Later after dinner, I went upstairs and found her snuggled in bed with a book. “How ‘bout I read to you tonight?”
“No thanks. It’s faster when I read to myself. I want to know what happens.” I kissed her on the head, pleased at the lightening speed at which she was developing, but sad that as my daughter was becoming independent, our time together was slipping through my fingers.
“Time to turn out the lights now.” I went down the hall, changed into a nightshirt and got into bed. Consumed with racy thoughts of Jim, I fell asleep, smiling and hugging my pillow.
Ten
Benched
It was Saturday, and Rachel had a game in the school gym. I didn’t feel like mingling. So while she warmed up on the court, I plopped down in a corner at the top of the bleachers and pulled out a book.
Rachel’s team won the tip-off. As usual Lee and her pals cheered for their kids, while the rest of us tried to make up the difference.
My daughter had been sitting on the bench for the first two quarters. I glanced at my watch. Would they put her in? Jess’s husband was the coach, and I was starting to wonder whether the dads were as bad as their wives, when Rachel was rotated in.
Our team was up by six. Rachel was dribbling, trying to get close enough to the basket to take a shot. I clapped and cheered, watching her move down the court. Suddenly she pitched facefirst onto the floor. My heart stopped, but I made my way down the bleachers, passing Lee and her crew along the way.
“She’s clumsy, that one,” Lee tittered as Rachel stood up and rubbed her head.
My fury rose as I made my way down. Hopefully Rachel wasn’t badly hurt.
“No parents, Ma’am.” The ref was coming toward me, motioning for me to sit down. I planted myself in the front row to monitor the situation. Lee raced over with an ice pack—being PTA president obviously guaranteed a blanket security clearance—and then Dr. Audrey swooped in. To my relief, she made a thumbs-up gesture.
Rachel was now speaking to the ref. “I don’t know. I just tripped.”
I spent the rest of the game employing mental gymnastics, desperate to manage my racing thoughts. It was important for kids to learn to solve their own problems; they needed room to fail—unless, as in this case, the playing field was stacked.
After the game, I raced down to the court, and while motioning for Rachel to come over so we could leave, nearly bumped into Lee, who was laughing with Jess and her husband. Lee and I locked eyes as he stepped back with a look that screamed no female drama.
Rachel had come over and was standing next to me. “Let’s go,” I said, steering her past Lee.
“Cat got your tongue?” She called after us.
“Not at all. But I am wondering, don’t you have anything better to do than laugh at a ten-year-old who’s tripped and fallen on the court?” I guided Rachel toward the door without waiting for a response, noticing out of the corner of my eye that Lee and Jess were beginning to whisper.
Once we were in the car, Rachel ignored my questions about her head and refused eye contact or conversation. “Why would you say that to Mrs. DeVry in front of the whole team, and the moms and dads? Now everyone will be even meaner than they are now.” She was screaming by the time we pulled into the driveway. “I hate it here. And I hate you.” I was about to apologize, but she’d gotten out of the car and slammed the door.
I watched her let herself in through the kitchen, worrying that I’d finally done my best to stand up to Lee, but had only made things worse.
My fears were borne out a few days later. Rachel told me she’d gotten ten points off on an in-class math exercise because she hadn’t been able to measure the base of an isosceles triangle. Some kids—she assumed Collette and Lexi because they’d been whispering and laughing—had taken her pencil case and ruler. She told me when I got home from work.
It was typical fifth grade hazing, but I was concerned. Rachel obviously wasn’t fighting back. That evening I joined her at the kitchen table where she’d been doing her homework. “Maybe you could sit with other people and avoid those two?” I suggested.
Rachel’s eye roll told me everything I needed to know. “That’s impossible. We’re all in the same class,” she curled her lip in a show of preteen contempt.
“You can push back a little.”
She looked skeptical. “I guess.”
I moved on. “I found this,” I announced, stepping toward the sink and pulling one of Rachel’s long-sleeved T-shirts from the cabinet underneath where I’d stashed it.
The garment had been shoved at the bottom of the kitchen garbage that morning and was definitely worse for wear with macaroni noodles pasted to the front, and carrot peels dangling off one of the sleeves.
Rachel said nothing.
“Did you throw it away?”
She gave me a pleading look. “Collette said that she’s the only one that can wear shirts with French sayings on them.”
My anger rose, and I wanted to tell Rachel that she shouldn’t let another kid dictate her wardrobe, but bit my tongue, knowing how intimidating Collette could be. “Okay. No more French sayings. But let’s donate this so some other girl can use it.” I added the shirt to a pile of dish towels I was about to wash. Rachel nodded and picked up the book she’d been reading about Pocahontas.
The ruler and T-shirt incidents told me that certain girls had turned out to be exactly like their moms. Their clique-y behaviors and the group’s sheer numbers, all went against Rachel’s ability to stand her ground.
I had a lot on my mind, like the call I’d gotten several hours earlier from the school nurse, the second one that week.
“Anything you want to tell me?” I asked, as she climbed into bed.
“No.” She twirled her hair and looked off to the side.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
She was quiet, and my anxiety rose. “Did something happen at school today?”
“This girl Francesca, the one with the red hair, was crying at recess. Some of the kids took her phone and sent texts from it to a boy, pretending to be her, writing stuff like, ‘Will you go out with me? I like you.’ It was really mean.”
My body tensed. The stolen cell phone story was cruel and made me realize that aside from a few early warnings about texting with strangers and making friends online, I hadn’t had the full “internet safety” talk with Rachel. Now was as good a time as any. “What they did to Francesca sounds awful. Did it upset you?”
“I guess.”
I saw my chance. “I’ve been meaning to go over something. If someone you don’t know texts or contacts you on social media, what would you do?”
“How would a stranger get my number?”
I sighed. “Say he or she somehow gets your number and starts bothering you. Or posts on social media. Then what?”
“I’d tell you.” Rachel shrugged.
I gave her a thumbs-up. “You have Facebook and Instachat. Anything else?” She shook her head.
“Just an FYI,” I said, “First thing this weekend I want to go through all of your social media accounts.”
Rachel stiffened. “I showed you when I made them.”
“And I told you that I’d be checking periodically.” I didn’t have the energy to look at her phone right now, especially since we hadn’t gotten to the nurse issue. “I’m glad you told me about Francesca. I think it’s terrible that she’s being picked on.” Rachel nodded. She shrugged, and I took a deep breath. “Which brings me to my next question. Was there something else that happened today?”
I waited as Rachel shifted uncomfortably. “I went to the nurse’s office.”
I was about to hug her, but stopped short. It was better to let her speak. “Why? What were you doing there?”
“There was too much drama in the cafeteria, and I had a stomachache. The nurse let me lie down on her cot.”
If Rachel had gone to the nurse’s office during lunch, things were getting even worse. “How many times have you gone there?�
�� I ignored the flutter in my chest and forced myself to sound calm, as though I was asking whether she’d remembered to put her homework in her backpack.
“Uh . . . I ate there today, and yesterday. And a few times last week I went to the library.”
“I thought you were eating with Maya.”
“Sometimes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about the lunchroom, sweetie?”
Rachel looked down at her hands, and my butterflies turned to anger. The nurse’s messages indicated that there was no fever, and said that she’d been sent back to class. But even if there was nothing physically wrong, my child clearly needed help.
I’d given Rachel time to transition, and had been unsure if I should contact her teacher. But the time had come.
After kissing Rachel good night, I fired off an email:
“Hi, Ms. Franklin,
This is Victoria Bryant, Rachel’s mom. I’m writing today because I am concerned about something and would like to speak tomorrow. I will be at work, but if you let me know what times are convenient, I’ll call you when you are free. Otherwise, you can reach me on my cell.
Thank you.
Victoria
The voice on the answering machine was reassuring. It was Ms. Franklin, Rachel’s teacher. “I’d be happy to speak during my lunch hour if that time is convenient for you,” she said.
I called at the agreed-upon hour. She was soft-spoken and sounded kind. “You said you’re concerned about Rachel? Tell me what’s going on.”
Shouldn’t she know? I pushed my annoyance to the side, and focused instead on the fact that she’d made herself available so quickly. “She’s been quiet and anxious lately, keeping to herself socially, and going to the nurse’s office at lunch.”
“I wasn’t aware of that. By the way, Rachel is a lovely girl. She works hard, and is very bright. And from what I’ve seen in the classroom, she’s doing well. As far as socially, Rachel often sits with another girl during small group time. Do you know Maya? And she’s gone over math problems with Neil. So I haven’t seen any major red flags. As teachers, we don’t usually witness what’s going on in the lunchroom or on the playground, but I will discuss it with the aides. I agree, Rachel shouldn’t spend her lunch period in the nurse’s office.”
She started to say goodbye, but I pressed on. “Thank you for looking into this and for speaking with the aides. May I check back with you about this?”
“Of course. Anytime.” We hung up.
Ms. Franklin sounded like she cared about the students, but my doubts still nagged. It seemed odd that Rachel’s teacher wouldn’t have picked up on anything. She had to be missing something. Two knots pooled in my shoulders. It would probably be up to me alone to deal with my child’s problems.
As soon as I’d placed the receiver in its cradle, the phone rang again.
“Hey,” Jim said as I picked up. I loved how deep his voice was.
“How ’bout dinner Friday night? Someplace quiet, so we can talk.”
“Sure. That sounds great.” A third date!
“I'm glad you're free.”
After we hung up, I left word for Alva, asking her to please stay late on Friday. Then with Rachel’s troubles continuing to weigh on me, I counted the hours until my date with Jim.
Eleven
Hooky
Barnum’s number was displayed on my caller ID. I immediately broke my no incoming calls rule. “Please excuse me. It’s an emergency,” I told the couple I was seeing.
Stepping into the office’s tiny kitchen area, I closed the door and answered the call. “Dr. Bryant. I’m calling about Rachel’s absence. When she’s out sick, we ask you to call first thing in the morning.”
“Absence—are you sure?” Panic gripped my chest. I’d dropped my daughter off and watched her walk toward the building.
“I’m certain.”
My hands shook as I promised to ring her back and dialed Rachel’s cell. It was a relief when she answered on the first ring.
“Are you okay? Where are you?”
“Home.”
I waited. “I had another stomachache. So I went to the parking lot. Some mom offered to give me a ride home.”
My head was spinning. Who takes a ten-year-old off school grounds without checking? “What mom?”
“She said her name was Leslie. I didn’t know her.”
“This is serious, Rachel. You played hooky and got in the car with a stranger. I know you’ve been getting stomachaches, but leaving without checking in is not okay. DO YOU HEAR ME?”
Her voice was quiet. “I won’t do that again.”
I told her we’d talk later and warned her that I’d be taking her phone for the next week, and would increase the punishment, if she ever pulled a stunt like that again.
I went back into the session and apologized to my patients. When I got home that night, I went straight upstairs to her room. “Let’s go back to this morning, Rachel,” I said, sitting down on her bed.
“I know it was wrong. Don’t you ever just need a break?”
I crossed my arms and waited. “Okay. I know I’m punished,” she said, handing me the phone.
A knot of anger pooled in my chest. “It’s not about the punishment. What made you leave school?”
“I just saw them all standing and whispering, and it really did make my stomach hurt. I wanted a day off. I’ll go back tomorrow and hang out with Maya and Neil. I’m just sick of those girls.”
“Try not to let them get to you. Life isn’t static, and things won’t always be this way.”
Rachel was twisting a strand of hair around her pointer finger, her forehead one big crease. Watching her puzzle over the school situation reminded me of another serious talk we’d had years ago. She’d furrowed her forehead and twirled her hair then too, asking why people would want to hurt dolphins.
And now Rachel’s mannerisms told me she was thinking long and hard about what had happened that morning outside of school. When she finally nodded and said “Cutting school was stupid. I’m sorry,” I knew she understood the gravity of the situation. We could move on.
I leaned in to hug her. “Love you. Good night.”
“Do I get my phone back now?”
“Not a chance.” I turned the lights out and closed her door behind me.
The next morning Maureen buzzed into the Mayfair office. I knew what was coming.
She sat down in the patient’s chair. “So, you have a fifth grader at Barnum?” she asked. “How come you didn’t just say that when I asked that other time?”
I did my best to remember the response I’d prepared, one that acknowledged reality, but left room for my patient to react. “I’d be glad to answer. I’m just wondering if you’d be comfortable telling me why you’re bringing this up right now.”
“I heard a while ago that you moved across town and had a girl the same age as my daughter, Hannah. I meant to bring it up but forgot.”
She had me. The best way to handle it was to reaffirm her perception of the truth and then ask her to explore what she imagined.
I nodded in response to her question and tried to dampen down my feelings of annoyance. Maureen was the last person I felt like discussing my child with. She certainly had it easy, being best friends with Lee, and her Hannah not having to endure any of the loneliness and exclusion my daughter had faced. I had the urge to tell her that so far I really wasn’t impressed with her clique-y friends and their daughters, but kept it professional, allowing her to react. I said, “That’s true. I do live in Mayfair and have a fifth grader. Any feelings about that?”
“I don’t know. It’s weird to think of running into you at meetings and open houses. Your daughter is in Collette’s class. That’s what I heard. We won’t see each other on parent/teacher night.”
Maureen was picking at a cuticle. “You’ve been helpful, and coming here has made things better. So . . . I want to tell you something. It has to do with Lee.” She shifted uncomfortably.
<
br /> This couldn’t be good.
The air in the room felt heavy. Was the PTA president so powerful that the tides shifted at the mention of her name?
“I don’t know if I should say this . . . .” Maureen crossed her arms over her chest and then unfolded them again. “So, uh, she’s my friend and all, but there was an incident when they lived in New Jersey, out in horse country.”
Before I could process what Maureen was saying, she barreled on. “This was when their older daughter was in fourth or fifth grade, something with texting or maybe Facebook. Lee was accused of making destructive comments about a kid in town, someone her older daughter didn’t like. After Lee was done with that girl, she, the kid, was distraught, cutting herself on the thigh, talking about suicide. She had to be hospitalized. It was a terrible situation. She’s okay now, I heard. And Jack got the charges dropped, but they had to leave the school. That’s when they moved here.”
So Lee had been accused of bullying a ten-year-old in another town, and that kid had become suicidal. It was a sad story, but not a total surprise.
Maureen leaned forward in her chair. “I’d watch out for Lee if I were you. She doesn’t like you. And in case you’re not aware, there’s a Mayfair Moms Page on Facebook. Lee runs it, and decides who can join. There are maybe ninety or one hundred of us; I’ve lost track. She’s been posting, warning about her plans to ‘put someone in her place.’”
My heart was hammering in my chest. The warning was concerning. I’d deal with that after I ran through the clinical conflict issue.
Arguing in public with one patient, then discussing it in session with another was an ethics nightmare. The silver lining was that I was in familiar territory. If a person made a specific threat toward a known person, psychologists were required to break confidentiality and file a report—it was the law. I almost hoped Maureen would say that Lee had threatened to come after me. Then I could call the police.
Instead of addressing the boundary question head-on, I took the safe route, parroting her words: “Put someone in her place?” I asked, sounding like a caricature of a bad therapist.
Barbarians at the PTA Page 10