Mothered (54)

Her mother should be more understanding, that was the crux of Grace’s resentment. Grace slipped into her version of a muumuu—a sleeveless, stretched-out jersey dress—with a sports bra underneath it to cover any side boob. The more she dwelled on everything, the more determined she became to excavate whatever skeletons her mother might be hiding in her metaphorical—or literal—closet. Did Jackie really think she was so perfect? It made Grace consider, again, the little locked box. Her mother had a secret, and Grace needed to know what it was. Perhaps it was something that would put them back on even ground, where they were both less than angelic.

The headache she’d awakened with was almost gone, thanks to the curative properties of Grace’s desired revenge. Like little Davy from her dream, she needed good ammunition. Her mother was treating her unfairly and deserved a dose of her own judgmental medicine.



Grace would’ve preferred to go out to the backyard and sit in the sun. She wasn’t enjoying being in the same room with her mother, and the house smelled weird—beyond her mother’s embedded perfume, which Grace had acclimated to and could barely detect anymore. But if she went outside she might miss an opportunity to hunt for the box’s missing key. Maybe Jackie would take a nap on the sofa. Or a long bath. (And if that meant Grace would have to help her naked, slippery mother out of the tub, as she’d done on previous occasions, so be it.)

As they folded the towels that Grace had just laundered, Jackie sat mesmerized by the sales pitch on her favorite channel. A pair of identical twins were peddling a “stylish yet versatile” luggage set, which Grace thought was an especially cruel thing to hawk during a global pandemic when no one could travel; Jackie seemed unaware of the irony. The twins were of an indeterminate age thanks to Botox, and they had the irritating habit of finishing the ends of their sentences in unison. At least Hope and I are never that annoying.

She caught herself the instant she thought it—the instant she put her sister in the present tense.

That hadn’t happened in almost twenty-five years. It was the dreams, she told herself. Hope was on her mind more than she’d ever been. Grace tuned out the television and opened her laptop. If she was going to apply for a job, she’d need to make a résumé—which would be short, given that she’d worked at Barbara’s for most of her adult life—but for now she investigated her various employment options. She was leaning toward a delivery job, as it would get her out of the house, but a customer-service position might pay better or at least more reliably without its reliance on tips. No part of her wanted to stop being a hairstylist, but the pandemic’s resolution kept moving farther away. Steady work might help preserve her sanity.

Jackie stacked the towels neatly in the mesh tote. She covered her mouth with her hand as she yawned.

“You didn’t sleep well?” Grace asked, for the sake of politeness. Jackie wasn’t the one with eggplant-colored bags under her eyes from constant fitful nights.

“That cat was making a racket.”

Grace suppressed her grin but was pleased to see Coco so comfortable on the floor beneath the big window, comatose in a diamond of sunshine.

“I don’t have to work down here, if you want to nap with the TV,” Grace offered.

“No, better not. Best to get through the day and go to bed tired.” Jackie sat up a little, gazing toward the front window. “I wouldn’t mind sitting on the porch though, if you can take a chair out.”

Grace had to restrain herself from throwing aside her laptop and jumping up to haul whatever Jackie wanted out of the house.

“I have the folding chairs that go with the card table. Or I have a camp chair. It’s a little raggedy, but comfortable.” Coco lifted her head when Grace flitted past on her way to the basement.

“The camp chair’s probably better.”



Ninety seconds later Grace was on the front porch, placing the camp chair in a shady corner.

“You only have the one?” Jackie asked.

“I’ll have to get some outdoor furniture one of these days. Is this good?”

Jackie eased herself down. Smiled. “Nice. I can watch the cars go by. The people. It’s not too muggy today. Sure you won’t join me?”

“I have to work on my résumé.” Grace opened the screen door.

“Gray? Bring me a glass of iced tea, please?”

Sure, if it made her mom happy enough to stay outside for a while. Grace hurried to the kitchen and filled a sports bottle with ice and Jackie’s sun-brewed tea.

“Thanks, hon,” Jackie said as Grace handed it to her. At least she’d earned a hon.

“I’m gonna go work at my desk—it’s better for my back. Do you have your phone on you, in case you need anything?”

“And call you from the porch? I think I can just yell really loud.” Jackie smirked. “I’m fine Grace, you don’t need to hover.”

“Okay . . .” Grace knew she was failing some sort of subtlety test, overcompensating to hide her motive. She slipped inside, pondering her options if Jackie caught her in the act.

The solution came with a snap of her fingers: she could claim she was doing some housekeeping. Before heading upstairs, she went down to the basement landing and grabbed the bucket of cleaning supplies—paper towels, all-purpose spray cleaner, a dust rag, the bottle of Febreze.