Page 85 of The Last Mrs. Parrish

“Margarita.” His voice had been so sharp that we’d all turned to look at him. “I said no.”

“Mister, I will bring them back for everyone after.”

“No, Tallulah can have hers.She’sa smart girl.”

“That’s okay, Daddy. I can wait.” Tallulah had looked down at her plate.

Margarita had reluctantly put the plate on the table and made a hasty retreat.

Jackson had gotten up from his seat and handed Bella the book he had brought home. She’d thrown it on the floor, and his face had turned bright red.

“You’ve been getting help for six months now. You’re in first grade. It should be easy for you. Read the first page.” He’d bent to retrieve it from the floor.

I’d looked at the book.Charlotte’s Web. There was no way she could do it.

“Jackson, this isn’t accomplishing anything.”

Ignoring me, he’d slammed the book down on the table, making Bella jump.

My eyes were drawn to the throbbing vein in his forehead. “Either she reads this damn book, or I’m firing her worthless tutor. Let’s see what you’ve learned. Now!”

Bella picked up the book with shaking hands, opened it, and in a trembling voice, began to read. “Wwwww hhheerrr s Pap a ggggoinn g wiith thaat ax?”

“Oh, for crying out loud. You sound like a moron! Spit it out.”

“Jackson!”

He’d given me a dark look and then turned to Bella. “You look ugly when you read like that.”

Bella had burst into tears and ran from the table. I’d hesitated only a moment, then rushed after her.

After I calmed her down and tucked her in, she’d looked at me with those big blue eyes and asked, “Am I stupid, Mommy?”

I’d been pierced to the core.

“Of course not, sweetie. You’re very smart. Lots of people have trouble learning to read.”

“Tallulah doesn’t. She was born with a book in her hand. I’m the one that’s thick as a brick.”

“Who told you that?”

“Daddy.”

I wanted to kill him. “You listen to me. Do you know who Einstein is?”

She looked up at the ceiling. “The funny-looking man with the crazy hair?”

I forced a laugh. “Yes. He was one of the smartest men ever, and he didn’t learn to read until he was nine. You are very smart.”

“Daddy doesn’t think so.”

How could I make this better? “Daddy doesn’t mean those things. He just doesn’t understand the way different brains work. He thinks if he says those things, you’ll work harder.” It sounded lame even to my ears, but it was all I could offer.

She yawned and her eyes fluttered shut. “I’m tired, Mommy.”

I’d kissed her on the forehead. “Good night, angel.”

So she misbehaved sometimes—who wouldn’t with that kind of pressure? But how do you explain to people around you that you’re cutting your child some slack because her father has reduced her to rubble?

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