Bad Mommy(16)

“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, too. 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.

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.