Bad Mommy

  With my social, emotional, and fertility doom weighing down heavily, I drove to Edmonds where the railway tracks skirt the Sound in a sort of weaving snake, and decided the best way to go was to jump in front of a train. I liked trains, liked the eerie blow of their whistles as they rumbled past. Every day for a week, I drove to the tracks and watched the trains go by, my feet hanging over the small cliff, the beauty of Washington spread out in front of me. This was the place to die, with the Cascades looming in the background, and the spread of blue icy water in front of them. The last thing I saw could be the glory of Washington. But, then the week I planned on actually doing it, I ran into a girl in the supermarket who’d worked with George. I’d only met her once at a Christmas party where she’d gotten drunk and told me she’d had a miscarriage two weeks before. It had been her eighth one, and she was ready to throw in the towel. I thought that was an odd thing to say about trying for a baby—like it was a business venture gone wrong. Throw in the towel.

  She spotted me in front of the snack cakes and came over to say hi, carrying a baby on each hip. At first I hadn’t recognized her, she was plumper in the face and she’d cut her hair short—just below the chin.

  I was breathless as she told me her story, two rounds of in vitro, and here she was with her miracle babies. Twins! I’d put my railway track plan behind me as I decided to focus on being positive and having faith, as she put it, in the future.

  I told Jolene about all of this as we sat having tea one day in her kitchen. Mercy was sitting with us playing with measuring spoons and a bowl of water. Her tea grew cold as she held the mug between her hands and listened with her brow furrowed. When I was done telling my story, she set her mug down and took both my hands.

  “Don’t ever think that again. You must tell me when you feel alone. Do you hear me, Fig? Life is a great big thing and you can’t let people ruin it for you.” By people I figured she meant George, but what she didn’t realize was that she was ruining it for me too.

  I swallowed the giant lump in my throat and nodded, swiping at a tear hanging out in the corner of my eye. She wasn’t all that bad. And when she said things while holding my hands, I actually believed her. Of course she didn’t want me to die, she didn’t know I was a threat to her perfect life. Or seemingly perfect, at any rate.

  “I’m trying not to be that person,” I said. “I’ve been fixated on trains for a while now and I’m stepping away!”

  “Train,” Mercy said, looking up. “Trains go choo-choo.”

  “Yes, they do. You’re the smartest girl on the planet,” I told her. She smiled real big and I swear to God I’ve never loved anything more than I did that little girl. Soon, my baby.

  “You can do great big things with your life,” Jolene said.

  I was moved by how earnest she was. I’d left my small town wanting to do great big things with my life but then … well … life happened. I used to want to do something to be remembered for, someone important. I wouldn’t even know where to start at this point.

  “What about you?” I asked her. “What things do you want to do?”

  She sat back in her chair and studied my face in a way that made me uncomfortable. She could flip a question, make it seem like your reaction to her answer told her something about you.

  “Besides being a mom?”

  “Besides that.”

  “Is there more to life than being a mom?” she asked, the corner of her mouth lifting in a smile.

  “Many people think so,” I said, half laughing.

  “And what do you think?” she asked, folding her hands in her lap. Her eyes were drilling into me, two awful brown weapons.

  “I think I don’t understand people who don’t want kids,” I said. “I think there’s something wrong with them.” She stared at me for a moment, that terrible resigned smile still holding her mouth.

  “Well, Mercy is not all I do. I suppose there are things you still don’t know about me yet…” Her voice trailed off.

  I glanced at Mercy who was too young to hear the tone in her mother’s voice. She was sipping water from the measuring cups, humming to herself. I wanted to tell her not to drink the water that her hands were playing in just seconds ago, but I refrained. Sometimes you just had to let kids be kids.

  “What do you mean?” I asked her.

  “Just things, Fig. We all have our little things.”

  “Come on,” I urged. “We’re friends, aren’t we?” I rearranged my face to look hurt, but I’m afraid I couldn’t hide the eagerness. “I just told you I do a suicide dance with trains…” Guilt, guilt always worked with people. I gave something to you; now give something to me.

  “I have hobbies.”

  I thought about the tiny blue bead I’d found in her mail. A little jewelry business on Etsy! I’d go home and buy something right away—wear it so she could see. I liked to support small businesses, especially ones owned by friends.

  Dutifully, I asked, “Hobbies? What kind of hobbies?”

  It already looked like she thought she’d said too much. She pressed her lips together and frowned down at the mug in her hands. I noticed that her nails were painted a bright watermelon pink, shiny like little candies.

  “I write,” she said, finally. She glanced at me unsure, it was something she didn’t care to talk about. I could see it in the way she was tensed up.

  “Oh,” I said, disappointed. I had been looking forward to a new necklace.

  “Have you ever had anything published?”

  “Sure, yeah. A couple things.” She was digging through the cabinet under the sink now, possibly looking for her stainless steel cleaner.

  “I write books under a pen name, and no one knows who I am.”

  I gasped. Like a real gasp. Then I picked up my mug and sipped on cold tea. I was trying to picture her as an author, but all I saw was the long dark hair and tattoos. She looked more like a bartender.

  “What’s your…”

  “-Don’t ask,” she cut me off. “I’m mortified enough.”

  “Okay,” I said, calmly. “Would I have read any of your books?”

  “Maybe…”

  I thought of my bookshelves at home. I hadn’t even unpacked my books yet. I’d been spending way too much time here.

  “What do you write about?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Struggles … life … the women who experience them.”

  “That’s not telling me very much,” I said, frowning.

  “I’m trying not to.”

  “Oh.” I suddenly felt hurt. I thought we were friends. I’d been working so hard at bonding with her, being the type of person she’d confide in. She wasn’t helping me here. I was trying to like her and she was keeping things from me. My hurt switched to anger, and I stood up. She couldn’t treat me this way. I wouldn’t allow it.

  “I gotta go,” I said. “I forgot I have a roast in the oven…” I couldn’t look her in the eyes. She was a deceiver.

  “Fig-”

  I kissed Mercy on top of her head and promised to see her soon then I headed for the door, passing Darius on the way out. I hadn’t even heard him come home.

  “Hey, Fig,” he said, as I marched past him.

  I threw a “Hi” over my shoulder and practically ran the rest of the way back to my house. He’d text to ask me what was wrong. I’d drag it out as long as I could. I liked it when people begged. Once I was locked inside I turned on my stereo and blasted the playlist I’d just recently put together. I called it The Blonde Spectator. As the music blasted, which I was sure they could hear over in the Avery house, I carefully unpacked my books, placing them in color-coded order like I’d seen on Pinterest. I studied the author photo on each one before placing them on the shelves. There were no pictures of Jolene. Surprise, surprise. An author … how could she not tell me? This was exactly the type of stunts women liked to pull. A power play, control. They wanted to build up their accomplishments then flaunt them at you when you were at your lowest. Now that
I was thinking about it, she did sort of have an artist vibe going on. The tattoos, the dramatic black hair, the way she did up her house. I turned and looked around my own living room—some of it unpacked, some of it still in boxes. Most of my things were hand-me-downs from my mother. I liked to think my style was mid-century modern. She wasn’t better than me. I’d show her who she was dealing with. I pulled out my laptop and typed Pinterest in the search bar. I hadn’t used my account since I first signed up years ago when George and I moved to Washington. Sure enough, I found Jolene Avery, and her account wasn’t on private. I scrolled through her boards: Recipes, Birthday Parties, Wedding, Home. I clicked on that one and let all the inspiration come to me.

  The morning after I stormed out of the Averys’ house and ordered an entire new living room, I found a package on my doorstep. I carried it into the kitchen and carefully unwrapped the brown paper, lifting the tape as to not tear it. Inside was a book. I turned it over in my hand. I hadn’t ordered a book, and besides, there was no address or stamp on the paper. That’s when it clicked. Jolene had left it on my doorstep. It was her book. She must have felt guilty after I left last night and brought it over as a sort of peace offering. It was called The Snow Cabin, and the author was Paige DeGama. There was no author photo, just a quick bio.

  Paige DeGama is a graduate of the University of Miami.

  A voracious reader and coffee drinker. She is the author of The Eating House, The Other Woman, Always, and Lie Lover.

  She resides in Seattle with her daughter and husband.

  I had to sit down. How could someone keep this sort of thing to themselves? It was a whole other life, an existence on paper. Was it because she wanted privacy? Or was there some other reason Jolene Avery didn’t want to claim her own books? I eyed the cover, a simple log cabin in the snow. Nothing R-rated, nothing foul like those half-nude kissing couples. I opened my laptop and searched the name: Paige DeGama. Hundreds of articles popped up: interviews with newspapers and magazines, websites devoted to talking about her books, there was even a fan page where people got downright swoony when they spoke about her. They speculated what she looked like, what her husband did for a living, and what they would say if they ever came face-to-face with her. One girl posted a picture of her new tattoo—a line from The Snow Cabin. There were hundreds of comments underneath it as people posted photos of their own tattoos—all from Paige’s books. It was all so sick and obsessive.

  What type of person created this sort of cultish mania? I tried to reconcile the woman from next door to this … person, this Paige DeGama. It was humorous really, that people cared that much about someone they didn’t know. I closed my MacBook and went to lie down on the couch, a headache starting to pound behind my eyes. The book was still lying on my chest when I woke. I told myself I’d just read one or two pages to get a feel for the book, but soon I was six chapters in and unable to put it down. I took an advanced lit class in college. My professor, an ex-nun, would often speak about the written word having rhythm and beat. I found myself enraptured by Jolene’s use of words, the staccato sentences blended with a rhythm that flowed so easily you just kept reading as to not disrupt it. Before I reached chapter seven I snapped the book closed, sore about the fact that she was so good. I felt depressed. I wandered over to the fridge, my go-to place when my mood took a downer. Therapy in brightly colored packages, filled with ingredients that went straight to my hips. But my fridge recently had a makeover, and instead of therapy, there were leafy greens and fruit. Nothing was going my way. I decided to take my book and read somewhere else. I couldn’t concentrate with Jolene in the house right next door. It felt like she was looming over my shoulder asking me what I thought.

  I drove north to Mukilteo to a little park near the beach, and I sat with my back leaning against the driftwood as I opened the book. After a while a train rumbled down the tracks, one of those cargo trains, carrying big loads of steel and wide logs. I snapped a picture as it went by and posted it to Instagram. Two minutes later, Jolene texted me.

  Where are you? Are you okay?

  I paused, wondering why she would ask me that, and then it clicked—the train, my story the other day. She thought I was suicidal.

  Yeah, I’m okay. Why?

  The little bubble that appears to say she was typing popped up, then disappeared. What would she say? I saw your picture of the train and I’m just making sure you’re not running toward it?

  The train- she sent back right away.

  I’ll be okay. Just a little down. I set my phone down in the sand and read a couple pages before I looked at it again. When I did I saw that she’d texted twice.

  Where are you?

  And then:

  I’m getting in my car…

  I imagined her grabbing her keys, giving a hasty explanation to Darius, who was probably cooking dinner, and jumping in her car to what? Save me? Did she think she could get here in time if I decided to step in front of a train? Or maybe she thought she could talk me down using the generic your life has meaning speech? I hate to tell you this, Jolene, but my life does have meaning. My meaning was Mercy.

  I texted her back ten minutes later when I knew she was probably on the freeway.

  I’ve already left. I’m alive. Thanks for caring. Then I turned off my phone so I didn’t have to see anything else from her. I was reading her book and that was enough. It was stressful being in the mind of someone so … self-absorbed. Her character, Neena, was all wrapped up in self-loathing, which I had to assume came directly from Jolene’s own experience. I wondered what Darius thought of this book when he read it. And then it dawned on me that maybe he hadn’t read it. Because if he had, surely he would have Baker Acted her ass.

  I was grumpy as I made my way to my car ten minutes later, having just finished a chapter where Neena burned her own skin with a lighter. Mary and Joseph—what was wrong with this woman? I tucked the book under the passenger seat so I didn’t have to look at it. Emo—that was the word for it. When I got home forty minutes later, Jolene was sitting on my front porch, a worried expression on her face.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, jumping up. “I was so worried.”

  “Why?” I asked. “I just needed some time to think. I like it at the water, clears my head.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I just saw the train and I assumed…”

  “You were wrong,” I said, simply. I decided not to tell her that I was reading her book and instead walked to my door, giving her the cold shoulder.

  My sister caught her good-for-nothing husband sending dick pics to a girl from work. She called me sobbing while I was at Darius and Jolene’s, and I had to step outside to talk to her.

  “Come visit,” I said, right away. “Book your flight and just come. You need a few days to clear your head. Besides, I don’t like you being alone with that sex maniac right now.”

  “All right,” she said, her voice raspy. “I’ll book it now.” I stayed on the phone with her until she had, then I went back inside.

  “I hate men,” Jolene said. I saw Darius raise his eyebrows, and I wanted to smile. “You’ll have to bring her by so we can meet her. If she’s up to it, I mean. It’s a really hard thing she’s going through. Maybe we can help cheer her up.”

  I nodded. “She’d like that. It’ll be her first time out here, actually.”

  “How did he get caught?” Darius asked. He was trying to mash the potatoes for Jolene, making a big show of not knowing how to use the KitchenAid. She shoved him aside with her hip, and he reached out and smacked her butt playfully. I laughed watching them. They always put on a good show.

  “His phone. Don’t they always get caught that way?”

  Darius nodded. “Technology is the doom of the cheating man.”

  “Yuuup,” I said. “But, knowing my sister, she’ll stay with him. So, I can’t talk too much shit, you know. Puts me in a bad place. He’s a bastard, though.”

  We moved over to the formal living room and Darius lit a fire.
I noticed that Jolene had added a metal replica of the Space Needle to the mantel above the fireplace.

  “Where did you get that?” I asked her.

  “Incidentally, the Space Needle,” she said. “Why? You gonna buy one too?”

  “Not my style,” I tossed back. “It’s a little kitschy.”

  Darius choked on his drink. I hadn’t meant to say it. Sometimes that just happened to me and I blurted things out—I had no filter, George always said.

  I walked over to the mantel to examine it. You could love Seattle, sure, but putting lowbrow art in your home to illustrate it seemed … desperate. Like, what were you trying to prove? I could guarantee you I loved Seattle more than Jolene, but I wasn’t going to run out and get a tattoo of the Space Needle to prove it. I suddenly felt very competitive about it. She’d only been here a few years longer than me anyway. That didn’t say anything. She thought she was more of a hipster Seattleite than I was, and that was bullshit.

  “I’ll have to take my sister,” I said. “To the Needle. She’d like that.”

  “We had dinner up there,” said Darius. “The restaurant spins.” He made a circle motion with his finger and whistled. Such a dork. They were that couple who were always doing something.

  “How did you two meet?” I asked Jolene when there was a break in conversation. She automatically reached for the wine and refilled her glass. Wow. Telling.