Chapter Eleven
ELEVEN
Elodie is silent on the drive to the school, scared to open her mouth lest something hysterical slips out.
She keeps one elbow on the door, her hand pressed to her lips, as Farrows slides past the window in a never-ending slideshow of quaint beauty.
This is a nice place and she has a nice husband and she lives in a nice—
house.
Even though Bren’s SUV glided into the driveway a mere ten minutes after he called, he didn’t come inside, instead insisting they sort out Jude and then deal with the house later.
The drive is giving Elodie time to thaw, to twist the jelly mess of her unspooling intestines back down her throat and swallow her own unhinged outburst. An explanation exists about the state of the walls.
It’s an old house, and that was some sort of mold.
That has to be it. She will confront Bren when they get home, and they’ll come up with a plan to fix it like anyone would when neck-deep in renovations.
She is not losing her mind.
“You okay? I’m sure this is nothing.” Bren sounds distracted even as the words leave his mouth.
Her response is a slim smile, but her lips are bloodless from the effort of sealing them closed. She doesn’t ask why the school called him, not her, because the logical explanation is that his details must be the only ones on Jude’s forms and she doesn’t want to think about why he took hers off.
The first-grade classroom holds a plastic, artificial cheerfulness that always puts Elodie on edge.
It feels too open, too bright. The walls are washed in baby blue, colorful alphabet mats sit on the floor, tiny desks are pushed together in groups to promote teamwork and collaboration.
Cabinets filled with plastic boxes of books and art supplies line the wall, and flurries of rainbow construction paper still litter the ground like confetti, a remnant of the children’s last activity before school let out.
The classroom is empty now, except for Ms. Heather tapping away at her computer behind her huge desk in the corner.
An electric anxiety pulses inside Elodie’s chest the moment she steps into the room. Where is my son? Where did they take my son—
Bren gives her hand a little squeeze and she remembers to breathe, to unclench her jaw, to keep her expression neutral as Ms. Heather waves them over.
“Hey,” Bren says. “Hope everything is all right. The message we got from the office was sort of vague.”
“Oh, no need for alarm,” Ms. Heather says brightly. “But I am grateful you both came and we can have a fruitful discussion. I’ve got some chairs— Wait, I have adult-size chairs. I won’t make you sit in the miniature ones.”
“Where’s Jude?” Elodie thinks she sounds pleasant, but her smile feels stabbed through with needles.
“My aide has taken him down to the playground,” she says. “He seemed excited to have the swings to himself.” She shuffles two chairs next to her desk for them.
It shouldn’t be an intimidating moment, not in a room brimming with color in front of a woman wearing a polka-dot cardigan and ladybug earrings and glasses, but Elodie can’t shake the agitation scraping sharp fingernails along the underside of her skin.
Maybe Jude has done something wrong, struck a child or bit someone or tried to run away.
She can smooth this over; she’s used to crafting explanations.
Ms. Heather’s expression is gentle but concerned as she sits back down behind her desk.
“So, what’s this about?” Bren slings his arm around the back of Elodie’s chair, casual and collected, his suit jacket abandoned but the crisp sleeves of his white shirt rolled to show vein-corded forearms. He smells of paperwork and coffee and looks every bit the suave, confident professional who knows how to handle situations like this.
Elodie just wants to snatch Jude up and run.
“I want to have a factual conversation about Jude’s progress in my class,” Ms. Heather says. “I’ve discussed my concerns with both our principal and counselor, but I asked to have a one-on-one chat with you first before we bring this to a larger meeting.”
“Did he do something?” Elodie’s voice is tight.
“It’s more that he isn’t thriving.” Ms. Heather adjusts her ladybug glasses carefully. “Jude seems more than a few paces behind everyone else his age. There’s nothing wrong with children who need extra help, but I can’t give Jude the necessary accommodations without, well, an assessment.”
“Assessment?” Bren’s smile is confused. “Of, like, his reading?”
“Assessed by a psychologist about his social and cognitive development,” Ms. Heather corrects.
Panic has set in and Elodie starts to rise, but Bren puts a hand on her knee. “Can you just tell us exactly what he’s done?”
“It isn’t about what he’s done, Mr. January.
No one is in trouble here.” Ms. Heather laces her fingers together on her desk.
“My main concern is that Jude doesn’t keep up in class.
He seems unable to grasp the lessons, and he is more likely to do crayon scribbles over his worksheets, which…
” She hesitates. “Let’s just say his behaviors come across as very young at times.
You know he has frequent accidents in school still. ”
Bren casts a quick look at Elodie, and her jaw tightens. It didn’t seem a big deal that he’s often sent home with a sealed bag of soiled pants to be washed, his emergency replacement clothes in use when she picks him up.
“You ask us to supply extra clothes,” Elodie says.
“We do expect it occasionally at this age, but this happens several times a week for Jude. He gets very focused on a task or game, particularly during recess, and he doesn’t seem able to anticipate his bodily needs until the situation is beyond his control.
I’ve noticed this with his emotions as well.
There have been more than a few times he’s been frustrated and struck out at my aide or one of his classmates. We do take hitting very seriously.”
“He’s a child,” Elodie says. “Children can’t regulate their emotions. And he’s had huge upheavals this year, what with moving countries.”
Ms. Heather nods in this kind way that feels performative.
“I understand that, Mrs. January. But he’s been in my class for several months now, and things haven’t improved.
He’s also been quite fragile this week and in tears several times before pickup.
He keeps saying ‘It’s scary,’ and we’re not sure what he’s referring to.
I wondered if a big change might have happened recently at home. ”
Elodie’s skull echoes with alarm bells, and all she can think of are Jude’s solemn eyes watching her melt down on the kitchen floor while news of her parents’ suicides burned across her phone screen, or his inconsolable screaming when she forced him to eat a spoonful of glass.
Or how he ran to her in panic when the house tried to spear her with a light fixture.
I heard a scary thing in the walls. If people start asking questions, asking him to talk—they’ll take him away from her.
She won’t survive that, and neither will he, both of them still bound by a bloody umbilical cord that was never truly severed.
They are still one. He is still fused to her, his heart cut from hers, his lungs only inflating because she breathes into them.
She must play this carefully.
But her mouth has barely opened before Bren leans back in his chair and says with unbothered factuality, “Actually, yeah. He did get a bit of a shock recently.”
The urge to lunge over and cover his mouth surges through Elodie’s chest. She digs fingernails into his thigh, but he doesn’t notice.
“Elodie’s pregnant,” Bren says, his smile wide and proud, and it takes a full minute for the words to sink in over the static roaring in her ears. “She only just told Jude.”
Ms. Heather smiles. “Oh, congratulations. That’s lovely. I imagine Jude is very close with his mother and this feels like another upheaval in his life.”
“He’ll get used to it,” Bren says. “But yeah, I’m guessing he’s acting out because of this. We’ll talk to him.”
Elodie is so flooded with relief she feels dizzy. Of course Bren would think it’s about the baby. That’s all he ever thinks about.
“While that explains this week, it doesn’t address the other behaviors.” Ms. Heather flicks a glance from Bren to Elodie, concern furrowing her brow. “He’s also constantly overwhelmed in my class and has his hands over his ears. This speaks of sensory overload to me.”
Elodie’s heart still beats too fast, but she has her voice under control. “He’s just shy.”
This time, Ms. Heather’s smile is thin. “Like I said, I can accommodate Jude. But I need to know what we’re working with, and for that, he needs an assessment and possibly an IEP. For now, though, I’d suggest he takes a week off from school.”
“But…” Elodie stares. “No. That’s not fair?”
“I think we all want what’s best for Jude.
” Ms. Heather adjusts her glasses again, and Elodie is struck with annoyance at this fresh-faced, inexperienced woman.
What would she know about children, about Jude?
“I also have to mention,” she goes on, tentative, “I am concerned about the amount of bruises I see on him.”
Elodie’s throat feels full of ice. What is she meant to say? He has extreme meltdowns where he beats himself against the floors. “I do not hit my son, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“We have a specific protocol to have a chat with CPS if—” Ms. Heather begins.
“All right, hold up.” An annoyed hardness settles on Bren’s face. “You just finished saying Jude has behavioral issues, and now you’re accusing us of beating him?”
“I’m not accusing—”
“Don’t try that.” Bren gives her a withering once-over. “Unless you want to head into a defamation lawsuit.”
This garners the hoped-for reaction—Ms. Heather looks nervous, repeating something about school policy and not her personal views, but Bren is furious. Elodie has never been so thrilled.