“You made a mistake. He was the worst person in the world. Or at least in our town.”
“The thing was, I really clicked with him. Like I never had with anyone else. I went on a few dates after we broke up, but I never felt like that with any of them, so I gave up. Pathetic, right?”
“Nope. Just human.” I poked my head into the salon to make sure neither of us had a client waiting, and then poured us each a cup of the super fancy coffee the salon’s owner, Teresa, had delivered every Friday. “So,” I said, “why are you ready to get back out there?”
Heather thought for a moment. “I think it was visiting Micki that did it. You had no idea she was out there in the world, but there she was, so nice and so willing to meet you. It got me thinking—maybe there is someone out there who I’m supposed to meet.”
“I think there is absolutely someone out there for you.”
She gulped down the coffee, which I’m sure was scalding. “I’m scared, though. Like really, really scared of the process. When I get nervous, my stomach acts up. What if I meet someone and throw up all over him before we even start getting to know each other? What if he’s a narcissist or worse? What if he’s married?” She sunk into her dejection. “This is a bad idea. I’m not opposed to risk taking, but this seems more like running headlong into speeding traffic.”
“To me it seems more like you want to keep punishing yourself for a mistake you made years ago.”
Heather gave me a dirty look while I slid the laptop away from her and revved it up. “I can’t totally hate you if you’re right,” she said. “That’s so unfair.”
“The only people who think life is fair are babies and priests.” I started typing. “I have an idea. Why don’t I sign up with you? We can sift through these singles together. We can both analyze profiles for mama’s boys, narcissists, and potential psychopaths.”
Heather brightened. “You would do that? Seriously? Are you sure? I mean . . . Matt.”
“We’re separated,” I said, typing some more. “On our way to divorce. And who says I need to find another relationship right away? I can use this as practice for when I’m really looking.” I ignored the small voice telling me what I was doing was some passive-aggressive way to hurt Matt for his interest in Cassie, not simply doing something nice for Heather.
“It would be awesome to do this together,” she said. “Thank you. You’re a good friend, Ally.”
“Uh-huh.” I finished and turned the laptop around so she could see.
Ally, 38
Status: single and spectacular
Occupation: hairstylist to the (local) stars
Interests: alternative medicine, solving puzzles, taking leaps into the unknown
Looking for: If you have no expectations, I’m your girl!
Heather laughed. “Seriously?”
“Why not? Let’s see who crawls out of the woodwork.”
“I guess anyone could be waiting,” Heather said, with unmistakable notes of awe and terror in her voice. “Anyone at all.”
Teresa poked her head in the back room to announce that Heather had a client. She passed the laptop off to me and scurried into the front of the salon.
It was still open to Cupidworks. I couldn’t help myself. I searched until I found:
Matt, 40
Status: It’s complicated. Unfortunately.
Occupation: political science teacher/nerd/NPR addict
Interests: being a good dad and staying grounded in this crazy world!
Looking for: I’d prefer to focus on what I’m NOT looking for—stress, drama, and angst!
Matt looked good in his photo. It must have been a holiday or family event—he was wearing a bright-blue polo shirt, and he’d tamed his hair. He held his arm in an odd position, and it took me a second to realize why.
I’d been cut out of the picture.
CHAPTER 8
I was finishing up an elderly woman’s perm (couldn’t talk her out of it) when my phone squawked the refrain of Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick in the Wall.”
“Kylie’s school!” I said, tossing a curler into a bin. “Gotta take this!”
Heart pounding, I snatched up my cell. “What’s wrong?”
“Mrs. Anderson?”
I paused for a second. “Yes?”
“This is Principal Dunning.”
“Yes?”
“This call is concerning Kylie.”
No shit, I almost said, but my terror shoved sarcasm to the side. “Is she okay?”
“Yes. She’s fine.” He sighed. “There’s been an incident, though, and I wonder if it would be possible for you to meet with me at two thirty today? Right before the end of the school day? Kylie said you work in town.”
“She’s okay?”
“As I said, yes. She’s fine.”
“I’m sorry. I just needed to hear you say it again.” I took a breath, hoping to bring my blood pressure back to a normal range. “Can you tell me what this is about?”
“I’d rather address this in person.”
Of course he would. “Okay, I’ll be there.”
When Kylie was four, Matt won the Teacher MVP of the Year Award at his school. Along with presenting him with an impressively large trophy, the school had paid for us to attend a Chicago Cubs game as VIPs. Our seats were right along the first-base line, close enough to the field to smell the players’ sweat. The day was sunny and warm, the sky an electric blue over the friendly confines. Though she was on sensory overload, Kylie loved everything about being at the ballpark, and we loved watching her enjoy it. As the game approached the seventh inning, someone brought us free refreshments—an armload of hot dogs, chips, drinks, and . . . peanuts. Matt deftly moved them to the side before Kylie noticed the cheerfully striped bag. She’d gotten hives from eating peanuts the year before, and we avoided them as a precaution.
As the top of the inning came to a close, we stood for the seventh-inning stretch, when a local celebrity takes the mic from the announcers to belt out “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” to a park full of fans more than willing to sing along. We joined them, Kylie between us, Matt and I singing at the top of our lungs, laughing, happy to be there with each other and our baby, happy in our city, happy to be alive.
I didn’t notice anything amiss when we retook our seats. The game resumed. It was close, the Cubs barely holding a lead against the Braves, a real nail-biter. Matt and I leaned forward, trying to give our boys a little mojo.
“Mommy,” Kylie said, pulling at my shorts. “My tummy hurts.”
I moved her onto my lap, figuring she’d stuffed her face with too many hot dogs. “You’ll be okay,” I assured her.
She fidgeted, so much so that I put her back in her seat. “Do you have to go potty?”
Kylie shook her head, and then brought her hands to her mouth, gripped her tongue, and started tugging.
“That’s gross, sweetie,” I said, gently drawing her small hands away. “You’ll get germs.”
She stilled for a few minutes.
And then projectile vomited on the retaining wall protecting the field.
“Shit!” Matt was on his feet, scrambling for napkins.
I knelt next to Kylie, placed a hand on her back, and started making circles. “It’s okay,” I murmured. “It’s okay.”
Unhappy with this turn of events, the people sitting next to us started to make some noise.
My daughter didn’t make a sound. She wasn’t crying.
Why wasn’t she crying?
I lifted her face. Red hives streaked her cheeks. Her sweet lips were distorted, puffy, and swollen. Her eyes were round with fear. “Tight,” she squeaked, clawing at her throat. “Hurts.”
Matt was dumping water on the mess.
“Help!” The word came out strangled, my voice choked by adrenaline. Frantic, I grabbed Matt’s leg. “Matt! She’s having some kind of attack! Get help!”
Matt took one look at Kylie and leaped over the two people sitting next to us, h
is figure disappearing as he sprinted for an usher.
I’d never felt so helpless as I did in that moment. My heart jumped against my ribs. My limbs jerked with the need to physically do something to save my daughter.
Someone a few rows back yelled for me to sit my ass down.
I sank into my seat, cradling Kylie on my lap. She blinked up at me, pleading for help with her eyes. A blueish tint colored her lips. I could feel the energy she was exerting to simply breathe. The swelling worsened, her features forming a grotesque mask.
“Oh God!” I cried. “Please help my daughter! Please! Oh, please!” I didn’t know who I was asking. I simply didn’t know what else to do. Every cell in my body sounded the alarm—emergency!
“Help’s coming, hon,” a woman’s voice said in my ear. “They’ve got doctors here. Don’t you worry.” Someone else slipped a jacket over our shoulders.
I saw Matt returning, and I burst into tears. Three men followed close behind, dressed in fire-engine-red shirts, one carrying a large case I fervently hoped contained something that would keep my girl alive.
Because at that moment, I knew where my baby was, on the thin edge between life and death.
They took her from me. Gave her an injection of something I’d never really heard of before—epinephrine.
I don’t remember the trip to the ER. I know I was in the ambulance. I know they let me hold Kylie’s hand.
We learned a lot that day. About peanut allergies and anaphylaxis. About carrying an EpiPen with us, always. About how fast a child can slip something in her mouth without anyone noticing.
We learned that being careful wasn’t enough. We had to figure out a way to be more than careful. And even then . . .
Careful only works when life is predictable.
And we all know how often that happens.
Matt was already waiting outside the principal’s office when I arrived at Kylie’s school.
“Do you know what this is about?” he said the moment I walked up to him. I knew that look—irritation flaring to disguise worry.
“He wouldn’t tell me, but the fact that he called both of us here isn’t a good sign,” I said, heart sinking. “But if she’d had a reaction, they would have told us.”
“It’s in her plan,” Matt agreed. “We’d be informed right away.”
“It’s two thirty-four,” I said, fidgeting. “I’ll give him until two forty, and then I’m going in.”
Matt smiled faintly. “Calm down, tigress.”
“Why do people say ‘calm down’ when someone is obviously not capable of calming?”
“What am I supposed to say? Go ahead and lose your shit?”
“How about ‘redirect your energy’?”
Matt smirked. “Is that the kind of advice Dr. Indigo rakes in the big bucks to dispense?”
Before I could come up with a retort, the principal’s office door flew open, and the man himself strode out. He’d been the principal for a little under a year, so I’d only met him once before, and not for anything more than a handshake and a quick chat about Kylie’s school allergy plan. He was a robust man, tall and big-bellied, and when he walked up to us, he immediately did what I’d seen countless large men do in Matt’s presence—size him up to see who was taller.
Matt won by an inch.
I was glad, for my gut was telling me that we’d need a leg up.
“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. I’m sure you’re curious, so please, come in,” he said, ushering us into an office that could double as a shoebox. We shuffled around to find space and, once seated, stared at each other for a moment. Principal Dunning seemed to be measuring what he had to say, looking for the lightest comment to lead with.
“Why are we here?” I said, impatience getting the best of me. “You said Kylie was fine, but there had been some kind of incident.”
Principal Dunning’s smile was brittle. “Yes, at lunchtime. In the cafeteria.”
My heart seized. “What happened?”
Principal Dunning sighed. “Another child at Kylie’s lunch table was teasing her. She questioned the legitimacy of Kylie’s food allergy. This girl had a peanut butter cup in her lunch bag and offered it to Kylie, as a test.”
“Kylie would never have eaten it,” I said, struggling to contain my anger. “She knows better.”
“Kylie didn’t accept,” Principal Dunning continued. “But when she refused, the other child unwrapped the candy and began to rub it on the table, making a circle around Kylie’s things. At that point, Kylie ran to a lunch aide, who removed your daughter from the room.”
“There is so much wrong with this,” Matt said. “So much.”
“The staff has washed down the area where Kylie was sitting. I’ve also talked to the parents of the other girl,” Principal Dunning said, smiling as if that took care of the issue. “It won’t happen again.”
“You’re damn right it won’t,” Matt said.
“In the past, I’ve asked for an allergy table during the lunch hour,” I said, struggling to hold my temper. “I was denied. I don’t see how you can say no after what’s happened.”
Principal Dunning ran a hand over his ruddy face. “I don’t think isolation is the answer.”
I curled my hands over the edge of his desk so I wouldn’t clench my fists. “Kylie has friends who will sit with her. Friends whose parents are very careful about what they pack in their kids’ lunches. It’s not like she’ll be sitting there alone.”
“Our school is all-inclusive,” Principal Dunning said. “I feel strongly about this. If some children are allowed to sit at what appears to be a special table . . . well, I think you can see my problem.”
“I think a possible lawsuit is a much bigger problem,” Matt muttered.
“These things tend to work themselves out,” Principal Dunning said, trying to sound sage. “This girl and Kylie might be best of friends in a few weeks.”
Matt stood to his full height. “I don’t want that child anywhere near my daughter. Do you hear me? This situation could have easily become tragic. If you can’t see that, then I need to carefully consider whether my daughter’s needs are being met by this school.”
Principal Dunning also stood, and extended his hand to Matt. “I’m sorry you feel that way. I take great pride in how our district serves our students’ needs.”
Reluctantly, Matt grabbed the principal’s hand and shook it. I got a tight smile and a “Thank you for taking the time to come in.” The bell rang, signaling the end of the day. We were dismissed.
Kylie looked confused for a moment when she spotted Matt and me waiting for her after school, but a huge grin overtook her face as soon as she processed what she was seeing, and she ran to hug us both.
“We heard about what happened at lunch,” I said, hating to cut into her happiness with reality. “Are you okay?”
Kylie frowned. “That’s why you’re both here?”
“Principal Dunning called us,” Matt said. He shot me a look. “He was concerned.”
“It wasn’t a big deal!” Kylie started walking toward the parking lot, and we scurried after her. “Why does everyone have to make this into such a thing? I’m fine. Totally, totally fine!” She stopped at the start of a long row of cars. “Who am I going home with? Which car should I be looking for?” Kylie’s voice cracked, just before the tears started to flow. “I just want to go home. I don’t care to which one.”
Matt and I both reached for her at the same time, and we ended up locked in a semiawkward group hug, my soon-to-be ex and I bent over our little girl, trying to shelter her from the world.
CHAPTER 9
When your kid gets sick frequently, there is a built-in assumption that plans rarely work out. I hadn’t fully invested in the idea of seeing the Patels again, because part of me expected Kylie to wake up with a sore throat or a headache or aching joints. Instead, she bounced onto my bed like a Super Ball of energy, like it was Christmas morning and she’d heard Santa rustling in the l
iving room.
She half jumped on my head, but I would never, ever tell this girl to tone it down, especially with the week she’d had.
“Morning, sunshine,” I mumbled. “What’s up with you?”
“Fashion! What am I wearing to the bridal show?” she asked, cheeks flushed with what I hoped was just excitement.
“Uhhhh.” I hadn’t given much thought to the fashion part of this whole thing. “How about the dress you wore for picture day?”
Kylie scrunched her nose. “Lola said stripes are totally not what people are wearing.”
“Lola, huh?”
She blushed. “Some of the other girls said the same thing. Stripes are lame. Can’t I wear something else?”
I’d spent fifty bucks on that dress, and I hadn’t done laundry all week. The striped dress was going to have to work. Lola could stick it. “What if we paired it with some gray tights?”
“Maybe,” Kylie said, using the same tone I did when I didn’t want to say no at the moment, but planned to later. “I thought . . . can I get one of those dresses like Radha was wearing?”
“You want a sari?”
“Well . . . yeah. I thought maybe we could find one at Target this morning. If they don’t cost a bunch of money.”
“It’s not the money, babe.” I thought for a moment. How do you explain something like cultural appropriation to a ten-year-old? Did I even need to? I wasn’t sure if there was anything wrong with her desire. Or Radha’s, for that matter. Maybe I should ask Sandeep directly?
“Saris are special dresses that women wear in India. Sadly, I don’t think Target carries them.”
“Maybe your friend will make one for me.”
“We’ll see.”
She knew what we’ll see meant. It was right next door to maybe.
Still, she scooched next to me and lay her head on my shoulder. “Does Radha get to wear one because she’s going to be Sandeep’s daughter?”
“I think Radha chooses to wear one because she wants to celebrate Sandeep’s heritage.”
“But she told me that if she gets adopted, then she’ll be Indian. Then she can wear a sari anytime she wants, and it will be okay, right?”
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