Amy Gustine - You Should Pity Us Instead

“How are his grades? Does he do well in school? Does he like his teacher?”

At the mention of Melanie, his mother’s expression changes. “Is that who called you? That woman?”

Sarah fumbles, then grabs hold of the obvious: it’s confidential.

“His teacher’s had it out for me and Ethan since day one because Ethan, he’s got the ADD, and he’s a handful, but that’s not my problem. It’s her job to deal with it.”

Sarah asks a few more questions, random ones she’s not even sure seem reasonable or professional, but she doubts his mother has the experience to know the difference.

“Okay, I think it’s all good. I appreciate your time today.”

Sarah’s bladder hurts and at the last moment, when the blast of cold air hits her, she decides she can’t make it.

Ethan’s mother takes her back inside, points down the hall to a peach-and-black-tiled bath. The peach toilet seat has yellow spots. Sarah stands, holding the towel rack. The tub has a charcoal rim of filth, and a tangle of dark and red hair completely covers the drain. The place could definitely use a scrubbing.

She flushes and after washing her hands leaves the water on to muffle the sound of the rusty medicine cabinet hinges. Nothing remarkable except one bottle of OxyContin. It has a script label, though. Luanne Holman. Probably a maiden name.

Ethan’s mother is waiting for her in the hall, by the entrance to the kitchen. Behind her Sarah glimpses a mess of pots and pans, plates and cups.

“Maybe you should do a little cleaning, I mean, just in case. It would look better, you know.”

“Right.” The woman glances behind her. “Right, I will. I’ve been really busy. I will, though.”

On the front step Sarah puts out her hand. “Sorry to bother you.”

“No problem, no problem. I’m an open book.”

Sarah steps down to the walk, then turns. “I’m sorry. To be honest, I missed your last name. Was it the same as Ethan’s?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, Kiebach. Sorry.” She offers to shake hands. “Kim Kiebach. People call me KK.”

Sarah considers every scenario. Obtained under a false name? Left by a friend? Borrowed for a bad toothache or migraine? There are several plausible, innocent explanations for the pills.

Over the next few weeks she avoids the topic of Ethan, then one Friday Melanie comes home and slaps her leather tote on the counter.

“We had Ethan K.’s mother in today. He was in a fight on the playground again, so we call her in and she says they’re moving. It’s almost April for crying out loud. She’s going to move the kid two months before school is out? Like he doesn’t have enough problems fitting in.”

“Maybe it’s a job change or something.”

Melanie snorts. “Right, a corporate relo.”

Sarah escapes quickly and drives home thinking about what she’s done. They’re moving because of her. Which might be good. Or disastrous. There’s no way to know.

She spends the summer staying home with Grayson so Melanie can take Bea to the pool and clean her classroom or go out with friends. One week Melanie and Aaron go to Nashville and Sarah stays with the kids and sleeps in their bed, remembering the big blue dick in the shoebox. Does it mean Melanie isn’t happy with Aaron? Maybe it means he has a small penis.

In August, when Aaron and Melanie take the kids to her parents’ cottage on Lake Michigan, Sarah spends her vacation in bed watching TV. The hours are different now, still faster, but not fuller. At the end of the two weeks they’ve accumulated to nothing. She doesn’t remember a single show.

School starts, Bea goes to morning kindergarten and returns to report being the only one in her class who knows how to cook, what 911 is and her own address and phone number. “Some kids didn’t even know the name of the street they live on!”

In September, Bea turns six and the family throws a huge party. Aunts, uncles, cousins. Aaron’s parents are divorced and remarried, so there are six grandparents. Sarah is invited because, as Melanie says, “You’re like family. Bea would be devastated if you don’t come.”

Saturday morning Sarah considers calling to say she’s sick. Bea needs to learn: devastation is just a state of mind.

But she goes. She goes, and there is the backyard strewn with balloons bobbing on fish line strung from tree to tree. Several folding chairs and tables are set up, including a table with the cake she made. Sarah baked and decorated it yesterday afternoon, Bea in awe of her ability to transform five regular square cakes into Dorothy’s slipper. Covered in Red Hots, of course, which the guests will have to pick off because only Bea could stand to eat so many.

Everyone knows Sarah even though she doesn’t know them. She is the famous nanny, who taught Bea to cook, who made the cake, who, Melanie has joked, stole Grayson’s first word. Instead of “Dada” or “Mama” it was “Saha.”

Sarah eats a burger and flirts with Melanie’s cousin Michael, a guy just good-looking enough to make her tingle, but with crooked teeth that give her confidence. Michael is finishing a master’s in engineering at the local university. They talk for twenty minutes before he’s yanked off to provide piggyback rides. Sarah has little experience with men or their signals, but she thinks he looks reluctant to go and for a while she watches him play, hoping he’ll break away, until he doesn’t and she becomes self-conscious and moves off toward the food tables.

It’s eighty-five degrees out, one of the last hot days, no doubt. Melanie offers Sarah a beer.

“No, thanks.”

“We have wine coolers and a couple bottles of Pinot for the grownups if you want that instead.”

“I don’t drink.”

“Never?”

Sarah makes up an excuse about allergies.

The party is winding down. Fallen balloons float at ground level among the remaining guests. One of them drifts into the climbing rose on the garage and the crack makes Sarah jump. She glances around, but no one else looks startled. Michael is nowhere in sight.

She wanders around trying not to look as though she’s looking for him, then returns to the tables, where she tidies up the pile of presents, stacking dolls and Lego sets, more Play-Doh and bubble wands, gathering up the wrapping paper before she realizes the garbage is overflowing. She’ll have to take it inside, bring out another bag. Hands full, she moves to the back door and, catching a glimpse of people through the screen, is about to raise her voice and ask for someone to open it when she hears Aaron say, “Well, yeah, next year we’ll probably do preschool for Gray instead of a nanny. It’d be a lot cheaper and get him more socialization, more academic prep. Bea’s smart as a whip, you know, and I think in a way it’s held her back, being home. Next year she’ll be in first grade, so Grayson can go to Montessori. He’ll be three. He can handle all-day.”

Sarah’s cheeks go hot, shame washing over her as if she’s been caught holding that blue dick. Yes. Of course. This too will end.

“Need some help?” The Judge is there, opening the door, and Sarah has no choice but to step up into the kitchen. Aaron and the two people he’s been talking to smile, seeming unconcerned about what Sarah may have heard. Aaron plucks a garbage bag from the box on the counter and holds it wide for her to stuff in the paper, then the three go back out while Sarah ties the bag, prolonging the process to calm herself. The Judge sits at the table, mopping his sweaty, blotched forehead with a handkerchief. He wears tan shorts and a golf shirt.

“Honey,” he says, “can you get me a glass of ice water? I think I over-did it running around out there with the kids. It’s damn hot today.”