by Sara Shepard
And he’d nailed it. Boy, had he nailed it! His voice was “cool mom who’s up to her elbows in kids . . . but also makes time for her Peloton.” He threw subtle shade at all the other schools in town. He low-key shamed those who didn’t value education over everything else. He knew all the tricks that made mothers weak—you knew firsthand. After reading his sample work, even you started to feel that familiar guilt.
So you hired him. These days, he writes all the newsletters. Handles the fundraising. Pressures parents into volunteering. What his goal is in all this, you really aren’t sure. Maybe he just likes being good at something. Maybe he’s happy he’s found his niche. Sometimes you wonder if he has a platonic crush on you. Sometimes you get the little-boy-wanting-to-please-his-mother vibe. But mostly, you’re just glad you have someone on your side, an almost-friend.
You try to take care of Carson. You tell him that he’s valued, and you pay him more than any other assistant doing his job is paid. But it’s getting harder. His newsletters aren’t working anymore. Parents, so recently robbed of their savings, are saying he’s insensitive, even bullying. The money for Carson’s salary could be better served elsewhere.
It’s all going to shit.
You might have spent the past five years growing your kingdom, turning Silver Swans into a school every parent wants their kid to attend because of its cache, its guests, its resources. In the past five years, you’ve been on the covers of magazines and the subject of blog posts and have been on Happy Morning OC six times to talk about mommies and kids. In the past five years, you’ve been able to give North everything he wants, anticipating his needs ahead of time, intuiting what a boy his age wants and adores. Last year—this very month—you had parents clamoring at your sides, begging to be put on the waiting list, practically throwing their money at you.
This place is your identity. It’s who you are, as a person. And now it’s been stripped away. It’s like you’re walking around without a face. It’s like your anthill has been smashed.
You stare up at the sun, a hazy ball behind a cloud. It’s just the normal sun, obliviously shining, even though the world has gone to shit. The last time you felt like this, you realize, was when you were with the Asshole.
“So I have a few other ideas,” Carson says. “But they’re a little . . . outside the box.”
His voice is so earnest and helpful that you want to hug him. Carson tries so hard to make you happy. “Okay,” you say. “Shoot.”
“Well, there’s this,” he says, and turns the notepad he’s holding around so you can see. On it are two items. The first: Documentary.
“A documentary?” you ask.
“I’ve heard some rumblings about one in the works. About parenting, kids—and schools—during this time. If we were featured, maybe, it could bring us a lot of visibility. And they’re going for something super highbrow.”
You pause. You think of your glorious little school. And the beautiful children. Hell, the beautiful parents. Oh, there are a few rogue apples, some squeaky wheels . . . but you can deal with those. You always have.
“Interesting,” you admit. “You know the person to contact?”
“I do.” Carson nods, grinning. “He’s going to love you.”
This is a tiny glimmer of hope. You’ve always thought you had a face for TV. And if Silver Swans were the topic of an esteemed program, maybe you could charge even more when everyone returns. To balance things out.
Then you notice the second item on Carson’s list. You read it over several times, making sure you understand what Carson is getting at. This, too, has potential. A lot of potential.
“This.” You point at it, your heart picking up speed. With fear. With desire. With curiosity. And with admiration. Carson is more slippery than you’d ever imagined. “Tell me more about this one, too.”
Eighteen
Isn’t he the nicest baby?” Clarissa cooed to Matthew. She and Lauren sat on the carpet, Clarissa cross-legged, Lauren’s spine pressed against the couch, Matthew balancing expertly on his diapered butt. He was so proud of his ability to sit. Clarissa tossed a soft block, and when it landed in Matthew’s lap, she squealed with pleasure. “Good catch!” She pulled him close in a squeeze. “My good boy!”
Lauren tried to muster a smile, but it was more like a grimace. My good boy? She wasn’t sure how much more of Clarissa she could take. “Um, I’m taking off now,” she said.
“No prob!” Clarissa beamed. “Enjoy!”
This morning, when Lauren’s eyes had popped open and she realized it was nearly 10:00 a.m., she’d run into the living room, panicked because she knew Graham had to drive up to LA for some meetings. Normally, she balked at him working on a Saturday, but she didn’t feel she had the right to complain. Clarissa had been here, making the coffee, plopping a puree in a BPA-free bowl for the baby. “Oh,” Lauren had said dazedly, rubbing her eyes. “Did I call you?” Maybe she’d done it earlier, half-asleep. She’d had one of those nights where her dreams were banal, blurring with her waking routine. She wasn’t sure what was real.
“Oh, your husband did,” Clarissa had said, shooting her a conciliatory smile. “It’s no trouble!”
Lauren wondered how that had gone. Graham poked his head into the room, sighing at Lauren’s lassitude, maybe. But perhaps this was their new normal: they simply wouldn’t talk to each other, and Graham’s default would be that Lauren wasn’t up to the job as Mom. She thought of their old normal, for a moment. Their short-lived normal, before the baby was born—how Graham would look at her with such reverence, and how they’d be all over each other at all times, and how they’d always respect what the other was saying. Now, Lauren wasn’t even sure if Graham wanted her around anymore. Maybe he found her a burden.
Their conversation from the other night played in her head. Did she need to check in somewhere? She glanced at Matthew and felt a woeful ache. The idea of leaving him for a long period of time scared her. What if he forgot her? What if Gracie slipped into her place—would she?
But then those jagged, blank moments in Piper’s hallway flashed in her mind. If only her memory would come back. If only there was an explanation for the blood she’d found on her palm. She needed there to be more to that story.
Her thoughts clicked to what she and the others had talked about on the walking trail yesterday—looking into Piper’s life. Lauren was going to start with Jean, whomever she was. If only she’d had a better look at that email before she’d lost her nerve. And that still scared her, too—the fact that she’d been in Piper’s office, and now the police were searching for evidence. What if they found some of Lauren’s DNA on Piper’s keyboard? A fingerprint? An eyelash? A hair?
She trolled the Silver Swans Facebook page. The Piper news was the same—the story hadn’t been updated, though a woman named Hillary Tustin, who had a kid in the threes, said that she’d heard from a good source that Piper was still in a medicated coma. Lauren clicked on the link that listed every member of the group, searching for anyone named Jean. No one matched that name.
Next, she clicked over to the Silver Swans website portal, which, after she logged in, included a list of families in each grade and the email addresses they’d provided. No Jean there, either. The problem was, the list wasn’t complete—you didn’t have to provide your information if you didn’t want to. If Jean was so problematic, maybe she hadn’t.
Lauren climbed into her car. There were a few key places around Raisin Beach that moms frequented, and she wanted to look around. The park at the city center was one—when Lauren first moved to Raisin Beach, she took Matthew for walks down there, thinking it would be an easy place to make friends. But there was such an established squad of moms there already, and no one seemed interested in expanding their group. It also seemed like you had to sign up on some sort of reservation app if you wanted to score a decent park bench.
There was also B
rytley, the yoga studio, where Lauren had gone a few times before having Matthew. This, too, was fraught with pregnant mothers aggressively comparing bodies, bellies, yoga abilities, birth plans, and where they were sending their little ones to preschool in many years’ time. A Brytley prenatal yoga class was, admittedly, where Lauren first heard about Silver Swans. She remembered packing up her mat and trudging out of class, having spoken to no one, with at least a plan: she might not be accepted in Raisin Beach, but her kid would be. And yet when she drove past the studio in her car, she didn’t stop. What was her plan, to barge into the studio and ask if they knew someone named Jean? That wasn’t exactly keeping a low profile.
Still, it felt good to be out of the house and alone with her thoughts. It reminded her of the times before she’d had Matthew—before she’d been with Graham, even—when she used to drive around a lot, as it helped her think clearly. Her thought process in general had been so much clearer back then, a crystal stream instead of a muddy pond. Her brain had felt so freed up; she’d been able to work on multiple projects at once, juggle relationships, remember to buy her brother a birthday present, mentally compose a grocery list.
The light turned green, and she jerked forward across the intersection. Only then did she realize where she was—across from Silver Swans.
She slowed. Since it was the weekend, the parking lot was nearly empty. She glanced at the doorway to the offices and the loft; she’d expected to see police tape across it, but there was none. Maybe the cops had already gathered all their clues. Then something else caught her eye. Parked in the back of the lot was a large white van. Lauren squinted to get a closer look. The side of the van read Raisinette Productions.
The documentary?
Lauren wrenched the wheel and veered into the property before she lost her nerve. There was a woman leaning against the van, her head down, tapping on her cell phone. She had thick blond bangs and wore high-waisted pants and hipster sneakers. Lauren turned off the engine, got out, and started toward her.
“Hello?” Lauren said, and the woman looked up. She took a few steps closer. “I’m sorry, is this documentary still . . . happening?” It seemed like they’d put it on hold, all things considered.
The woman lowered her phone. “Hi, yeah, we’re just getting started. I’m just taking some shots around the campus today.”
“But . . . Piper.” It felt strange to say Piper’s name aloud.
“They wouldn’t let us into the hospital to see her.” The woman offered her hand. “I’m Kelsey. I don’t think we’ve met.”
“I’m . . . a mom,” Lauren said, shaking. Maybe it was better not to give her name. “My son is in the nursery. Why wouldn’t they let you see Piper?”
“HIPAA rules. Visitation for someone in her condition is family only. Or something.”
“She has a son.” Lauren felt a twinge of regret. She’d thought about Piper’s son over the past two days. The kid was twelve, thirteen? Were there people in Piper’s world looking after him? “Do you know if he’s okay?”
“I haven’t met him yet, but I am sure he is in good hands. Piper always seemed really organized.” Then a conflicted expression crossed Kelsey’s face. It seemed like she wanted to say more but thought better of it.
“The parents haven’t been told anything. There’s a lot of confusion,” Lauren tried.
“Yeah, I’m sure it’s really scary.” Kelsey smiled benignly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I—”
“I like your hat,” Lauren interrupted, suddenly noticing the logo on the brim of the ball cap Kelsey was wearing. It was a familiar logo from Lauren’s game-design days. “Taco Builder, right?”
Kelsey touched her hat, then smiled. “Oh God, yeah. I wear this just to shade my face from the sun. That used to be my favorite game. I won a contest, actually in college—highest score. I was paid five hundred bucks.”
Lauren crossed her arms. “What if I told you I helped develop that game?”
“No shit!” Kelsey grinned and appraised Lauren closer. “You design any others?”
Lauren named a few more, and when she got to Huzzah!, Kelsey really lit up. “I was crazy about that game for a while,” she said. “You should totally make more.” Then she added, “A woman in tech. I like it. Though I bet you stick out in this place.”
“Oh, you mean with the moms?” Lauren could tell she was getting somewhere. “I do. Most of the time. Especially at this school in particular. Everyone is so competitive.”
Kelsey’s eyes lit up. She looked back and forth conspiratorially, then leaned in closer. “The parents we’ve recorded so far? They’re so high-strung. I mean, come on, people. A lot of them are freaking out that their toddlers aren’t bilingual yet. Or that their kid’s going to eat a nonorganic yogurt squeezie at a friend’s house. There’s a major recession going on. I thought that would put things in perspective.”
“I know it,” Lauren murmured. “I see a lot of babies in Gucci around here. For some people—not all—it’s like the economic crisis doesn’t exist.” And then, casually, she added, “Did you tell the police that some of the parents seem . . . tricky? I mean, stressed moms and dads make for some crazy shit going down.”
Kelsey shrugged, becoming a little closed off again. “There isn’t really anything specific. And anyway, these are my opinions. I’m probably overexaggerating.”
“You’re not, believe me. Though . . . I’m surprised to hear you’ve begun recording. I thought you were just in the early stages.”
“We’ve started, a little,” Kelsey answered. “We sent an email around about it—parents who wanted to participate signed up.”
Lauren sank into one hip. She hadn’t gotten an email, though that certainly fit her theory that Piper thought she was nuts and didn’t want her to be part of the documentary. Perhaps Piper had deliberately left her name off the email chain.
She decided to share this theory with Kelsey, casting herself as the techie outsider who didn’t fit the Silver Swans mold. Kelsey looked annoyed. “That seems really unfair and discriminatory. But then, it is her project.”
“Did you get a sense Piper was doing that?” Lauren asked.
“Not really, no. But if she was deliberately leaving people off my list, I guess I wouldn’t know.”
“Did she ever bring up anyone named Jean?”
Kelsey thought for a moment. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Why?”
“Oh, just wondering,” Lauren said airily, though she was disappointed. This lead was going nowhere.
Kelsey picked at an invisible string on her jacket. “Before the incident, we kept scheduling an interview with Piper, but she’s brushed us off. Sure, we’ve had general meetings, but I know very little about her personal life, what she’s about, her parenting philosophy—I thought she’d be more involved. It’s so strange, considering . . .”
“Huh,” Lauren murmured. She recalled the way Piper had described the documentary at the breakfast earlier in the week. She’d made it sound like she’d hounded Hulu for weeks. Why would she do that if she didn’t want to be featured? Then Lauren rewound her thoughts, thinking over what Kelsey had just said. “Considering what?”
“Well, considering that, like I said, it’s Piper’s project.”
Lauren crossed her arms. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean she’s the executive producer.” The corners of Kelsey’s mouth tugged into a sneaky smile. “She became the executive producer after Hulu pulled out.”
“What?” Lauren blinked hard. “That is news to me! What happened?”
“I guess she rubbed the guy at Hulu the wrong way for some reason. But then Piper called us up and said, ‘Change of plans, we’re no longer working with them.’ She made it sound like a good thing, like there would be less cooks in the kitchen.”
Lauren’s mind was spinning. She glanced behind her at the empty parking spa
ces that would be filled with minivans and SUVs come Monday, feeling weirdly superior. “But no one has brought up someone named Jean to you?” she repeated. “Spelled J-E-A-N?”
“Not Jean,” Kelsey said, and then she paused. “But there is Jean.” She said it the French way, the male way.
“Who is he?” It had never occurred to Lauren that Jean might be a man.
“The exec with Hulu. The one who broke it off with her.”
Lauren’s eyes widened. We need to figure out what to do about Jean. Why? What did he know?
Then she realized something, and she looked at Kelsey in confusion. “Wait. How is the documentary moving forward without Hulu? I mean, doesn’t it cost a ton of money to make a movie?”
“It does,” Kelsey said. “But I guess Piper’s getting money from somewhere.”
Piper
September
It’s a joy to see your loft filled again. When you sent out the email to put this event in everyone’s calendars, you felt a tiny niggle of worry. Would they still come?
But they came. Cars fill the parking lot. Many you recognize: Teslas, BMWs, a gorgeous black Porsche 911 Carrera S. It doesn’t seem like the downturn hurt everyone.
And what you did, between the last time you saw them and now? They’ll never know. Or maybe, if they do know, they’ll let it slide.
You spin around the breakfast, shaking hands, stroking egos, letting people admire you. They comment on how put together you look, how thrilled they are to be back at Silver Swans, how their children missed you so. They ask about North, which is sweet of them. You tell them he’s doing well. You name a video game you bought for him and add that if you could do it all over again, you’d keep video games out of the house because they’re all kids want to do. They ask if he’s still in private school, and you say he is, and things are going well.