Bad Mommy(17)

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.