After their run-in, Barbara was absolutely convinced Stella knew more than she was telling. Otherwise, why would she be so defensive? But Barbara needed one last piece of proof before presenting her case to Steve: that nothing could have happened to Cole at school.

Barbara knocked on the door and kept her face near the glass. Rhea frowned as soon as she looked up. She was probably about to leave for the night and didn’t want to get hung up. Slowly, Rhea closed the card, then slid it into her bag. After forever, it seemed, she waved Barbara inside.

“What can I do for you, Barbara?” Rhea asked flatly, gathering her things. She hadn’t even looked at Barbara. There was something wrong. Rhea wasn’t at all her usual bubbly self.

“I wanted to talk some more about Cole,” Barbara began carefully. “If you have a minute.”

“Yes, I heard about some of your concerns.” Rhea’s voice was coated in ice and pointy things. “At length.”

At length? Barbara blinked at her. And then it occurred to her with a creeping unease. Barbara had stopped by the PTA office to talk to some of the mothers there, and she may have said a thing or two about Rhea in anger. And she may not have been careful about who was around listening. Had it been one of Rhea’s fellow teachers? Or, God forbid, Rhea herself?

“I’m only trying to do what’s best for my son,” Barbara said. She wasn’t about to admit to saying anything specific, not if Rhea was going to be vague. “I’m sure you understand.”

“My shirts are too tight?” Rhea said, crossing her arms over her—precisely the point—very clingy top. “Oh, and I wear too much makeup. That’s right, it’s all coming back to me. Enlighten me, how is either of those related to my teaching ability?”

“Well, that’s taking what I said quite out of—”

Rhea held up a hand. “On second thought, I don’t even want to know.” She walked over to a short stack of papers on a nearby table, brought them back, and slid them into her bag. “Now, what is it? I’m on my way home.”

“We had Cole evaluated by that doctor you suggested,” Barbara offered. It was something of an olive branch.

“Really?” Rhea looked genuinely taken aback. Because Rhea was judging Barbara, too: stubborn, inflexible know-it-all. She’d heard it all before. “What did he say?”

“That Cole’s behavior is the result of a trauma.” A small lie with a noble purpose.

Rhea’s eyes were wide. “My goodness, what trauma?”

“We’re trying to figure that out. We were hoping you could help.”

Rhea’s face tightened. “Nothing happened to Cole here, Barbara. If that’s what you’re suggesting again. I thought we already discussed this.”

But Barbara needed to push. She needed to be absolutely sure before she went to Steve. Otherwise, he’d never listen. “Well, I’m sure that you didn’t mean for it to. But there are nineteen children, Rhea. Surely you can’t have your eye on every single one of them all the time.”

Rhea hung her head and let her shoulders drop. She took a deep breath before she looked up. “Listen, Barbara, I understand how difficult this must be for you and your family,” she began, as though she had mustered the very last of her patience. “It’s so painful for a parent to watch a child suffer. I know what you’re feeling and—”

“Wait, I’m sorry, what did you just say?” Rage flashed in Barbara’s gut. “You know what I’m feeling? Excuse me, Rhea, but you don’t even have children. How dare you say you know what I’m feeling?”

Rhea looked like she’d been slapped. But that wasn’t a judgment, it was a fact. Rhea didn’t have children. It wasn’t Barbara’s fault if Rhea was the kind of person who could be unaware of the gaping hole that created in the center of her life.

“To each his own, of course,” Barbara went on, just to clarify. Because she wasn’t suggesting that everyone needed to have children. Only those people who wanted to claim they knew what it was like to be a parent. “Not everyone was meant to have a family.”

Rhea nodded, frowning with exaggerated thoughtfulness. But now there was hate in her eyes. “You know, Barbara, all these years, I’ve been wondering: Why me? Why did I have to have a hysterectomy when I was only twenty-six?” Her voice quaked. “And here you had the answer all along: I just wasn’t meant to have a family.”

Barbara’s eyes went down to Rhea’s perfectly flat midsection. Well, how was she supposed to know? “I didn’t mean to suggest . . .”

But there was no point. They both knew exactly what she’d meant. And Rhea was already reaching for her coat.

“I am genuinely sorry that Cole is hurting. I care about him very much.” Rhea was all business as she crossed the room and opened the classroom door. “But if something happened to him, it didn’t happen here.” She waved a hand toward the hall, ushering Barbara out the door. “And now, Barbara, you really do need to go.”

RIDGEDALE READER

Print Edition

March 18, 2015

Essex Bridge: An Area Marked by Tragedy

BY MOLLY SANDERSON

The woods behind Essex Bridge were long known to be a place where Ridgedale High School students congregated on warm weekend evenings. When the parties got too raucous, neighbors would inevitably summon the Ridgedale Police. Students would be sent on their way, the intoxicated occasionally having their keys confiscated or being driven home in the back of a police car.

There were never any arrests. The general view among residents and local law enforcement was that these were good kids, out to have a good time.

In the spring of 1994, Simon Barton was enjoying the end of his senior year at Ridgedale High School. An accomplished athlete as well as an honor student, Simon’s biggest concern was whether he should enroll in Duke University or play basketball for the University of Virginia, where he had been offered an athletic scholarship.

The only child of Sheila and Scott Barton, Simon was born at Ridgedale University Hospital and had lived in town his entire life. He died after slipping in the woods and suffering a traumatic head injury.

Despite evidence of heavy underage drinking that night, there were never any arrests in connection with his death. In place of accusation or prosecution, there was a collective outpouring of grief. Simon Barton’s funeral was attended by more than 900 of Ridgedale High School’s 1,000 students. Within weeks, there had been more than half a dozen fund-raisers to establish a scholarship in Simon’s name.

Twenty years later, there has been another death in those same woods. As of today, there have been more than 200 posts on a social media site called Frat Chat. Intended for use by university students, Frat Chat has in Ridgedale—as in many other towns—been overtaken by high school students. The vast majority of these posts accuse various students of being responsible for the baby’s death.

Despite the proximity, the police believe the two incidents are unrelated. Police have yet to identify the baby’s mother or father and continue to ask for the public’s help. If you have any information, please contact the police at 888-526-1899.

Molly Sanderson, Session 13, May 28, 2013

(Audio Transcription, Session Recorded with

Patient Knowledge and Consent)

M.S.: Why don’t we ever talk about the baby? We talk about everything else—my job, Ella, Justin. My mother, who’s been dead for almost twenty years.

Q:    You don’t think she’s relevant?

M.S.: No, I don’t. I’m afraid I’ll turn into her, of course. But other than that, no, I don’t think she’s relevant.