Wherever She Goes(3)

“Can you do that, Mama?” her son asks.

Now it’s her turn to laugh, relaxing as she squeezes his shoulder. “I could when I was your age. Not since then, though. I was definitely not a cheerleader.”

She passes me a smile, and there’s a spark of connection as we both look over at a gaggle of suburban mommies, as if to say they were probably cheerleaders, but not us. Never us.

She isn’t much older than I first thought. Maybe twenty-three. Slender with a blond ponytail and no makeup except for thick black eyeliner. Is that eyeliner a remnant of another life? She wears long sleeves, but one is pushed up, showing what looks like the ghosts of old track marks. Dark circles underscore her eyes, and there’s a strained, distant look in them, as if she’s exhausted by the stresses of what might be single motherhood, given the lack of a wedding band.

“You do car-wheel,” Charlotte says to the woman. “Mommy show.”

The woman smiles. “Not me, hon. My body doesn’t do that anymore.”

“Can I try?” her son asks.

“I show!” Charlotte says.

We stand and watch Charlotte try to instruct the boy in a proper cartwheel while I give pointers. I tread a fine line here. I don’t want to seem like the new girl at school, puppy-eager for attention, even if that’s how I feel. I glance at the other woman, and then I look at the poised suburban mommies on the benches, and it doesn’t matter if I’d been one of them six months ago. I’m not anymore and, really, I never was, even when I wore the title.

I see this young woman, with her old needle scars and her worn jeans and her shabby sneakers and the way her face glows every time her gaze lights on her son, and she’s the mother I connect to.

Still I am careful. Years of new-kid-in-class life has taught me how to tread this line. Snatches of conversation mixed with quips and laughs as I show her son how to do a cartwheel.

I’m holding up his legs when her phone rings. She looks down at the screen and blanches. Then she murmurs, “Sorry, I have to get this.”

She steps away to take the call. I can’t tell what she’s saying—she isn’t speaking English—but her tone tells me enough, rising from anger to alarm.

She keeps moving away, lowering her voice while keeping her gaze on her son.

Finally I bend in front of the boy and say, “We should go, so your mom can finish her call. Tell her we said goodbye. It was very nice meeting you, and I hope to see you both again.”

When I extend a hand, his thin face lights up in a smile. He shakes my hand vigorously, with a mature “Nice meeting you, too.”

Charlotte shakes his hand as she giggles a goodbye. Then we quickly gather our things and leave.





Chapter Three





Two days later, I’m taking my usual lunchtime jog in the park where I played with Charlotte on Sunday. After a couple of laps, I slow near the playground and circle to a forlorn bench, too far from the equipment to be of any use to watchful parents.

I put up my leg and begin stretching. As I do, I tug out my earbuds so I can listen to three mothers sitting nearby.

Eavesdrop. Spy. Learn.

As I stretch, a middle-aged jogger pulls over to do the same, sharing my bench. I keep my attention on the lesson unfolding ahead.

I contemplate the trio of moms. They don’t seem to be watching their children at all, engrossed as they are in the scandal of another parent who let her child play with an iPad. Is that a problem? I have several educational apps on my phone, and Charlotte and I play them together. I thought that was a good thing, but— A child shrieks. I wheel to see two kids fighting over the slide. As I peer around for the parents, the kids work it out on their own, and I suppose that’s the way to handle it—watch and see if they can resolve it before interfering.

The war for the slide ends, but it calls my attention to a boy swinging by himself. It looks like the boy from Sunday, the one we’d shown how to do cartwheels. I squint. Yes, that’s definitely him. His mom is nowhere in sight.

The boy jumps off the swing and starts gazing around. Then he heads for the path. Leaving the safety of the playground. I look around anxiously, hoping Mom will notice.

“You’re doing your quadriceps stretches wrong.”

I jump and glance over to see the middle-aged guy who took up stretching at my bench.

“You want to do them like this,” he says, and proceeds to demonstrate . . . with a hamstring stretch.

I know better than to point out his mistake, so I murmur a thank-you and glance back at the boy.

He’s still walking. Getting farther from the equipment, with no sign of anyone giving chase. So I do.

I stay at a slow jog, no panic, just keeping an eye on the child. Mom will notice. Mom will come after him, and she doesn’t need me making her feel like she’s failed her parental duties. So I stay back, subtly watchful.

“You hit the ground a little hard.”

The middle-aged guy jogs up beside me.

“You have really good form,” he says, “but you’re hitting the ground too hard. You’ll injure your knees. I’ve seen you before—we run at about the same time—and I thought I should mention it.”

Don’t get distracted. Remember the boy.

I turn my attention back. The child’s gone.

Damn it, no. Where—