Bad Mommy

  We have to eat early because of Mercy, he texted back. Hope you don’t mind.

  Hey no problem, I texted back. Can I bring anything?

  Wine if you like.

  Wine, well look at that. I didn’t know anything about wine. I’d once had a glass of Moscato and liked that quite a bit. I’d take that! I was excited about all of it—choosing the wine, choosing an outfit, and I had rare plans for Friday night. Yup, my life was finally on the upward swing.

  Darius made meatloaf. When he took it out of the oven, Jolene made a face about it. “Are you kidding? I’m still traumatized by the meatloaf of my childhood,” she said.

  But, I took one bite and my eyes rolled back in ecstasy. Just the right amount of … everything. I was flooded with memories of my childhood home in England before we moved stateside. My mother’s meatloaf, and my father’s adverse reaction to it.

  “It tastes like my mother’s,” I said, and Darius’s eyes lit up. He was a man and that meant he needed affirmation. I was just thinking how happy I was to provide it when Jolene ruined the moment and snorted. She was always attacking everything he did, making it seem like it wasn’t good enough. But, this meatloaf, it was good. Very good.

  “It’s my mother’s recipe, actually.”

  He launched into a story about his childhood that made his mother sound like Maria from the Sound of Music. A good childhood like the one he was describing turned out a good man. Jolene rolled her eyes as she pushed the meatloaf around her plate, her chin cradled in her hand.

  “Lord, have mercy,” she said, looking at me. “Don’t believe a word he’s saying. His mother’s soul was murdered by his father’s chauvinism.”

  Darius didn’t even flinch. He seemed to find it funny when she had a go at his family. Earlier, she called his sister the nun of judgment and he’d laughed and smacked her butt, all the while I wondered when my Lululemon pants would arrive. And then, Mercy, sweet Mercy—ate all of her meatloaf while looking at her daddy with worshipful eyes. I’d handed them the bottle of Moscato as soon as I walked in, but Darius had only poured me a glass, searching out a red from their wine rack for him and Jolene. Red wine drinkers, right. I made a mental note. I asked for a taste of the red, and he poured some into one of their stemless wine glasses. I made a sound in the back of my throat as I swallowed it. Darius took if for pleasure and poured me more. I was gagging, actually—it tasted like perfume.

  “Do you have any family in the area, Fig?” Jolene asked. “Besides the obvious.”

  She asked a lot of questions, I noticed. As soon as I answered one she was firing off another. Wasn’t he supposed to be the therapist?

  “No,” I said. “My mom is in Chicago, and my dad is … well, he’s everywhere. They got divorced when I was little. I have a sister, but we don’t really talk unless she needs something.”

  Jolene made a face like she knew what I meant.

  Darius set dessert on the table, right in front of me. It was one of Jolene’s cakes. “Just a small slice,” I told him. “I’m trying to watch what I eat.” He cut me a huge slice and I set to work on it. She really was an ass for making it seem like she couldn’t bake. It reminded me of those skinny girls who always called themselves fat. Halfway through my cake, Mercy climbed into my lap and I wanted to cry from the joy of it.

  “It takes her a while, but boy, when she warms up…” Jolene said. She winked at Mercy, and the little girl giggled. I didn’t like that. Don’t steal my moment, you know?

  I wanted to tell her that Mercy and I didn’t need a warm up. We’d known each other for a very long time, maybe even a couple lifetimes. Did it work that way? People were gifted the same souls over and over? In which case, why did Mercy go to Jolene? Maybe we were tied together in some way, I thought, looking at her. Wasn’t that an interesting thought? I felt very close to her all of a sudden. I squeezed Mercy in a little hug as she dug into her cake.

  “I was born in England,” I told them. “My parents met over there while my dad was on contract for work. They moved to the States when I was seven.”

  “Ah,” said Jolene, “you say very British things sometimes. That makes sense.”

  I smiled. I liked that she noticed that. People who noticed details weren’t assholes; they were seeing you. Which actually took some effort, to look outside of yourself and see others. A rare thing nowadays.

  “My mother has a heavy accent,” I told them. “I guess I just picked up the pronunciation from her.”

  Darius asked if I’d like tea instead of coffee since I was a Brit, and I said yes, actually I would. He brought milk and a bowl of sugar cubes over, and I was impressed he knew the way we drank it.

  “How are you liking the hood?” he asked.

  “Oh, I love it. It’s zestier than the last place I lived.”

  “Zestier,” Darius repeated. “It is rather zesty here, isn’t it?” We all laughed.

  “And your … what’s his name? Should I not be bringing that up?” he asked, seeing my face. I wiped it clean. I didn’t want to bore them with details of my failed marriage. It was what it was.

  “No, it’s fine. I’m just trying to be happy,” I said. Darius nodded like he understood.

  “So, you just up and sold your house and bought this one? Needed a change of scenery. A new start.”

  “Yup, pretty much. You just throw something at a wall and see if it sticks.” I was getting a bad taste in my mouth. I didn’t like to talk about all of that nonsense.

  I was startled when Jolene reached over to put her hand on top of mine, squeezing slightly. I felt tears well up in my eyes and tilted my head back to keep them from falling. How long had it been since someone showed me kindness? Without friends there was really only my mother, and she’d send a bouquet of sunflowers to my house when she thought I was sad. The card would always say something ridiculous like: The sun will come out tomorrow. A vast improvement from when I’d lost the baby and she’d said: “It was too small to even be considered a baby, Fig. Chin up, you’ll no doubt have another.”

  “Ugh, you’re making me cry,” I said, swiping at my eyes. “It’s all over now. I think, anyway. I’m glad for that.”

  “Yes, it is. And I know it’s cliché to say, but you’re much better off without people who bring you down, don’t support you. It’ll be a healing process, but I think you’ll be just fine, whatever you decide.” I nodded at her words. Maybe that’s why Darius liked Jolene, they spoke the same language.

  “Change of subject,” Jolene said, swirling her hand in the air. I thought she was a little drunk. “Darius, you’re good at that.”

  Darius launched into a story about work, telling us how he caught his secretary eavesdropping on sessions with his clients. In minutes we were all laughing, and my heart felt light as a feather. All this time I’d been missing friends, genuine have-your-best-interest-at-heart friends. Mercy finished her slice and hopped down from my lap, informing all of us that I’d be putting her to bed.

  “Three stories,” she said, holding up five fingers.

  Jolene adjusted her fingers so there were only three. “Well, we don’t know if Miss Fig has to get home, Mercy. Maybe-”

  “No, I’ll do it,” I told her. “I’d love to.”

  “Well, look at that, Mercy. Baby whisperer, Fig, has agreed to put you to bed. It feels like Christmas,” he joked.

  I was so very excited.

  “Let’s go, Mercy,” I said, trying to temper the excitement in my voice. “You get to pick three books,” I said. “But, not long ones.”

  “Very long ones,” she said, pulling me down the hall to her bedroom.

  I heard Jolene tell Darius that she was going to take a quick shower. Then I heard them giggling in that private way couples do when they’re joking about sex. I glanced over my shoulder to see them disappear into what I supposed was their bedroom.

  After Mercy and I were finished reading, she snuggled into bed without complaint and closed her eyes. I kissed her little forehead,
marveling at her perfect eyelashes and then quietly put the books back on the bookshelf before tiptoeing out. Darius was seated in the living room with his feet propped on the ottoman, reading a Stephen King book that was larger than all of my books put together. Jolene was nowhere to be seen.

  “Wow, that’s a big one,” I said.

  “That’s what she said,” Darius retorted.

  I laughed a little and stood awkwardly in the doorway not knowing what to do. It was time to leave, I knew that, but something about walking over to my dark house and going to bed alone was making me feel depressed.

  “I’ll walk you home, Fig,” he said. Then, as an afterthought he added, “Jolene has a headache, she went ahead and took a shower and went to bed. She said to say goodbye.”

  I nodded, thrilled at having him to myself for even a few minutes.

  We headed out the door and I felt tight all over. This was nice, this was really nice. Not many men cared quite as much.

  “You know if you ever need to talk, I listen for a living,” he said.

  “Hey, I’m okay. Got that survivor thing going on.” I sang a little Beyoncé and we both laughed. “Besides, I’m so fucked up I’d break the shrink.”

  “Nah. That’s what I used to think about myself. When you live in your own head all the time, things contort. You have to voice your thoughts so you can know you’re not the only one who’s fucked up. It makes a big difference to know that.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” I sounded noncommittal to my own ears.

  He nodded like he understood. These things took time. I could hear him saying that to his patients.

  “Your guy, what’s his name?”

  “Ew, he’s not my guy,” I said.

  “Fine, that guy you married that one time … Fred?”

  “George,” I said.

  “Weasley?”

  “Huh?” I looked up, confused.

  “Yikes, not a Harry Potter fan. You lose all cool points for that.”

  “I’m so confused. What are we even talking about?”

  Darius sighed. “George … divorce.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Well, divorce is hard. I don’t know what to say other than that. I wanted one, then I didn’t want one, then I did. He thinks I’m a terrible person.”

  “Things with exes get messy,” he agreed. “Mine still lives in the area. We see her sometimes when we’re out to dinner or something. Uncomfortable is a weak word to use for that sort of situation.”

  I perked up at the information.

  “Did it end messy?” I asked, peeking at him from the corner of my eye.

  “Well, yes. Sort of. Definitely yes. We were engaged, and I called off the wedding because I wanted to be with Jolene.”

  “Did your ex and Jolene know each other?” I asked.

  “They were friends, yes.”

  That’s all he said, and we were outside my door. I wanted to rewind, start over, know more.

  “Hey, thanks for having me over. The meatloaf was perfection.”

  He smiled and turned to walk back down the path.

  “Hey,” he called back. “Have you ever heard that song by Miranda Dodson, “Try Again”?”

  I shook my head.

  “You should.”

  I watched him walk back down the drive and along the sidewalk to his house before I unlocked my door and walked in. I found the song on Spotify right away and played it over and over while drinking tea at the dinette, and while brushing my teeth, and while climbing into bed. I went to sleep listening to the song Darius gave me. The greatest gift.

  Barbra Streisand is my idol. “I Finally Found Someone” is probably the greatest song ever written. People my age were listening to that salty crap on the radio. Pop star voices gyrating and thrusting around like vocal whores. You don’t need all of that hoopla in music, you need raw honesty—the type of honesty Barbra Streisand delivered in songs like “Guilty”—and oh god—“Memory.” I sobbed like a baby in “Memory.” Darius liked her too, along with Jeff Bridges, who he emphatically said was the love of his life. Jolene always made a face at that. She made a lot of faces actually, all of them aimed at Darius. She was a completely different person with me, nurturing and attentive. She was dismissive of Darius and Jeff Bridges, and it seemed to me that they were a package deal.

  “Couldn’t you choose someone better? He creeps me out,” she said. “We could both love Bradley Cooper together.” She hated anything that had vast popularity. Bradley Cooper was a joke; she didn’t actually love Bradley Cooper. She was annoyed with humor—that included comedies and Saturday Night Live. What kind of monster hated Saturday Night Live? There was a long list, in fact, of things she hated: Beyoncé, and pizza, baseball, and Alicia Silverstone in Clueless, Bananagrams—which was our favorite game. We held our ground, teaming up against her to argue the merits of baseball, making fun of her for not having a sense of humor. She was unfazed and I wondered what it was like to not care about what people thought of you.

  Darius loved the dude, and I loved Darius for loving the dude. I wasn’t an unsupportive cunt like Jolene. He would see that soon. l

  “Leave him alone,” I’d say to her. “Let him love what he loves.” And the corners of her mouth would turn up in a little smile like she had a secret.

  It bothered me that she rode him about stuff. She had no idea how lucky she was to be with someone like him. She had no idea how lucky she was, in general. If I had her life I’d do things differently, that’s for sure. Starting with Darius. I’d treat him like a man, show more interest in what he loved and who he was. I pictured her sucking his dick, pausing to say, “Has it always looked like this? I’m not sure I like it. Let’s both love something else together.” Selfish bitch.

  People like Jolene should be in relationships only with themselves. What message was she relaying to Mercy about her father? That his meatloaf wasn’t good enough? That his idols were creepy? It was wrong, all of it. They were wrong together. And besides her disdain for everything he loved, Jolene was always bent over her phone texting. He’d have to say things two or three times before she’d look up, a baffled expression on her face. I would bet there was someone else, that’s why she was so disillusioned with Darius. You didn’t let go of one man without having another lined up to take his place.

  I texted him every day just to check on him—because someone should. He was as broken and lonely as I was. We’d trade jokes and memes, urging each other through the hard days. I was always eagerly waiting for his next text, his words meant just for me. I filled in where Jolene slacked off, telling him what an awesome dad and husband he was, asking about his day. I was willing to do that. Pretty soon we had a camaraderie. He would text first, then I would text back and we’d go like that all day. I wondered if he told her how often we texted, or if this was just between the two of us. An almost lover secret. Did he think about me when he was with her? I didn’t feel guilty because I knew in my gut she was texting someone too. For Darius’s birthday I bought three tickets to see Jeff Bridges in concert at a steep six hundred dollars. I mentioned it casually to Jolene one afternoon to feel her out.

  “An actual concert where Jeff Bridges sings?” she asked, incredulous. “That’s a thing?”

  “Well yeah, dummy. What else happens at a concert?”

  She took out her stainless steel spray and began polishing the dishwasher.

  “Shit, well it sounds like the worst night ever, but okay.” She laughed. “Did you buy the tickets already?”

  “Not yet,” I lied. “I didn’t want to buy tickets to something you wouldn’t go to.”

  “Lots of things I’ll do for love.” She rubbed the dishwasher with extra vigor. I rolled my eyes when she wasn’t looking.

  “That’s really nice of you, Fig. He’s going to be so excited.”

  Yeah, he was. Jeff Bridges gave him an emotional hard on; I was hoping my thoughtful present would give him a real one. Fig, he’d say—you’re so good to me. I bet you’d feel good, to
o. I immediately felt guilty for that thought. Jolene was a decent person and my friend. She’d never done anything but encourage me. It was me. I was the bad person. I fantasized about having what she had, but I would stop. It wasn’t her fault that she was so fucked up, things just happened to people.

  Darius was excited when I presented him with his tickets. Not in the eternal jumping for joy way, but his eyes sort of twinkled and his voice went an octave higher when he thanked me. I preened under his attention.

  “We can go out for dinner too,” I said. “Anywhere you like.”

  “The Dude,” he said, in a gravelly voice. I was so pleased with his reaction, so pleased with myself. It had cost a lot of money, but could you put a price on love?

  This was my future, this man. I loved him. He was everything I’d wanted when I was young and stupid, but instead I’d settled for George … dull, monotone, silent … George. He’d been waiting for me, only he didn’t know it yet. The two of us carved out of the same block of wood. But, he was coming around. I could see it in his eyes. He used to glow whenever Jolene walked into the room, now he looked skeptical … bored. I’d be bored with her too. She was exhausting in her stands against things. But, he’d never be bored with me—I’d make sure of that. We belonged together. It was only a matter of time.

  I thought about killing myself at least twice a week. Not in a dramatic way of course—okay, maybe a little dramatic. I was a performance dancer for most of my teen years, after all. There was something about imagining the end, having the power to make it happen. Even if you didn’t actually have the guts to do it, you could if you wanted to. I’m not sure what made me more depressed: what could have been, or what should have been. I missed the idea of marriage, the one you had when you were young and emotionally unblemished. When you planned what your life was going to look like, you didn’t see a neglectful, silent husband with sweat stains under his arms. Or the empty way your arms felt when all of the other women were carrying children. I was thirty years old, and my chances of having a healthy egg fertilized were getting slimmer, unlike my hips and thighs, which were not slim at all. I was grieving and wasted in a dead marriage, with an emotionally dead man. Marriage was nothing but a lot of dirty dishes and pee sprinkled on your toilet seat.