Noah grunts. “She has to say that.”
Rosalie glances in the rearview mirror to where her youngest son sits behind his brothers. He alone among her children remains pale after three months of summer vacation, three months of dazzling afternoons spent in his room, sorting minerals and dead insects.
“Put your seat belt on, Noah,” she tells him, and watches him yank the strap from its sheath. It kills her that the belt hits him just at the neck, denting the skin, but she fights the urge to adjust it. He could technically still be in a booster—he has yet to surpass the weight requirements—but she would not point this out. Any scrap of dignity, she knows, is crucial to a boy this age. Even his face reflects the torture of pubescence. The eyebrows are too low, left behind by the reckless rise of his forehead, and there is a permanent look of scorn in his eyes, set temporarily too close together. Rosalie has faith that his features will soon adopt more regular proportions, as his older brothers’ have, but knows better than to assure him of this.
Rosalie meets Nayana’s eyes in the rearview mirror and smiles. She is not a true “exchange” student, in that no child from Old Cranbury will be spending equal time in Bangladesh. Instead, one of Noah’s eighth-grade classmates will stay with a family in Australia for the semester. Noah had wanted to do this, but Rosalie had told him no. She can’t fathom one of her children being absent for so long, coming home taller and heavier, full of meals she hasn’t prepared.
There is no higher directive than motherhood, she believes, no better purpose than shepherding new life through the world. She is continually transfixed by her own offspring, these five miraculous iterations of her own genes. What a pity, those women who choose not to have children, who deny the clamoring souls inside them. She disapproves, too, of those women who have children casually, who treat them as accessories, or worse, burdens—those women who continue to chase power careers, who hire live-in nannies who keep the television on all day, as she has witnessed through the window of Suzanne Crawford’s home. It’s no wonder her little boy still hasn’t spoken a word.
The sad fact is that Rosalie is nearing fifty. She might have tried for another child, but her husband had been firmly opposed, and now the stockades of menopause are undeniable. Still, she takes comfort in the fact that there is no family in town larger than her own. Because of this, she enjoys a kind of celebrity. She is always the class parent in one grade or another at any given time. She knows every teacher and parent in the elementary, middle, and high schools. It is difficult to complete any grocery trip for all the chatting she is obliged to do. It was inevitable, of course, that she’d eventually run for school board and be elected. She understands what children need. She’d begun her first term this summer, an intrepid foot soldier in the battle of the budget. The numbers are daunting to her, the spreadsheets with rows of digits like crawling ants, but she knows better than to worry over them. What matters are the values those digits represent: each a history teacher, a soccer field, a new set of school bus tires. The decisions are, after all, basic. The board doesn’t need another mumbling accountant. It needs Rosalie Warren, clearheaded and largehearted, mother of all.
As the late August sun dries the leaves, Rosalie feels the first stirrings of autumn. This is her favorite time of year, these last breaths of summer, the store-fresh smell of new denim. She drives the children to the mall and sets them loose in a pack, keeping Nayana to herself. The girl touches the clothing in Aéropostale as if it were powdered with gold dust. Rosalie takes the liberty of choosing things for her, hanging them in a dressing room, and shutting her inside. After several moments of silence, the door opens, and the girl stands dangle-limbed in a bumpy knit sweater dress, a crooked smile at her lips.
“Oh, don’t you look fabulous!” Rosalie croons.
“Everything is so short,” the girl says thinly.
“That’s okay.” Rosalie nods. “It shows off your long legs.”
The girl flushes and retreats into the dressing room so that only her bony ankles are visible. Rosalie buys her the dress, along with a jean skirt, colored tights, and a pair of faddish ankle boots. She barely has time to review her own children’s selections as they pile into the Grand Caravan like a winning team.
At their annual barbecue, Rosalie directs guests to the cholar dal platter that Nayana has helped prepare. As the guests make astonished noises with their mouths full, Rosalie puts a hand on Nayana’s shoulder and tells the anecdote from the mall.