She wanted a baby who would love her, only her.
Now the baby is here in her arms and the boy is a ghost she’s never seen since. Her heart swells to twice its size with delirious ecstasy at how perfect everything finally is.
On the cold bathroom tiles, she waits like an ethereal blood-soaked horror until the door inches open and her parents fill the frame. It’s odd to see them away from their recliners and the surrounding piles of hoarded junk they don’t care enough to clean. It’s been eight years, yet they do nothing but decay in their grief to honor her little brother’s passing.
Her mother never acknowledged Elodie was pregnant, and one single bottle of prenatal vitamins left on her pillow was the only indicator her father slightly cared. They do not love her, but apparently theycan’t let their daughter bleed out on their bathroom floor, so they have come to see.
She is glowing, her pain so incredible and ruinous she’s stopped feeling anything. They are a matching set, the baby and she, and already she loves him so much she wants to squeeze his soft bones flat so she can fit him in her mouth.
Elodie holds up the baby as rivulets of blood slide across his heaving little belly.
“His name is Jude,” she says, and they stare at her with waxy horror melting down their faces.
ELEVEN
Elodie is silent on thedrive to the school, scared to open her mouth lest something hysterical slips out. She keeps one elbow on the door, her hand pressed to her lips, as Farrows slides past the window in a never-ending slideshow of quaint beauty. This is a nice place and she has a nice husband and she lives in a nice—
house.
Even though Bren’s SUV glided into the driveway a mere ten minutes after he called, he didn’t come inside, instead insisting they sort out Jude and then deal with the house later. The drive is giving Elodie time to thaw, to twist the jelly mess of her unspooling intestines back down her throat and swallow her own unhinged outburst. An explanation exists about the state of the walls. It’s an old house, and that was some sort of mold. That has to be it. She will confront Bren when theyget home, and they’ll come up with a plan to fix it like anyone would when neck-deep in renovations.
She is not losing her mind.
“You okay? I’m sure this is nothing.” Bren sounds distracted even as the words leave his mouth.
Her response is a slim smile, but her lips are bloodless from the effort of sealing them closed. She doesn’t ask why the school called him, not her, because the logical explanation is that his details must be the only ones on Jude’s forms and she doesn’t want to think about why he took hers off.
The first-grade classroom holds a plastic, artificial cheerfulness that always puts Elodie on edge. It feels too open, too bright. The walls are washed in baby blue, colorful alphabet mats sit on the floor, tiny desks are pushed together in groups to promote teamwork and collaboration. Cabinets filled with plastic boxes of books and art supplies line the wall, and flurries of rainbow construction paper still litter the ground like confetti, a remnant of the children’s last activity before school let out.
The classroom is empty now, except for Ms. Heather tapping away at her computer behind her huge desk in the corner.
An electric anxiety pulses inside Elodie’s chest the moment she steps into the room.Where is my son? Where did they take my son—
Bren gives her hand a little squeeze and she remembers to breathe, to unclench her jaw, to keep her expression neutral as Ms. Heather waves them over.
“Hey,” Bren says. “Hope everything is all right. The message we got from the office was sort of vague.”
“Oh, no need for alarm,” Ms. Heather says brightly. “But I am grateful you both came and we can have a fruitful discussion. I’ve got some chairs— Wait, I have adult-size chairs. I won’t make you sit in the miniature ones.”
“Where’s Jude?” Elodie thinks she sounds pleasant, but her smile feels stabbed through with needles.
“My aide has taken him down to the playground,” she says. “He seemed excited to have the swings to himself.” She shuffles two chairs next to her desk for them.
It shouldn’t be an intimidating moment, not in a room brimming with color in front of a woman wearing a polka-dot cardigan and ladybug earrings and glasses, but Elodie can’t shake the agitation scraping sharp fingernails along the underside of her skin. Maybe Jude has done something wrong, struck a child or bit someone or tried to run away. She can smooth this over; she’s used to crafting explanations.
Ms. Heather’s expression is gentle but concerned as she sits back down behind her desk.
“So, what’s this about?” Bren slings his arm around the back of Elodie’s chair, casual and collected, his suit jacket abandoned but the crisp sleeves of his white shirt rolled to show vein-corded forearms. He smells of paperwork and coffee and looks every bit the suave, confident professional who knows how to handle situations like this.
Elodie just wants to snatch Jude up and run.
“I want to have a factual conversation about Jude’s progress in my class,” Ms. Heather says. “I’ve discussed my concerns with both our principal and counselor, but I asked to have a one-on-one chat with you first before we bring this to a larger meeting.”
“Did he do something?” Elodie’s voice is tight.
“It’s more that he isn’t thriving.” Ms. Heather adjusts her ladybug glasses carefully. “Jude seems more than a few paces behind everyone else his age. There’s nothing wrong with children who need extra help, but I can’t give Jude the necessary accommodations without, well, an assessment.”
“Assessment?” Bren’s smile is confused. “Of, like, his reading?”
