All the Bullets are Silver

Isabelle’s admissions portfolio is nearly ready. Brooke has the family narrative, the test scores, and the letters of recommendation. These came from Isabelle’s godmother, who runs a marketing firm, and from their pastor at First Presbyterian. Brooke wrote the third letter herself, in the voice of Isabelle’s nanny, Ellen, and had her sign it. The first two letters will provide gravitas. The third will be personal. (Brooke did a search for “words with associations of warmth,” and she’s attached photos of Ellen playing with Isabelle to testify to their embrace of diversity.) Tomorrow, they see their doctor to sign off on Isabelle’s medical forms, and then Brooke can click “submit application” and address the invites for the champagne brunch they’ll host in celebration of Isabelle’s acceptance to the Knoll School.

John walks into the kitchen and opens the fridge, stocked with craft beer. “Want one, Hon?” He has four cabinets open, looking for a snack.

“No thanks, baby” says Brooke. She presents her husband with her slow, winsome smile, betraying zero irritation. John never remembers that she hates beer.

“Where’s Izzy?”

“Ellen took her to the park.”

John takes his drink into his study, and Brooke closes the cabinets, including the one equipped with the easy-open gun safe required by law. She has to have it; it does not have to be visible.

Brooke has a thin face, a thin nose, and a golden chignon. She despises those signs other women hang in their kitchens, signs that say things like “blessed,” but she surveys her shining marble countertops and knows she is blessed. Brooke’s place is her rightful place, which is why the phone call from the Knoll School is an irritant but not a barrier. Apparently, they must see a board-certified physician for the exam required for three-year-old Isabelle’s preschool admission. The board of directors insists.

Brooke stands at the threshold to the pediatrician’s waiting room. There’s a big public health poster on the wall:

KNOW THE SIGNS.

ALL OUR CHILDREN ARE AT STAKE.

THIS PRACTICE IS IN COMPLIANCE WITH ALL PROVISIONS OF THE TOLERATION ACT OF 1982.

She has never allowed herself to be drawn inside a place so porous and sticky. A receptionist sees her, smiles, says, “come in.” Brooke avoids contact with any surface. Isabelle struggles against her tight hold, but Brooke ignores her; she must keep a strict eye out lest some horror in the room leap to attack. A stain on the puce carpet seems to grow, threatens to rise and leech onto her trim ankle. Brooke tries to breathe, to admire the aquarium, but she can smell the algae, the fish food, and the rot. She thinks to envy the receptionist behind her glass barrier, but both sides of the glass are filthy. Cartoons blare, and the buzz from the fish tank grows. Brooke realizes her hair is much too loose. She should have pulled it tighter. If she could, she’d make it so nothing could move; she’d freeze everything and become cool, smooth stone. Thank God her face, at least, cannot move and so cannot betray her.

A short male nurse, wearing crocs and lavender scrubs printed with teddy bears, says, “Isabelle?” He checks his clipboard. “Isabelle M.?”

Brooke follows him to room three, gives mechanical answers to conventional questions. Yes, a term birth. Vaginal. Seven pounds. No significant illnesses. She nursed for a year. She states all this without shudder. No. No vaccines. Yes, she is very small.

“There are a lot of petite women in my family.”

The nurse types. Brooke cannot see the screen. He says, “Dr. Singh should be with you shortly.”

Isabelle tries to wiggle free of her arms. “Sit tight,” Brooke hisses.

With the doctor, her child is sunshine. She touches her nose and displays her reflexes and chatters her charming chatter. “She’s a lovely child, Mrs. Mattson.” The doctor is surveying her notes, looking troubled. “I do want to keep an eye on her growth and run some blood tests.” Brooke hands over the forms from the Knoll School. “I’m sure you already know this, but I can’t sign off until we begin to catch up on her vaccines. Herd immunity is essential for public health.”

Brooke pictures Isabelle laid amongst a pile of blind piglets like squirming guts. Brooke slow smiles. “That’s not right. We needed to see a conventional doctor, but we have a religious exemption.”

Dr. Singh shakes her ungrayed head. “I’m sorry Mrs. Mattson, the school requires compliance.” The doctor brings her too-thick brows together, lets her voice slide to censor. “Frankly, I’m afraid we have bigger things to worry about. Is there anything in your history that you haven’t disclosed?”

Brooke’s insides seize. You can deny a thing all you want, but the monster under the bed won’t stay docile forever. Brooke will not unravel. She gathers her daughter and her designer bag, pulling Isabelle through the waiting room. The receptionist taps on the glass to draw Brooke’s attention. “Mrs. Mattson? I have your receipt.” The woman lowers her voice. She slips a card between the papers she hands through the opening in the glass. “There’s ways around. Give that number a call.” Brooke is careful not to touch that card, lest it set her skin on fire. She is more careful not to let it fall, as she tucks the papers into her bag and zips it tight.

Brooke leaves Isabelle with Ellen and goes to Pilates, then takes a run. She trims her rosebushes and polishes her countertops. She showers, exfoliating like mad, and puts on a dress John likes. She goes outside to check the mailbox. It’s then that she realizes the new neighbor is one of them. She’s met a few before. There was an incident in college, which she doesn’t care to think about, in which her considerable powers over men had not been considered. Though they’ve been out in the open since before Brooke was born, there’s still a thrill in meeting one. She supposes there are more of them in the city, but here, in her orderly suburb, they’re rare.

Brooke is conscious of the late afternoon sun on her hair and the advantages her legs and skirt lend, each to the other. She slow smiles and extends a hand. “I’m Brooke. Welcome to the neighborhood.” The roundness of his belly, cheek, and eyes is matched by the frames of his plastic glasses and his bald head. Brooke feels confident he’s never gotten attention from a woman like her, but he shakes her hand easily, looks her in the eye.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Roger.”

Her first impression—dad bod and bad glasses—shifts. You can hide a lot behind a front of unassuming normalcy.

“Just you in that big house? Don’t hesitate to let me know if you need anything.”

Roger stays steady. “Thanks, that’s very nice of you.”

“Are you new to town?”

“I am.”

Brooke suppresses a shiver, remembering the card in her bag. “I think you’ll find this is a friendly area. Such nice parks and shops and such. And very welcoming.” Perhaps that was the wrong thing to say. Did it imply he might be anything but welcome?

But Roger smiles. “If folks around here are anything like you, I’m sure that’s true.”

Brooke is not expecting John, but he comes in while she’s checking Isabelle’s test results on her laptop. His brow furrows even as he stoops to kiss her. She accepts the kiss without shudder.