Mothered (19)

Miguel would call or text later; she was sure of it. He was good about doing stuff like that after a social engagement, a quick “Thanks for supper, let’s do it again soon,” and she’d be able to tell by his tone if they were okay. Maybe he’d even come right out and say, “Well that was an interesting development.” If he was as chill and nonchalant as ever, she’d know it was just another of those viscous dreams.

As she left the bathroom, she saw through Jackie’s open bedroom door her neatly made bed. Something made Grace step into the doorway. Her eye had always been adept at catching things before her brain fully grasped what she was seeing. As a child she’d loved, and been good at, the What’s Different? game, where two cluttered pictures lay side by side and she needed to find all the things that were different between them. Now she saw it right away, but in her disoriented state, it took a moment for the significance to register.

Jackie had added a framed photograph to her wall. The picture of Hope that Miguel had taken down.

That was good, right? Jackie could’ve just hung it back up in the living room. Still, Grace felt the queasy hollowing that came with a reprimand. Fine, if your walls are too precious . . .

When a morning started wonky, coffee became an even more urgent need. She couldn’t recall a morning quite as through-the–looking glass as this, but she plodded downstairs in pursuit of the only cure she knew to try.



The kitchen counter was covered with decapitated dolls’ heads. Her mother had a large butcher knife.

Grace blinked, frozen in place. No, not heads. What the fuck is wrong with me? Fruit—oranges and apples and peaches.

“Gray?” There was uncertainty in her mom’s voice. “You don’t look so good.”

“Hangover.” Grace tugged at the hem of her nightshirt, suddenly self-conscious of her bare legs. She headed for the cabinet with the coffee but then couldn’t remember where her mom had moved it. “I need coffee—where’s the coffee?”

She heard herself on the verge of panic. Jackie calmly retrieved and handed her the pouch of dark roast. Feeling sicker by the minute, Grace went to the sink to fill the pot with water.

“Hon, I don’t mean to interfere, but . . . Can I make you something more nourishing?”

In her peripheral vision, Grace was fairly certain her mom looked concerned, but then the fruit turned into dolls’ heads again. No, not dolls’ heads—babies’ heads. Juicy and bleeding where her mother had severed them at the neck.

Grace slapped a cupped palm over her mouth to keep from screaming or vomiting. Her brain was blurry. Her eyes were confused.

“Okay, I know what you need . . .” Her mom took the pot of water from her and wrapped an arm around Grace’s shoulders. Jackie led her out of the kitchen and into the living room, making a beeline for the sofa.

“Ollie was such a nice kid,” Jackie said, “but sometimes he smoked a little too much—and I don’t think it was always pot, maybe some mushrooms too.” She plumped a cushion beneath Grace’s head as she lay down. After the three-day drive from Florida, Ollie had helped get Jackie’s furniture into the house; Grace agreed, he was nice. But he’d fled the second the trailer was empty, with barely a goodbye. “For all I know he dropped acid and took pills. Anyway, sometimes he got all cross-eyed and needed something healthy in his system to flush it out. And you’re in luck—I was just about to make a fruit shake.”

“Where’d all”—those heads—“that fruit come from?” Her couch was so comfy, her favorite place to lounge or nap.

“I walked to the Giant Eagle.”

Even half-obliterated, Grace registered Jackie’s pride. The supermarket was an easy five-minute walk away, but Grace hadn’t been sure if that was an activity her mother could—or would—do. “Good. That’s good.”

“I’ll be back in a jiff.” Jackie bounded away. How could she move so quickly?

Grace was starting to feel better now that she was lying down. It wasn’t so bad, actually, having someone around to help her through a rough morning. From the kitchen, a blade thwacked against wood, a short, sharp percussion of whack-whack-whack-whack. Then the blender whirred to life.

Jackie returned with a tall glass of pastel sludge. “Apples, peaches, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and a fat dollop of plain yogurt. And wheat germ. I take mine with some brewer’s yeast, but a lotta people can’t stand that. And I got some veggies to make some green juices too, though I think we’re gonna need a proper juicer.”

“Thank you.” Grace took a gulp of the fruit shake. Lumpy yet refreshing goo slid down her throat. “Mm. It’s good.”

“I’m glad you like it. Just what you needed.” Beaming, her mother watched her drink for a moment.

Grace relaxed, soothed by the perky sweetness of the vitamin-rich fruit. Through the back window she saw blue sky and was heartened by the thought that the day could yet turn out just fine.





13


After a lazy weekend, Grace got up early on Monday and messaged some of her stylist friends to see who might know of any openings. The person she really wanted to ask was Miguel, but he hadn’t called or texted, and the longer he remained at large, the more worried she became that they had, oh shit, crossed a boundary in their relationship.