.
“Ellie has always had a great imagination,” I say.
“She’s so sensitive and there’s so much to deal with—much too much for a little girl, I’m afraid. She needs help,” Rhoda said.
“I’ll get her help.”
“It’s … become something of a problem for us.”
“What?”
“Parents have started complaining,” Rhoda says.
“Wait. The same parents who’d call John if they needed anything? A snack, a coach, a lifeguard, a handyman, a balloon blower-upper? Those parents?”
“There’s no need to get hostile,” Rhoda said, smiling. Her teeth look yellow against her purple skin. I focus on the happy face button attached to her black cape at the neck. I want to pierce her with it. “We feel that a change would do Ellie good.”
“A change.”
“I’ve got a list of schools here, all very reputable institutions,” Rhoda said, handing me a sheet of paper. “I think she’ll be quite happy at any of them.”
“You’re kicking my daughter out of Bunny Hill?”
“We don’t like to label this kind of action,” Rhoda says. “We don’t want to ruin Ellie’s chances of getting into a good college.”
“Oh my God,” I say.
“We’re not going to put this down in her permanent record, no worries.”
“You’re taking her away from her friends. Away from her teachers.”
“I knew you would understand—”
“What about the pre-learning track?” I say. “Ellie already knows her alphabet, she can write her name. She knows her numbers—”
“She’ll do just fine,” Rhoda is saying. The happy face pin is mockingme as she moves toward the door. I see photographs of Rhoda with her husband, with her grandchildren, with all the Bunny Hill kids who aren’t on the Dead Daddy Track.
I hate them all.
“What about my tuition?” I said. “We paid through the end of the year.”
“Nonrefundable. Check your contract. That’s really a shame,” she said, distracted, looking for something on her desk. “You take good care, now. Were my keys just here a minute ago?”
“Keys,” I said, turning back. Suddenly, there’s another woman standing next to the stick broom, shaking her head. She’s wearing a housecoat, holding a wooden spoon, her arms crossed at her ample chest. Her brow is shiny with sweat of labor.
“A shand-eh, Rhoda-leh,” this ghostly figure says, shaking her head. “A shand-eh.”
“Rhoda,” I say to her purple face, her yellow teeth.
“Yes?”
“A shand-eh, Rhoda-leh,” I said, mimicking the lady in the corner, who’s there, tired as the day she passed. I take a guess. “Your grandmother is very disappointed.”
Even under the purple makeup, I saw Rhoda turn white.
“Ellie!” I say. She’s not outside the office. “Ellie!” Where is she? I want to leave this place as quickly as possible. I run past her cubby, through her classroom, where her drawings are pasted on the wall, and find her twirling in the sandbox for the last time. I see that she’s grown so much, just in a month. Time is fluid. Time spills through my fingers. The world keeps spinning, farther from John having stood here, at this spot. At the tree he planted there. At the sandbox he filled. Tulle flies up in the air. Ellie’s laughing. The world is cruel beyond measure. Already, at three, she’s learned this. Already, she’s coping better than I am.
* * *
“Ellie’s been kicked out of Bunny Hill,” I announce to the Grief Team while attempting to defrost a month-old Chloe vegan meal. “But that’s not the bad part.”
“What?” Chloe asks. “That’s completely unacceptable.” She’s brought her daughter Lorraine and a sniffing, barking, snarling pack of rescue dogs to the house. Spice is going crazy. Lorraine is on all fours, barking.
“Why is Lorraine barking?” Jay asks. “Should we fetch her a water bowl?”
“She wants attention,” Chloe said. “I posted about it on my blog this morning. You wouldn’t believe the number of responses I got. At least
“Ellie has always had a great imagination,” I say.
“She’s so sensitive and there’s so much to deal with—much too much for a little girl, I’m afraid. She needs help,” Rhoda said.
“I’ll get her help.”
“It’s … become something of a problem for us.”
“What?”
“Parents have started complaining,” Rhoda says.
“Wait. The same parents who’d call John if they needed anything? A snack, a coach, a lifeguard, a handyman, a balloon blower-upper? Those parents?”
“There’s no need to get hostile,” Rhoda said, smiling. Her teeth look yellow against her purple skin. I focus on the happy face button attached to her black cape at the neck. I want to pierce her with it. “We feel that a change would do Ellie good.”
“A change.”
“I’ve got a list of schools here, all very reputable institutions,” Rhoda said, handing me a sheet of paper. “I think she’ll be quite happy at any of them.”
“You’re kicking my daughter out of Bunny Hill?”
“We don’t like to label this kind of action,” Rhoda says. “We don’t want to ruin Ellie’s chances of getting into a good college.”
“Oh my God,” I say.
“We’re not going to put this down in her permanent record, no worries.”
“You’re taking her away from her friends. Away from her teachers.”
“I knew you would understand—”
“What about the pre-learning track?” I say. “Ellie already knows her alphabet, she can write her name. She knows her numbers—”
“She’ll do just fine,” Rhoda is saying. The happy face pin is mockingme as she moves toward the door. I see photographs of Rhoda with her husband, with her grandchildren, with all the Bunny Hill kids who aren’t on the Dead Daddy Track.
I hate them all.
“What about my tuition?” I said. “We paid through the end of the year.”
“Nonrefundable. Check your contract. That’s really a shame,” she said, distracted, looking for something on her desk. “You take good care, now. Were my keys just here a minute ago?”
“Keys,” I said, turning back. Suddenly, there’s another woman standing next to the stick broom, shaking her head. She’s wearing a housecoat, holding a wooden spoon, her arms crossed at her ample chest. Her brow is shiny with sweat of labor.
“A shand-eh, Rhoda-leh,” this ghostly figure says, shaking her head. “A shand-eh.”
“Rhoda,” I say to her purple face, her yellow teeth.
“Yes?”
“A shand-eh, Rhoda-leh,” I said, mimicking the lady in the corner, who’s there, tired as the day she passed. I take a guess. “Your grandmother is very disappointed.”
Even under the purple makeup, I saw Rhoda turn white.
“Ellie!” I say. She’s not outside the office. “Ellie!” Where is she? I want to leave this place as quickly as possible. I run past her cubby, through her classroom, where her drawings are pasted on the wall, and find her twirling in the sandbox for the last time. I see that she’s grown so much, just in a month. Time is fluid. Time spills through my fingers. The world keeps spinning, farther from John having stood here, at this spot. At the tree he planted there. At the sandbox he filled. Tulle flies up in the air. Ellie’s laughing. The world is cruel beyond measure. Already, at three, she’s learned this. Already, she’s coping better than I am.
* * *
“Ellie’s been kicked out of Bunny Hill,” I announce to the Grief Team while attempting to defrost a month-old Chloe vegan meal. “But that’s not the bad part.”
“What?” Chloe asks. “That’s completely unacceptable.” She’s brought her daughter Lorraine and a sniffing, barking, snarling pack of rescue dogs to the house. Spice is going crazy. Lorraine is on all fours, barking.
“Why is Lorraine barking?” Jay asks. “Should we fetch her a water bowl?”
“She wants attention,” Chloe said. “I posted about it on my blog this morning. You wouldn’t believe the number of responses I got. At least
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