Yes.
She just wanted to know what the lie would taste like, whether the flavors would be simple and delicate and easily digestible.
Now guilt owns her, though her only visible failing is being the last parent to pick up her child from after-school care. No one will know about the bookstore. No one will know about one minute of weakness where she thought of how comfortable it would be to recline with Bren on the couch, her head against his chest, their heartbeats synced in drowsy calm, while he talked about names for their child. Their only child.
He likes to fix things.
The words have sunk teeth into her, and she doesn’t know how she feels about the entire conversation with Ava. She shoves it aside and decides to ignore everything.
Once inside the classroom they use for after-school care, she takes a moment to collect herself, steady her breathing so it doesn’t look as if she rushed here in an anxious whirlwind. Her black coat is buttoned to her chin and her hair spills from her bun as if she is a raven swept in from the night.
One of the carers—LIZ, the name tag on her purple polo shirt reads—bustles over to greet Elodie as she signs Jude out.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” Elodie says. “Midwife appointment.” Which was hours ago, but this is the perfect lie to garner sympathy.
“We do have a late collection fee, I’m afraid,” Liz says. “But congratulations! When’s bub due?”
“March.” Elodie’s smile is thin.
“It’ll go by in no time.” Liz looks like the bubbly, chatty kind, and Elodie already wants to escape, but as she’s scanning the room, noting the other carers are busy packing up and cleaning, Liz takes a step closer and lowers her voice. “Jude had a really good time today. We’re very impressed.”
Elodie waits for the punch line, thebutthat inevitably comes when someone talks about Jude. Her face must convey her anxiety because Liz continues.
“He usually sits in a corner and refuses to participate, but today”—she leads the way toward the craft tables—“he decided to get creative. You’ll love this.”
Jude sits on a little green plastic chair, wearing a paint-splattered art smock, the sleeves of his sweater rucked up and his expression one of intense concentration. He is in the midst of a cyclone of his own making: torn paper and brushes with sticky paint congealed under them surround him, and there are yogurt tubs of glittery pom-poms and strands of wool next to pots of glue. Paint streaks his chin and paper covers his jeans like confetti, all a reminder why Elodie doesn’t let him do crafts. He is messy. He is uncoordinated. An apology is in her mouth, but the carer looks buoyant.
Jude is building a house.
Popsicle stick walls and a cardboard roof. Glue leaks through the cracks, and the whole thing looks liable to slide into a wet heap at any moment. But it means something; it is a response, perhaps, an open door to what he’s thinking, and part of her heart leaps to see it.
She crouches down. “Hi, baby. This looks amazing. Did you do it all by yourself?”
Jude ignores her, dipping his brush in a pot of watery red paint and then swiping at the walls. The Popsicle sticks tilt under his fierce brushstrokes.
“He’s been working independently all afternoon,” Liz says, beaming.
“We need to pack up, okay, Jude?” Elodie says. “Time to go home for dinner.”
But Jude keeps painting, dogged and focused, as if she’s not eventhere, and she gets a sinking feeling about how this will go. At least, on the days he sits in the corner, his rabbit clasped in one hand and an unopened juice box in the other, he will run to her in frantic relief to be rescued. No cajoling to get him out the door. No tense attempts to get him to shift activities.
Elodie stands, her stomach twisting, but she smiles for the sake of all watching.
The carer’s voice lowers slightly as she steps closer. “I also meant to check in with you about his forms. I’m new to admin and was doing some filing, and I noticed Jude is in the first grade. I’ve been pairing him with the kindergarteners all this time and I feel terrible. He’s tiny, isn’t he? I’m sure your pediatrician has that under control, though.”
Elodie feels accusation steeped under the comment.
“Also, his mannerisms,” Liz goes on, the cheerful bounce in her voice taking a careful turn, “made me think he was much younger. I was wondering if we should note anything else down on his forms. That is to say, any special accommodations we should account for?”
“I wouldn’t think so,” Elodie says, cool. She starts running fingers through Jude’s curls, though she knows he hates that. “Come on, baby, we need to pack up.”
Jude hunches, his fist clenched so hard around the paintbrush, his knuckles have whitened. Elodie waits until Liz has taken an awkward step back, clearly unsure how to push her questioning. Then Elodie bends so her mouth is close to Jude’s ear.
“Do you want a chocolate?”
Terrible mother. Bribing your child. Building bad habits. You’ll create a selfish little brat who always gets his own way—
Jude flicks a quick glance at her, but he’s stopped painting. She quickly takes the brush from him and pulls him from the chair, grateful the distraction worked and he won’t end up on the floor screaming.
