Bad Mommy

  “Hello, I’m Fig. What’s your name?”

  She was wearing a little pink tutu and a T-shirt that said Daddy’s Princess in silver letters. When I spoke, she immediately stopped what she was doing to give me her undivided attention.

  “Fig,” she said, in a sweet voice, and then she giggled. I couldn’t help but smile.

  “Yes, Fig,” I said. “That’s my name.” I pointed to myself. “What’s yours?” I jabbed a finger in her direction. I was leaning over the fence to see her, almost too far. An inch more and I’d have toppled forward.

  She looked over her shoulder for Bad Mommy, presumably. Yes, where was she, anyway? Leaving the tiny thing out in the yard by herself. Why, she could just wander off … or be taken.

  “Where’s your ba-mommy?” I asked her.

  She pointed to the back door. I could hear the clank and clatter of dishes coming through the kitchen window. Some sort of folk music played and a woman’s voice sang along.

  “Mommy,” she said, pointing to the house. There were remnants of blue paint on her tiny fingernails. I longed to reach out and touch her fingers, caress her. I was about to say something else when I heard a voice calling. I straightened up quickly, neutralizing my face.

  “Mercy … Mercy Moon…” Bad Mommy walked out the back door drying her hands on a checkered dishtowel. She was wearing coveralls and her hair was piled on top of her head in a giant black hive.

  “Mercy, who are you talking to?”

  I blinked. Was that her name? They’d named her Mercy Moon? I smiled halfheartedly. Bad Mommy sauntered toward us, her hand held over her eyes to shield them from the sun.

  “Hello,” I called out. “I’m Fig. I just moved in. Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare your little girl. I know she’s probably not supposed to talk to strangers.”

  Bad Mommy smiled at me. Full white teeth to match her wife beater. “Hey there. So nice to meet you. My name’s Jolene. This is Mercy.” The little girl, already bored by the new person, was squatting in the grass and poking at a bug with a stick.

  “Don’t hurt that bug, Mercy, it’s a living thing.”

  “How old is she?” I asked.

  “Mercy, tell Miss Fig how old you are,” Jolene prodded. “Mercy…”

  Mercy threw down her stick to hold up two chubby fingers.

  “I would have had one. She would have been two this last January,” I said, glancing at Mercy.

  Jolene made the face that all people made when you tell them you lost a baby—sympathetic mixed with mild relief that it wasn’t them. Yeah? Fuck you.

  “Mercy turned two in September, didn’t you, love?” she asked, stroking the little girl’s head. “We had a pony party.”

  “Pony,” said Mercy, looking up from her bug hunting. I wanted to clap my hands in glee. I loved horses, as a child I’d had my own pony party and dressed up like a cowgirl.

  I looked at Mercy. It was actually lovely on her. The tiny embodiment of benevolence. Perfect little wonder to the world and none of us, not one, deserved her.

  “I like ponies.” And then to Bad Mommy, “Is your last name Moon?”

  She shook her head, grinning. “No, that’s her middle name. Her dad’s choice. Our last name is Avery.”

  “Mine’s Coxbury,” I told her. I used my maiden name and it felt good. It felt so good I shimmied my shoulders a little when I said it.

  Fig Coxbury sounded like a little dance.

  “You should come over for some coffee, Fig. I baked too, but my baking’s not very good unless it’s from a box, and it’s not from a box this time, I’m afraid.” She took hold of Mercy’s shoulders, the way mothers do, and smiled at me. It was a genuine smile, but I resented her for the way she was touching Mercy.

  “Love to. Just need to run in to turn off some lights,” I said, nodding back toward the house. “I’m still unpacking, so it’ll be a nice distraction to get out for a bit.”

  There’s a gate there.” Jolene pointed to some bushes a little farther left to where I was standing. “You can’t see it because it’s hidden by the brambles, but if you push them aside you should be able to jimmy the lock and get through. Give it a hard shove. These houses belonged to a mother and daughter years ago,” she said, looking back at her own. “They put in the gate so the grandchildren could get back and forth without having to go around the front.”

  Well, isn’t that fitting? And they still do.

  “You can come around the front if you’re more comfortable…”

  “No, that’s just fine,” I said, sweetly. “I’ll be right over. Just let me wash up.”

  I watched them walk inside, Mercy’s hand tucked inside Jolene’s. Was it a loose grip? Did she wish it was my hand? I rushed back inside searching frantically for my green cardi and hairbrush. It wouldn’t do to go visiting without wearing something nice. Children liked bright colors, didn’t they? I studied myself in the mirror. I’d put on some weight since all of the trouble started. I was thicker around the middle, and my face, which was normally long and thin, was round and full. I reached up and touched my hair, which was starting to show silver at the roots. When I was a child it had been the color of Mercy’s hair. Somewhere in my twenties it changed from the cornsilk to a dirty dishwater blonde. And no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t get it to grow. Not past my chin anyway. I pictured the pile of thick black hair on top of Jolene’s head and frowned. Probably those extensions. I’d get it colored tomorrow, I decided. A color and trim as a treat for myself. Mercy would like that, if we had the same hair. Before I left the house I made a call to my salon and scheduled it for the next day.

  “A partial foil,” I told the receptionist breathlessly, “to match my daughter’s hair color.”

  When I locked up and walked along the pavement to the Averys’ house in the expensive silver flats I’d bought just last week, my keys dangling from the tip of my finger, I felt lighter than I had in months. It was like the universe was opening up like a flower, paying me back for all of the suffering I’d endured. It was my time, and I wasn’t going to let anything stop me. Not George, and especially not myself.

  Jolene Avery was not at all what I expected. Neither was the inside of her house. I hadn’t put too much thought into the house, I’d been too busy thinking of Mercy, the little girl in the house, to wonder what sort of living room and kitchen she spent her days in. I’d imagined something messy, holiday trinkets. Colorful afghans, chipped mismatched dinner plates from the Thrifty City. But, when I walked through the front door, opened by Mercy with Jolene watching from the kitchen doorway, I was taken aback. Everything was neat, tasteful. Light grey sofas squared around a white shag rug, in the center of which sat a teal leather ottoman. Her coffee table books had Kurt Cobain and Jimmy Hendrix on the cover. And on the wall was a large framed picture of a propeller plane set against the backdrop of billowing clouds. Jolene must have seen the shock on my face, because she said, “In another life I was an interior decorator.” I thought about the little blue bead in my junk drawer at home. My hand suddenly itched to hold it. It had a purpose. Someone who did up their house like this had something special planned for a tiny azure bead. I snapped out of my daze when Mercy pointed to my shoes and said, “Siver.”

  “Yes, they are silver,” I said, dropping to my haunches to look her in the eyes. “Aren’t you a clever little girl.”

  “Siver,” she said again.

  “You can come right through to the kitchen,” Bad Mommy said, turning and walking through the wide arched doorway.

  I gave one last fleeting look at the white stone fireplace and followed her, Mercy at my heels.

  “Your house gets such wonderful light,” I said.

  “Isn’t it lovely?” she said. “It’s why we bought it. Darius always says that if you’re going to live in Seattle, you find the house with the best light, or you’ll get depressed.”

  “And do you?” I asked. It was an entirely inappropriate question to ask someone you’d just met an hour ago, bu
t it slipped out before I could stop it.

  Bad Mommy paused in her slicing of the cake. Her kitchen was just as charming as her living room—all stainless steel and white with a few emerald green accent pieces.

  “I suppose sometimes I do,” she said. “When I’m alone often and I get lonely.” I was struck by her honest answer, and more struck by the fact that I related to her.

  “What does your husband do?” I asked. “I’m sorry, am I asking too many questions? I do that.”

  She waved me away. “Don’t be silly, that’s what people do when they’re getting to know each other.”

  She set a slice of chocolate cake down in front of me, the one she had claimed wasn’t very good, and went to pour the coffee. I could hear Mercy in the other room, her little voice loud and shrill from whatever game she was playing.

  “He’s a psychologist,” she said. “He has his own practice in Ballard.”

  “Oh!” I said. “How fancy.”

  “What do you do, Fig?” she asked. I was startled that she said my name. Most people didn’t say your name when they were speaking to you.

  “I build websites,” I said. “Freelance.”

  “Cool,” she said, dropping a mug of coffee in front of me, and then heading to the fridge to fetch the cream. “And did you grow up in Washington?”

  I shook my head. “Small town in Wisconsin. I moved here with my husband after we got married,” I said.

  “Are you still…”

  “It’s a long story,” I said. “Complicated. It’s hard to make marriage work.”

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  No one had ever asked me that question before. How did you answer something like that?

  “I’m trying to be,” I said, honestly.

  I thought she’d pry more, but she just set the sugar and cream in front of me and smiled.

  The cake was good. Delicious. That’s when I knew she was a liar. No one baked cake that tasted that good and didn’t know it.

  Mercy trotted into the kitchen after a few minutes and tugged on Bad Mommy’s shirt.

  “Are you tired, or do you want cake?” she asked.

  “Cake,” said Mercy. And then added, “Please.”

  Bad Mommy praised her for her please and then cut her an extra large slice.

  While I was finishing off my coffee, the dregs of sugar rolling around in my mouth, Darius Avery arrived home. I heard the bang of the front door and loud squealing from Mercy as she threw herself at him. He came into the kitchen a minute later with her perched on his hip, a briefcase in his free hand. He was better looking up close. Bad Mommy grew visibly flustered when she saw him, her cheeks flushed with color, and her eyes … dare I say … sparkling? I watched them, remembering my first observation of him in the drive. He’d looked happy. Now they all looked happy, and I suddenly felt like I was intruding on something private I wasn’t supposed to see. I shifted on my stool uncomfortably until she remembered I was there.

  “Oh, Darius, this is our new neighbor, Fig,” she said, fussing with her hair. “She moved into the Larrons’ old house. I invited her over for a piece of my terrible cake and coffee.”

  Darius set his briefcase down. Mercy turned to look at me like she was just noticing I was here again. I made a face at her and she smiled. My heart almost burst open right there.

  “Hello, Fig. Welcome to the hood,” he said, leaning forward to take my hand. I noticed he had a particularly crooked smile that was quite infectious if you zoned in on it. I looked away quickly when I felt myself blushing.

  “Hello,” I said, standing up. Cake crumbs sprinkled from my lap to the floor. How embarrassing. I made to pick them up, but Darius stopped me.

  “Don’t bother. We have a Roomba.”

  “A what?”

  He pointed to a little round machine in the corner. “A little robot vacuum.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “How did you enjoy my wife’s terrible cake?” he asked, rolling his eyes.

  I’d been right about the grey at his temples. I saw it all now, the slight salt in all the pepper. He was not too tall, probably six feet even, with the type of broad shoulders women went on about. I wondered how many female clients he had, and how they were able to concentrate when he was looking at them.

  “It was probably the best cake I’ve ever had,” I said, honestly. “And as you can see, I eat a lot of cake.”

  I patted the extra weight around my belly. Bad Mommy blushed, turning away so we couldn’t see her face.

  “My wife is modest about almost everything she does,” he said, looking at her with affection. “And she does almost everything better than anyone else.”

  She shot him a look over her shoulder as she put the coffee mugs in the sink, and I suddenly felt sick. Had anyone ever looked at me like that? No, probably not. George spent most of our marriage looking at the television. I was ripe with jealousy.

  “I better go,” I said, tugging on Mercy’s little foot. She smiled at me before yanking it away. “Thanks so much for having me.”

  “Fig, you should come to our girls’ night next time we have one,” Bad Mommy said, drying her hands on a dishtowel and walking around the island to stand in front of me. “Some of the girls in the neighborhood, every other Friday night. That way you can meet some new people. Get out of the house.”

  Darius was nodding his head even as Mercy tried to stick her fingers up his nose.

  “That would be lovely,” I said. “What time?”

  “We meet over here at six o’ clock,” she said, shooting Darius a look. “Six,” she emphasized again. He bobbed his head guiltily.

  “Sometimes things run late at the office,” he said. “Jolene gets really upset if I’m late every other Friday at six o’clock.” She threw her dishtowel at him and he caught it with a smile. When he winked at her I got butterflies.

  Yup, I felt sick. More and more by the minute. I edged my way to the door and the Averys followed me.

  “Goodnight then. I’ll see you on Friday.”

  They stood waving at me all the way back to my house. What a perfect fucking family. Tonight, I decided, I would have two shortbreads.

  I watched them arrive from my bay window. Hens, six of them, though Bad Mommy told me the number always varied depending on who was free to come. Three of them were skinny, and the other three were skinnier than the skinny ones. I tugged on the floral top I’d chosen. It was the only going-out shirt I had, unless you counted my Christmas sweater collection, but you couldn’t wear sequined Christmas trees in July, could you? At the last minute I changed into a light sweater with blue snowflakes on it. They were all wearing skinny jeans or tight dresses that showed off their rumps. The only thing I had that remotely resembled skinny jeans were the workout pants I bought to steal the Averys’ mail. I pulled them out of the wash, giving them a sniff before I put them on. Looking at myself in my full-length mirror, I smiled. All I needed now was something for height since I was on the short side. I settled on black sandals I’d bought a year ago and never worn. I ran a brush through my hair one last time and put on some lipstick. I wished I hadn’t been binge-eating shortbreads all week, promising myself I’d work it off later. Fuck them. I was beautiful just the way I was. George had put me down for years. I wasn’t going to let a bunch of skinny bitches do the same. I marched out of my house, almost forgetting to lock the front door in my determination.

  Their door opened before I could knock. Bad Mommy stood in the doorway, a cocktail already in hand, her cheeks rosy, and her eyes shining.

  “Hey Fig,” she said, breathlessly. Her eyes traveled the length of me, in what I regarded as outfit approval, then she said, “Ready to have some fun?”

  She stood aside to let me in and suddenly I felt choked by anxiety. I didn’t so much like people. Why was I doing this again? No, I told myself. Those were things George wanted me to believe. George hated going out, so he’d tell me that no one liked us anyway, and what was the point of being so
cial when no one liked you? It’s just you and me, Figgy, he’d say.

  “So ready,” I said.

  She led me into the kitchen where all the hens were gathered around a martini shaker on the counter. There were three things that drew women into a hungry-eyed cluster: liquor, men, and gossip. Gossip was the strongest draw, but put all three together and you had a sort of desperate, heated frenzy on your hands. I pictured women from the Stone Age gyrating naked around a fire; one of their husbands had discovered fire, the others were jealous. Good God. Tonight, I was going to be part of an age-long tradition. It was exhilarating.

  “Girls, this is my new neighbor, Fig,” Bad Mommy said. They all looked up at the same time; some of them were quicker to disguise the looks on their faces than others. A blonde wearing a strapless pink top and snakeskin heels stepped up first. She hugged me, while saying with too much enthusiasm, “Welcome to our club, Fig! Is that your real name? I always wanted a cute name like that, but all I got was Michelle. And everyone is named Michelle, so I just go by Chelle, but you can call me either. Are those workout pants? Wow, you’re dedicated. I haven’t worked out since my youngest was born and he’s four.”

  My head was still spinning from her tirade when Bad Mommy started introducing me around the room.

  There was Yolanda, a physical therapist with a broad, gummy smile and huge tits, and Casey, who within the first two minutes of knowing me proudly announced she was a homemaker, and asked if I had children.

  “No,” I said.

  “Oh, well mine are three months and six, and they’re wonderful. Lily is practically a genius, and Thomas is a great sleeper when he’s not insisting on being nursed, that is.” She laughed and adjusted her bra. Bad Mommy rolled her eyes. I hid my smile. Her husband, I decided, was the one who discovered fire.