Mothered (27)



“Did you move out this way?”

“No, kind of the opposite,” said Grace. “I recently bought my first place, in Greenfield.”

“Nice, congrats! We moved up to Mount Washington—I’m glad you’re working on this side of the river now.”

They shared an insider’s laugh. For a city chock full of bridges and tunnels, the locals preferred to avoid them. It was easier to be clannish about your neighborhood and skip the inevitably slower traffic that came with every approach to every bridge and every tunnel. Outsiders didn’t understand what it was really like living in a city divided by three large rivers.

Later, when she replayed the morning in her head, Grace couldn’t recall if she’d been paying proper attention. It was unlike her to let her concentration lapse, but maybe she’d let herself get distracted when Marley opened up about her exciting career updates. Somehow in the middle of the haircut, immersed in a comfortable routine—Grace with her scissors, Marley with her chatter—the comedian let out a yelp of pain.

Grace froze. She knew what was going to happen before Marley, clenching her teeth, even reached for her ear.

Of course it was her ear. How bad was it? Dear God she couldn’t have cut off Marley’s—

“Are you okay?” Grace asked in a panic. “I’m so sorry!”

Heads turned at the raised voices.

“It’s nothing . . .” Marley pressed a finger on a spot near the top of her left ear.

“Are you sure? I am so sorry.”

“I’m sure.” Marley moved her finger away; her ear was pink where she’d rubbed it.

Grace got light headed, as if she’d taken too big a hit off a bong, reassured to see that it was a very minor injury. Only a tiny smile of blood. Smaller than a paper cut. She withheld the urge to overdo her relief. It was just a scratch—which was inexcusable but better than the alternative.

“I’m sure we have a first aid kit.” Grace frantically looked around for Allison, but all she saw were the judgmental eyes of complete strangers.

“I don’t need that, it’s barely bleeding.”

“I’m really, really sorry, bordering on mortified.”

Marley let out a booming laugh. “Well, at least my haters can keep calling me the One-Joke Wonder rather than the One-Ear Wonder.”

While Grace appreciated Marley’s good sense of humor, the slipup was a bad follow-up to a bad start. Grace knew she wouldn’t take a penny from this first client at her new gig—she’d never let someone pay her for cutting something other than hair. A free haircut was the least she could offer, but it wouldn’t guarantee Marley ever coming back.



After her crap day was over, Grace got stuck in traffic again. The commute was proving to be worse than she’d feared, and for some inexplicable reason, every radio station was playing songs that reminded her of Hope, a vexing soundtrack of the music her sister used to love. Grace felt trapped beyond the obvious walling in of the cars around her. She wasn’t a superstitious person, at least not more so than anyone else, but signs were pointing to the continuing downward spiral of her luck. The one truly good thing that had happened in recent weeks—the new job—felt like it was slipping away. She’d never had a workday where she was so off her game, and without the certainty of the thing she was really good at, Grace wasn’t even sure who she was.

Her stomach rumbled. Oh right, she’d almost forgotten: more problems were brewing inside her, the very thought of which squelched her hunger.

Suffocating in the standstill, she took out her one reliable friend, her phone. For a second she considered which damsel to check on but ended up placing a call to Miguel instead. She tried to hold back the tears so her voice wouldn’t sound weird. It rang and rang. He wasn’t going to answer, but she didn’t know why. Her voice cracked with emotion as she left a message.

“Hey. I don’t know what’s going on—I really need to talk to you. Are you okay? I’m shit. Just, everything’s falling apart. Please call me. Miss you. Love you.”

When she finally got home she felt as if, in the course of an endless day, she’d driven halfway across the country and back. And fought a losing war without proper armor or munitions. Jackie had taken over the living room, watching TV as she sorted through her latest shipment of kitchen stuff. Boxes and packing material were tossed everywhere. After kicking off her shoes, Grace went through the dining room to get to the kitchen.

“Sorry about the mess in here, I’ll clean it up,” Jackie called after her.

“Whatever,” Grace mumbled. She filled a sports bottle with water and headed for the stairs, ready to lock herself in her room.

“You don’t want any supper? I’ve got it all portioned out in microwaveable containers—glass, not plastic—in the fridge. Walnut and mushroom risotto with steamed asparagus.”

“Maybe later, thanks.” She saw now that her mother was unpacking more Pyrex, various shapes and sizes with matching lids.

“Gray?”

Instead of answering, Grace—lifeless, robotic—came down the stairs backward until she could see her mother.

“Rough day?” Jackie asked.

“Yeah. I’m just gonna . . . Need some downtime.”

“I’m sorry, hon. I wish I could make everything better.”

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