…His issues cannot be ignored…Have
you been taking him to therapy as we suggested?…blah, blah, blah. You need to do this, you need to do that…This is all your fault.

Dr. Keller sighs through her nose, and I manage to stagger into the remaining chair.

“First, I want to say we're on your side. All of us have Tom's best interests in mind.”

“May I ask where Mr. Martin is?” Ms. Glenn interrupts again with the annoying habit she has of stopping the flow of conversation to look for missing members of my family. “I had hoped both of you would be here. This is important.”

As if I don't know this is important. My son doesn't talk, and he locked himself in a room so he wouldn't have to go to chorus where he would be asked to sing out loud.

“Faye?” Dr. Keller says, making me realize I haven't responded.

“He's on the road,” I answer in the voice I call my waitressing voice because it's the voice I use when I work. The voice is strangely flat and staccato, but it's the only voice I can manage when I'm stressed. Sean thinks it's sexy because it's low and sultry. The kids think it's weird, which it is. “He's a truck driver.”

This is almost the truth except for the omission about Sean leaving five months ago for a one-week trip and not returning since.

Ms. Glenn frowns, her mouth tight and her nose pinched. “Mrs. Martin, Tom needs help, professional help.”

Professional help that costs $120 an hour, and that he needs to go to three times a week to be effective.

I look back at my hands in my lap and mumble, “I'll get him into therapy.”

It's a promise I've made from this very spot three times before, and it sounds false even to my own ears. And Ms. Glenn's response is so quick that I know her answer would have been the same regardless of what I said. “While I'm sure your intentions are sincere, it's my job to ensure Tom's welfare. So unfortunately, at this point, we're going to need more than your word. I've opened a case file, and from this point on, I will personally be monitoring the situation. Dr. Keller will keep me apprised of Tom's progress in school, and I'll need to visit your home to get a better understanding of his life outside the classroom.”

“That's not necessary,” I blurt, my voice spilling out with my panic. “Tom's mutism has nothing to do with his home life. It's like stuttering; it can happen to anyone.” I'm quite aware of how I sound, like I'm completely freaked out at the idea of her visit. Which I am. But it's also the truth. I may not have the money for therapy, but I've read every book on selective mutism there is. Tom's issue wasn't triggered by anything we did. It's simply who he is, like a child being born with bad eyesight, except the cure isn't as easy or straightforward as buying him glasses.

Dr. Keller speaks up, her voice sympathetic. “Faye, we know you're a good mom, and we're not saying Tom's issues stem from you or Sean. It's just standard procedure. When a case is opened, the home environment needs to be investigated.”

Investigated!
The word causes temporary heart stoppage, and I wish she'd go back to using the word “visit.” Molly's too-small Crocs irrationally flitter through my brain, blinding me with the thought of how many other deficiencies might be discovered if this woman comes into my home. I don't think we have anything to hide, no more than any other family, but like cramming your mess into a closet, even if you're pretty sure everyone does it, you still don't want anyone opening the door.

“I'd like Mr. Martin to be there as well so I can meet him,” Ms. Glenn says. “When will he be returning?”

My mouth skews sideways as I shrug and give a noncommittal answer. “Hard to say. Sometimes he picks up new jobs on the road.”

Looking up through my brow, I see Dr. Keller studying me, her mouth in a tight line, her radar for deceit finely tuned from dealing with adolescent delinquents every day.

Ms. Glenn stands and holds out a business card. “Call me when he gets back.” Halfway to the door, she stops. “One more thing. An eight-year-old and a four-year-old should never be left in a car alone.”

She continues on, her condescension trailing behind her like a bad odor, and when the door clicks closed, Dr. Keller says, “Faye, I know you're doing your best, but three kids is a lot to deal with on your own, especially when one has special needs.”

The words “special needs” stick like a burr in my chest. Tom is perfect,
was
perfect. Until he started school, he was my perfect little boy—shy and perhaps a bit reticent, but sweet, loving, and happy, blissfully oblivious to the world beyond his own and how difficult and cruel it could be.

“Sean seems to be gone a lot. Maybe you need some help. Is there family nearby who can give you a hand?”

I give a thin smile and nod. Another lie, but who's counting?