on the pad from her desk. “We’ll try a low dose of Paxil for now. It’s a serotonin reuptake inhibitor.”
I knew what that was, and I didn’t like the sound of it. “You think she’s depressed?”
“No. No, I don’t. I think Freddie worries more than some children her age. And the worry means her head is full, and a full head means she has trouble paying attention. We’re going to target the worry, not the attention-paying, okay?” Dr. Nguyen looked at her watch, and I knew it was time to go.
Now, in the car, I turn to Malcolm. “What if she just needs a higher dose of meds? Can we try that? Can’t you get some sort of—I don’t know—stay or whatever you call it? Get her retested next month.” Even as I said the words, I knew this scheme would never work. It didn’t matter whether Malcolm agreed or not. If Freddie felt the pressure of another testing day in four weeks’ time, who knows what kind of meltdown would ensue? Also, I hate the desperation in my voice. The begging. “Never mind.”
Besides, I want to steer the conversation away from tests before another fight happens. Freddie’s been holding her head above water, barely, but always able to keep her Q score hovering around 8.3. Of course, Malcolm doesn’t know about the hours I spend with her at my parents’ house before the exams, doesn’t know about the extra dose of selective serotonin reuptake-whatevers I dose Freddie with. It’s better for all of us if the word “test” is absent from our conversations.
I come back to my grandmother’s question. “What if I asked for a transfer?”
Malcolm’s knuckles relax somewhat as he turns the car into our driveway. My tone must have done it; he must think all the anger has drained out of me because he’s doing that thing with his palm flat on the steering wheel. This is Relaxed Malcolm. Not someone I see much of. It makes me wonder how much he and Freddie have in common.
“Transfer where? You don’t like the Davenport School anymore?” He kills the engine and gets out, not bothering to come around to the side door. “There’s another silver school, but it’s farther away. It would double your commute.”
“I was thinking about one of the green schools. Or even a state school.” I untangle Freddie’s coat from the seat belt and let her run off by herself to the back door.
Malcolm only stares at me.
“Well?”
“Out of the question, Elena.”
“Why?”
“For one thing, Anne and I need you at home. Which is the only reason I’m letting you off the hook for that scene you pulled earlier.” He touches a finger to his face casually, as if I’d thwacked him with a kid glove instead of laying on my left hook. “And then there’s the other issue.”
I already know what the other issue is. The Other Issue, if I say the words the way Malcolm pronounces them. The Other Issue is that if I left, I’d be in the same position as Moira Campbell down the street. Malcolm’s protected from the gray women with the clipboards, the ones who troll neighborhoods in search of “unfit” families. He pulls enough in annually that he’ll be able to keep custody of Anne and Freddie. I don’t.
As usual, justice boils down to how high you can keep your Q rating.
As usual, your Q depends on how quickly you’ve climbed aboard the commonsense train.
TWENTY-ONE
Instead of sharing Malcolm’s bed tonight, I share Freddie’s again. It’s a twin, and I have to curl my arms and legs around her so we both fit. The result is something womb-like, me wrapping myself around my daughter’s thin frame as if I could draw her back inside me and shut out the world. As if I could unweave reality one strand at a time and turn it into a prettier tapestry.
She stirs and snuggles closer. Maybe Freddie’s trying to crawl back inside, too.
Then, out of the blue, a question. “Do you love Daddy?”
I can’t lie. And I can’t tell her how things really are. So I dodge. “I did once.”
“But