Bad Mommy(21)

I nodded and squeezed her harder, but I didn’t agree. George had felt like prison right from the start. I made the best of it, but desperately wanted a way out. Tessa had a clear-cut path to freedom. People would judge her less harshly if she left her cheating husband. It was never that easy for me. The situation with George had been—was—different. He was dead inside, but he’d never really done anything wrong.

On her last night I kept my promise and took her to the Space Needle for dinner. For once her phone was away and she was smiling. Mike had sent flowers to the house that morning, two-dozen red roses. Once she saw them, the watery look in her eyes disappeared and she had a new resolve about her. We wandered around the large gift shop before it was our time to ride the elevator upstairs, touching sweatshirts, and shaking snow globes, laughing and being sisters. Tessa saw me eyeing the metal replica of the Space Needle that I’d seen in Jolene’s house.

“You should get it,” she said. “It would look good in your new, fabulous house.”

I bit my lip, undecided. It was pricey. But, I wanted it.

“I can’t,” I said. “New house responsibilities.”

Before I could protest, she snatched it from the shelf.

“I want to get it for you,” she said. “For hosting your annoying little sister.”

“Okay.” I smiled, excited. I knew exactly where I’d put it.

When Tessa and I got home after dinner, there were at least a dozen boxes waiting on my doorstep.

“I went a little overboard,” I said, guiltily.

“Nonsense,” she said. “You went a little Tessa.”

We laughed and carried them inside. I unwrapped my Space Needle first, setting it on the mantel above the fireplace. Then together we unpacked my new teal living room on my kitchen floor, passing a bottle of Prosecco back and forth. Yes, this was me. This was who I was now.



She was sitting on the back stairs smoking a cigarette, elbows on knees, and her hair in disarray. I didn’t know she smoked and I’d never smelled it on her. Mercy was nowhere to be seen—in bed probably. The house was mostly dark except for the pantry light, which I could see was on through the kitchen window. I debated walking around the front of the house and knocking on the door, but chances were she wouldn’t hear the knock, and I didn’t want to wake Mercy with the doorbell. I decided to try the garden gate. Blackberry vines covered it. The thorns stung my hand as I pushed them aside to reach the latch. I knew she saw me when I shoved it open and walked through to their yard, but she didn’t smile or acknowledge I was there. A chill ran through me.

“Jolene?” I said, tentatively. “Are you all right?”’

No response. I took a few more steps forward. I could smell her cigarette now, stale and strong. Cigarettes gave me terrible headaches.

“Jolene…” I said again, now a mere three steps away. Her eyes moved from the ground to my face where she suddenly looked surprised to see me.

“Fig, you scared the living shit out of me,” she said, rubbing her fingers across her forehead.

“Why are you back here?” I asked. “Where’s Mercy and Darius?”

Jolene waved away my question, sending a cloud of smoke my way.

“Darius took her to his mother’s for the weekend. She lives in Olympia.”

“Oh,” I said, sitting down next to her. “Why didn’t you go with?”

“Because his mother is a cunt.”

“Oh,” I said, again. “What does Darius think about you not going?”

She stubbed her cigarette out on the concrete and looked at me, her eyes bloodshot.

“Does it matter?”

I had a million things to say about that, like—yes, it does matter. And—marriage takes compromise. And—when you get married to someone, you marry their whole family. But something told me my opinion wouldn’t matter tonight. Or maybe ever.

“Did you have a fight?” I asked her. “Is that why…”

“-Why I’m drinking and smoking?” she finished. “No, Fig. I actually do these things every once in a while and it doesn’t have anything to do with Darius and me having a fight.”

I felt stung. Chided like a small child.

“I’ll just leave you be then,” I said, standing up. Her eyes suddenly softened and she grabbed my hand.

“I’m sorry. Here,” she said, lighting up a cigarette and handing it to me. It was thin and long, something I imagined Cruella de Vil smoking. I wanted to tell her I didn’t smoke, but it seemed like a peace offering, and I wanted to hear if she had anything worthwhile to say. She lit up another of her own and placed it between her very red lips. Had she gone out? I hadn’t seen her car leave. She was wearing ripped black jeans and black boots. I suppose if you were the emo type or one of those suicide girls, you’d leave the house looking like that. I took a puff of the cigarette and immediately started coughing. Nasty.

“I want to be a good friend to you,” I said, suddenly. “It’s not always easy to talk to your everyday friends about things—they land up judging you and then things get awkward.”

She looked at me with interest now, so I kept going. “But, if you had a neighbor, someone neutral to bounce things off of—or maybe just to vent to—that would be perfect.”