Barbarians at the PTA

by Stephanie Newman

  “You took that woman to Paris, didn’t you?”

  I watched as his eyes flickered before he looked away. More tears fell as I realized that Julie had been right about how recent the cheating had been.

  “I hope you two will be very happy together.” I pushed past him and reached for the door.

  “Vic, wait.” He grabbed my arm. Our faces were inches apart. I felt like choking him with his silk bow tie.

  “Can we please talk about this some more? I love you.”

  “Right now we have a room full of people who are inconvenienced and confused after watching your YouTube performance. Your girlfriend got all your best angles.” I couldn’t help getting in one zinger.

  I pushed his arm away and reached for the box of tissues someone had left on the corner table. “How could you? I loved you. And I let you into Rachel’s life. You know how cautious I am about having her get hurt. It’s bad enough that every time I close my eyes, I’ll be picturing your lady friend’s silky blond hair. I don’t know how I’m going to live with myself knowing how much Rachel will be crushed. She thought you were her new dad.” I wiped my eyes with my fingertips.

  “It doesn’t have to be like that—”

  My fury boiled over. “Yes, it does. And I expect you to back me up when I make my announcement. It’s the least you can do.”

  Colin nodded grimly and followed me into the room where our guests had been waiting. Everyone was instantly quiet when I took my place at the front, Colin slouching behind me. “Um, hello. We apologize. The wedding won’t be happening after all. Please respect our wishes for privacy.”

  I walked back to the antechamber, noticing that the Justice gave me a sympathetic glance as she motioned for the clerk to shoo everyone out. Julie and Hal called the restaurant and told them to donate the party food to a local pantry. Then they texted the band and photographer, and took Rachel to my apartment while I figured out what I would say to her.

  I slipped out the back and into the front seat of my car for a good, long cry. I was alone, no parents or siblings; a single mom by choice who’d protected myself against further pain by avoiding intimate relationships and using a sperm donor to have the baby I longed for. There were moments of terror about raising Rachel on my own, but desperation proved to be a great motivator, propelling me through the demands of childcare and my practice. I’d gotten by on my own, never expecting to find someone to build a future with.

  Until Colin.

  I still couldn’t believe he’d been sleeping with that woman all along. How could I have misjudged him, and what was I going to tell Rachel? At least my ten-year-old didn’t use social media, so she wouldn’t see the sex video. I was grateful for small miracles.

  Back at my apartment, I sat Rachel down and told her I’d gotten “cold feet,” a phrase that made her smile, adding that Colin wasn’t the person I was meant to spend the next fifty years with. Rachel nodded as I spoke, her large gray eyes serious, “Okay, Mom. If you don’t want to marry him, that’s your decision.”

  I knew there would be questions when I least expected them. Until then I’d have to get Rachel and myself through the breakup. I blocked Colin’s number, and took my daughter on a honeymoon cruise through the Caribbean.

  She swam with dolphins and played shuffleboard, while I mulled things over. I was a good mother, my child was doing well, and my psychology practice was running smoothly. But if I was so competent, how had I missed the signs? I was a humiliated wreck; sobbing in our stateroom quietly every night after Rachel fell asleep.

  A few days into the trip, I pulled myself together. Where I’d once resisted the typical suburban pilgrimage, I now welcomed change. With memories of Colin and echoes of my recent humiliation at every turn, my first order of business would be vacating the Central Park West apartment the three of us had shared, and in the process, evading the gossips and their judgments. I began to hatch a plan. Kids needed space and a yard. Since the school year was ending, the time was now; instead of squeezing into a tiny one bedroom, spiraling further into a state of shame and desperation, Rachel and I would search out great schools and a tight-knit community.

  Julie texted me as we were stepping off the ship. The woman in the video had been Colin’s girlfriend during college and after. The details were scant, but Julie had heard he wouldn’t put a ring on it. As the ceremony began, the blond live-tweeted and messaged a few of her and Colin’s mutual friends and one or two of his family members. What started as a brief flurry of activity took on a life of its own, as guests huddled together over their phones. Within minutes, nearly everyone in the room had seen the lewd video.

  Colin had downplayed their relationship. Well, he and Blondie deserved one another, just as Rachel and I were entitled to a baggage-free life. I’d been racking my brain, thinking about what our lives might look like if we started over, when a thought popped into my mind: What about Mayfair Close?

  We scrolled through the town’s website, Mayfair Memes, which described a rosy, suburban haven. “The village is a peaceful and idyllic community north of the city. Its Victorian houses and leafy streets are home to families drawn by the award-winning schools and lush parks. Exalted former denizens include Felicia Wynn, first female astronaut, and Butch Calloway, famed journalist and sportscaster.”

  The town had been on my radar for years. My parents and I spent several summers there when I was a child, visiting Great Aunt Pearl. After Mom and Dad were gone, she and I continued to vacation at the house until I went off to college and she retired to Boca and rented it out.

  Aunt Pearl had been my rock, seeing me through high school and holidays, birthdays, and crises. Rachel and I visited her often in Florida, even stopping there after the blighted honeymoon. When the nurse called to say my great aunt had suffered a massive stroke, there was nothing more the doctors could do, all I knew was frantic terror and a disconnected feeling that left my body icy, limbs stiff, and heart crushed.

  Except for Rachel, I was officially alone. Again.

  My daughter remained stoic when I delivered the news, knitting her brow and concentrating on my face before asking, “Why do people have to die?”

  I drew her close and said, “Aunt Pearl was very old, ninety-four. But I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart,” I added in response to the unspoken question in her eyes. Tears slid down Rachel’s cheeks as her sideways glance told me that she was scared. Me too. And several months after the memorial service, I was still raw. How could I help my child going forward when I was struggling?

  Great Aunt Pearl had always been there, saving me in every way. In the end, she’d left me the old Mayfair place with instructions to sell if necessary. Even though I’d known that was her intent, and had notified the tenants and visited the property after the will was read, the timing of her bequest felt like a sign: My aunt was saving me yet again.

  We had a house in a suburban town with excellent schools. While I was all in, my “fresh start” was Rachel’s worst nightmare. At the mention of relocating, she’d stamped her foot. “I am not moving to some dumb house and going to a school where I won’t know anyone. No!” She stared down, her hands balled into fists.

  “I understand, Rach. But I really think you’ll like it. You’ll have your own room, not a dining alcove like the one you grew up in. There’s cool outdoor stuff, and you’ll meet nice people.”

  She’d turned her back on me and glowered at the wall. “I’m sorry you’re upset, but Aunt Pearl wanted us to have the house,” I said. “And the schools there are supposed to be great. Now that I’m not with Colin anymore, we have to find some place to live, and this is the best choice for us.”

  Rachel began to cry. “You just talk on the phone with your friends. So what do you care if we move? I don’t want to go and leave my friends.” She wiped a tear with the back of her hand. “This sucks.” We sat in silence.

  “I guess I have no choice,” she finally responded, brushing away the arm I tried to place around her shoulders, barel
y speaking to me for the week that followed. “At least we’ll have a huge backyard,” I said, my best shot at a peace offering.

  Our new house sat at the end of a shady road in the part of Mayfair favored by bankers and big firm lawyers. Across town was an apartment complex where teachers, piano tuners, police officers and their families resided. There was a busy main drag with a post office, gas station, dry goods store, and sweet shop, and more modern homes too, clustered around strip malls with big box stores.

  Rachel and I motored up a long hill, passing an apple orchard, and following a tree-lined path, finally reaching the large white Victorian with a wraparound porch. After we entered through the kitchen, she bypassed the back staircase and butler’s pantry in favor of the front parlor. “My room is up here, right?” Rachel asked, taking the steps two-by-two. As her mood lightened, I felt myself starting to relax.

  We were standing in the doorway of her bedroom, scanning open spaces and a row of windows that overlooked a trio of rose bushes. “Wow, it’s bigger than our whole apartment,” she said, smiling for the first time that day. “Can I invite Zoe and Savannah to sleep over?”

  She agreed to give Mayfair a chance and I promised to bring her back to the city to visit her friends. By mid-August we were out of the gate and up to our waists in cartons. It felt like I’d come full circle, relocating with my daughter to the home where I’d spent summers in my youth.

  I remembered Mayfair as a sleepy town, quiet and serene. I was relying on distant impressions, watercolor memories formed years earlier.

  A bell sounded, jolting me out of my reverie. Rachel and I were now at the doorway of Barnum Elementary, trapped in the rush of kids and backpacks. Surrounded by fresh faces, I saw hope: After Aunt Pearl’s death and that close call at the altar, we were finally on the other side of our difficulties.

  Maybe it was naive. Last spring I would have said that live-tweeting during a wedding was the worst possible use of social media, and that the woman behind the stunt was the lowest form of bully.

  But now, living here in Mayfair, I know better.

  Two

  Mayfair Memes

  We entered Barnum Elementary through double doors. The lobby was boxy and nondescript, the sort of place one might visit to apply for a driver’s license or a visa for foreign travel; only it was teeming with children and nervous energy.

  Rachel spoke over the chatter of children rushing to class. “There are lots of kids.” She looked older than her almost eleven years, and at five foot one, was practically as tall as me, the gray in her eyes, accentuated by sandy-colored braids. Though my eyes were a shade darker, they were deep-set like Rachel’s.

  Meeting my daughter’s gaze, I recalled how she’d looked up at me in infancy, studying my face, finding love and reassurance. I felt like hugging her right here in the hallway, but restrained the impulse, searching instead for the right words, encouraging words. But before I could say anything, she strode off, always a step ahead of me.

  We were now near the main office. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a red-haired girl who looked to be about Rachel’s age. As she attempted to readjust the straps of her clunky pink backpack, her floral lunchbox and thermos clattered to the tile floor.

  Rachel remained off to the side, pulling out her phone and avoiding eye contact as a petite girl came into view and motioned for one or two others to join her. She wore a streamlined, black knapsack; a Swedish brand, the kind all the celebrities favored. Watching the red-haired girl rooting around on the floor, they tittered as their ringleader, the kid with the knapsack, threw her head back and laughed.

  The other girl was struggling to balance her possessions, dropping the thermos a second time with a tinny ping that prompted additional giggling. I moved closer and glanced at the kid with the knapsack: “Please stop, girls. Be nice,” I said in a tone that was more soothing than scolding.

  A woman in tennis whites raced over and stood next to the group, her back to me, sweeping her perfectly sculpted arms toward the fifth grade hallway in a gesture intended to herd them toward the classrooms. She didn’t even look my way, and with all the chaos in the halls, I got only a split-second glance of her toned physique and the light hair she’d twisted and tucked into her visor.

  The knapsack girl shot me a dirty look and moved down the hallway with her friends. The hapless kid followed, clutching her belongings to her chest. Even though I’d lost sight of them, the meanness I’d witnessed would be etched in my mind for some time to come. I’d torn my daughter away from her school and friends and given up the cozy apartment we’d called home. What if moving here turned out to be a mistake?

  I glanced around. The mom in tennis clothing was near the main office, waving at someone in the distance, failing to engage with those in her vicinity. As she stepped toward the exit, the other parents parted, making way. This woman was obviously important, and I wondered who she was.

  The lobby was quieter now. I prayed that Rachel and I would find a community at school, and I wouldn’t run into any patients. I’d recently leased part-time space in town with a view toward building a local practice. But while I’d strategized about how to deal with potential clinical conflicts, living and working in the same suburb wouldn’t be easy. People regarded me as a keeper of secrets, a safe harbor in a storm.

  Since my Mayfair clients had been seeing me in the city and didn’t know I’d moved here, they’d be unnerved running into me in the parking lot or at a volunteer event, and I wasn’t too keen on making small talk with them, either. I’d have to go case-by-case and see when to raise the issue, being clear about boundaries, while setting limits and looking halfway presentable—no dropping off in pajamas.

  “Don’t talk to anyone,” Rachel hissed, stepping quickly down the hallway without looking back. My daughter would be fine; it was me I’d have to worry about.

  An hour later, I was on the Upper East Side, unlocking the door to my city office. Unlike my personal life, it was neat and orderly. Bookshelves stood near the entrance, and a small area rug abutted the couch. On one side was a black leather patient lounger and footstool, perfectly mirroring my matching chair and ottoman at the back of the room. My diplomas and license were displayed on the far wall above the desk.

  The light on my machine was blinking. I crossed the room, recalling how thrilled I’d been fifteen years earlier—a lifetime ago—when I was accepted to the clinical psychology doctoral program at Columbia. I’d finally get to read Freud and see patients in supervision! I smiled at the memory, and pressed the button to play my messages.

  Colin’s voice boomed. “Victoria. I’ve given you space like you’d asked. Just checking in again. I’d like to have dinner so I can explain a few things.”

  Bastard. I hit delete.

  There was a second voice mail: “It’s been rough . . . . Please give me a few minutes of your time.” Colin’s persistence had more to do with being at the wrong end of a breakup than missing me. I had no interest in speaking to him, but would have to find two minutes to call and reiterate that he needed to stop contacting me.

  The buzzer sounded. Amy was my first appointment of the day. She’d also recently moved to Mayfair and had no idea that I now lived in her town and had a daughter attending the same school as her children.

  The session was slow going; my patient was stuck, repeating over and over that the suburbs were “vile, awful, hell on earth.” Round and round she went, an old vinyl record caught in a wellworn groove.

  I went with one of clinical psychology’s most reliable techniques: the gentle nudge. “Perhaps you’re not aware, but your thoughts keep coming back to how unhappy you are in your new town. Any idea why you’re so knotted up?”

  Amy ran a hand through her dark curly hair and tucked her long legs behind her before glancing around the office. Her eyes finally came to rest on a framed photo hanging over the couch: a leafy road wending its way to parts unknown, part of a larger trail, and most importantly, an invitation to speak.
She let loose.

  “You wouldn’t believe how cruel they are, Dr. Bryant. I was out walking the dog yesterday afternoon, and I overheard them in the next yard, laughing. They didn’t know I was there.” Amy stopped abruptly, shifting from detached observer to down-and-out sufferer. Her face became a silent movie of expressions, showcasing hurt, anger and longing. Her chest rose and fell, and she swiped her hands in an effort to stem the flow of tears.

  I smoothed the creases in my pantsuit and leaned forward, wondering what she would say next. After a silence, she continued.

  “They were so smug, standing there ripping everyone apart . . . . It was like they were picking through items at a sample sale, scanning, then tossing them back into the reject bin; only they were talking about people. I can’t remember all of it, but it was stuff like, ‘She’s so fat,’ followed by their tittering, and ‘She has a tic—have you seen it?’ Or my personal favorite: ‘That one’s a real loser.’ They had something to say about everyone, and roared with laughter every time someone hurled another insult. I was so shocked; I just wanted to back away, escape undetected. And then I heard them mention my daughter: ‘You know the new girl, Lucy? She has zero personality, and no one likes her.’”

  Amy wiped her eyes. “It was horrible. I had no idea who they were, except one of them spoke with a twang.”