I’m typing “last night”, deleting it, typing it again and then deleting it again while 14 mothers in Lululemon idle their SUVs around me in the Whitfield pickup lane.
The text I want to send says I can still feel you but the text I actually send says hey because I’m a coward in a white Audi with my phone angled 45 degrees away from the window so Diane Chen can’t read my screen from 2 cars ahead.
Jonah texts back fast.
hey yourself couldn’t sleep after you left that’s probably too much to say at 3pm on a Friday I want to tell him I couldn’t sleep either, that I got home at 11:50, put my hand on the hood of my husband’s Porsche and the metal was warm but instead, I stood in the garage trying to decide whether that meant something or nothing and obviously I picked nothing because that’s easier but also, I have a limited capacity for new disasters.
I type me neither and leave it at that.
The school doors open, kids pour out in navy uniforms and backpacks, Jonah is at the classroom door scanning the lane for parents then his eyes find me, and I look at him for 1 second and then look away, fast, way too fast, and I feel Diane watching because she’s always watching.
Rebecca Park taps on my window, and I almost drop my phone.
“Margaux!
How’s— how’s your week been?
You look tired.” “Thanks, Rebecca.” “I mean that in a loving way, I swear.
Are you— are you sleeping okay?” “I’m fine.
Just…
long week, you know?” “Same.
Oh my God, same.
Did you hear about the Millers?
They’re pulling both kids out and sending them to Brunswick.
Andrea told me at book club.” She leans closer, her voice dropping.
“Money problems.” “That’s— that’s too bad.” “Right?
Anyway, love your top.” She taps the roof twice and moves on to the next car because she works the pickup lane, covering every window, harvesting every crumb, and the information she just gave me about the Millers will be confirmed by 8 other mothers before dinner, I guarantee that.
Milo runs to my car with his backpack bouncing.
“Hey, bug.
Good day?” “Mr.
Priestley taught us about hibernation, bears sleep for 5 whole months, and I wanna— I wanna be a bear.” “You’d miss pizza.” “Bears don’t eat pizza?” “Bears eat salmon.” “Eww…
gross.” Leslie Goodwin pulls in behind me in a Volvo with a bumper sticker about supporting local farms and a canvas bag on her passenger seat.
She smiles at me through her windshield, the particular Whitfield smile that says I’m a better mother than you but would never dream of saying so, I smile back because this is what we do, the mothers of Whitfield, we smile, we perform and we idle our cars in a line.
None of us know each other but all of us pretend we do.
Diane’s Escalade slides up beside me near the exit.
She rolls her window down and tilts her sunglasses.
“Margaux.” “Hey, Diane.” She looks toward the building where Jonah is helping a kindergartner find her mother, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his hair catching the light.
“He’s cute, isn’t he?” My stomach drops.
“Who?” “Mr.
Priestley.
Half the mothers at this school would take him home if they— if they could.” She pushes her sunglasses back up.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed?” “I hadn’t— I hadn’t noticed.” “Liar.” She laughs, pulls forward, the Escalade disappears through the gate, and my hands are gripping the steering wheel hard enough to turn my knuckles white.
Milo is in the backseat singing a song about bears, and I need to get out of this parking lot before my face gives me away.
I drop Milo at aftercare because Friday is aftercare day, and that just means 1 hour where I don’t have to be anyone’s mother or anyone’s wife.
I call Nina from the parking lot.
“Again?” Nina says, second ring.
“Again.” “Last night?” “Last night.” “How— how was it?” “Nina…” “I’m asking as your friend, not your cover story.
How was it?” “He asked me what I wanted.” I close my eyes and lean my head back.
“During…
He asked me, and my voice cracked because the last time a man asked me that in bed was…
I don’t even remember when, Nina.
I— I can’t remember.” “Jesus…” “I know.” “How many times are we gonna have this call?” “Until I stop.” “You’re not gonna stop.” “I know.” Silence, I can hear her office in the background, keyboard, and muffled voices.
“What about— what about the car?” she says.
“What car?” “You texted me at midnight saying Grant’s keys were in the wrong spot and his Porsche was warm.
I’ve been waiting all morning for you to bring it up.” “I don’t wanna talk about the car, Nina.” “Margaux—” “I can’t be the woman who checks her husband’s hood temperature after coming home from another man’s bed.
The hypocrisy alone would choke me, I— I can’t breathe through it.” “The hypocrisy doesn’t mean he wasn’t somewhere.” “I know what you’re saying, but I’m choosing not to hear it because I’m in a school parking lot, I have groceries to buy and a life to hold together, so…
I can only deal with one catastrophe at a time.” “Fair.” Nina pauses.
“For the record, I think you should look into it.” “Noted.” “And for the record, I’m not judging you.” “I know you’re not.” “I’m judging him, both of them, actually.
Grant for being Grant and Jonah for being 26 and hot enough to make you stupid.” “Goodbye, Nina.” “Love you.” “Love you too.” I hang up and sit in the parking lot for 30 seconds doing nothing, and then I drive to the grocery store because the pantry needs restocking.
Performing normalcy requires props, and the props require a shopping cart.
Camille Marchetti is in the produce section holding an avocado when I turn the corner.
“Margaux!” She hugs me one-armed, avocado in the other hand, and she smells warm, expensive, and her hair is clipped back.
She’s wearing paint-stained jeans, a white t-shirt, and she looks better undone than I look put together on my best day, honestly.
“Saturday was so fun,” she says.
“Tate hasn’t stopped talking about the wine.” “Grant keeps bringing up the Monaco story.
I think he misses being 25 and reckless.” “Don’t they all?” She squeezes an avocado with practiced fingers.
“We should do something, just us, without the husbands, the dinner table, and the whole— the whole production.” “I’d love that.” “Coffee?
Next week?” “Next week works.” She squeezes my arm and goes back to her avocados.
I stand there watching her walk away thinking I need a friend who isn’t Nina and doesn’t know what I’ve done, and to be honest, Camille might be that person, but the thought of adding her to the list of people I’m deceiving makes my stomach turn but then again, the list is already long enough that 1 more name barely registers and I don’t know when that stopped bothering me but it has.
In the parking lot, loading groceries into the trunk, my phone buzzes.
Can I see you Wednesday?
After tutoring?
I stare at the screen.
After tutoring means after Milo’s lesson.
That means after my son sits at the kitchen table with his teacher and practices fractions while I stand 10 feet away pretending I’m not counting the minutes until he goes to play, so I can follow his teacher to a studio apartment and take my clothes off.
I type: I’ll stay after Milo’s lesson.
I look at the words, I know what I’m doing, I know what I’m scheduling it around.
It’s my son’s homework, my son’s teacher, my son’s trust.
Send.