Bad Mommy(56)

“She’s no friend,” Amanda’s voice trailed off.

“What do you mean? Do you know something? You have to tell me.”

I heard her sigh into the phone. “Look, I didn’t want to get involved. I know you like your projects. But, while you were in France with Darius she came here.”

“Yeah…” I said. I vaguely remembered seeing photos of them in front of the water near Amanda’s house. Fig had looked drunk; Amanda was humoring her.

“She spoke about you. Like, for hours. Ask Hollis if you don’t believe me. She went on and on about how you and Darius didn’t belong together. She was drunk, so I gave her that. But, then she started talking about some spoon she found on the pier. Something about Darius and a story he told her. She thinks the spoon is a sign that … I don’t know. This is all crazy.”

I poured myself a glass of wine, right to the top of the glass. It was so full I had to bend down and sip some off the top so it wouldn’t spill when I picked it up.

“What’s the spoon a sign for?” I asked.

“That everything is going to be all right? Work out her way. Who knows, that bitch is bat shit crazy.”

I sighed into the phone. Amanda was my most levelheaded friend. Darius was my husband. If both of them were calling Fig bat shit crazy they were probably right. Right?

I chugged the rest of my wine. So classy.

“Jolene,” Amanda said, “promise me something.”

“What?”

“Don’t ever leave Mercy with her, okay?”

I got chills. I didn’t leave Mercy with anyone but my mother, but Fig had been asking—begging. She was relentless about watching my daughter.

“Okay,” I said, weakly. “But, we don’t know anything for sure, right?”

“Jo, she showed us a video. Of you and Darius fighting. She taped you.”

“What the fuck?” I breathed into the phone. I rubbed a hand across my face, suddenly feeling so tired. I would have to wake Darius up for this. He needed to know.

“I have to tell Darius,” I said. “This is getting weird. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

We hung up, and I walked into the living room where Darius was still fast asleep on the couch.

“Darius,” I said. He stirred, opening his eyes and smiling at me. “We need to talk. It’s about Fig.”



I couldn’t stand to be in the house. It was stifling. I turned down the heat, opened the window. Darius kept things too hot. The cold air on my skin helped for a bit, but then I was anxious again, moving, wandering from room to room, chewing on my nails and waiting for something to happen. But why? I was uneasy because of a neighbor who took things a little too far? That sounded silly even to a writer. Maybe I just needed fresh scenery, a change of pace. Darius suggested I try to write at a coffee shop, so on Thursday I slipped my MacBook into my bag and drove the five miles to Venetian Coffee. The traffic to get there was awful, but I liked the shiny, tiled floors, and the stern owner who chastised you for using Starbucks terminology in his shop. I used to write there when Darius first opened his practice just so I could be near him. He’d walk over on his break and we’d share an apple fritter before he’d go back for his afternoon patients. That’s when the relationship was young, before I could have found something closer, but I’d written an entire novel from Venetian and I was looking to find my luck again. I parked near the entrance and walked in, anticipating the pale glow and chilled out atmosphere that had always helped me write. Instead, I walked directly into Fig, who was carrying her coffee from the counter to a table. She looked momentarily shocked to see me too, then wiped her face clean of emotion and greeted me with her usual, “Hey there.”

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

She motioned to a table where her laptop was set up. “Working. They have the best apple fritters here.”

“Oh yeah?” I said, licking my lips. “I’ll have to try one.”

“Have you spoken to Darius?” she asked. Was there uncertainty on her face, or was I just imagining things?

“Well, yes. I speak to him all the time, he’s my husband.”

“He was just in here,” she said, quickly. “Got his coffee to go.” She reached up to swipe a stray strand of hair from her face, and it was then that I noticed her bracelet as it caught the light. It was one of those bangle things everyone was wearing, but it was the charm that caught my eye, a tiny silver snake, coiled like it was ready to strike.

Fig didn’t like snakes. I’d heard her say it five, six, seven times. Why? Because Darius and I had been talking about his ex-fiancée who was deathly afraid of the creatures. Fig had said, “I don’t blame her, I’ve never liked them either.”

Her words rang in my head as I watched the little charm dangle from her wrist. But, Darius loved snakes. He loved them so much that there were snake coffee table books scattered around the house. He’d petitioned me for a pet snake for Mercy just months ago, a coral corn snake, he’d said, pulling up pictures for me to see. I had a snake tattoo, a souvenir from my Harry Potter days when I claimed Slytherin House; it was what had drawn Darius to me all those years ago in college. We were snake people, and Fig was not. So, why was she wearing a snake? My first thought was: because she is one. Or maybe, she was in love with one.