Bad Mommy(7)

“Hello, I’m Fig. What’s your name?”

She was wearing a little pink tutu and a T-shirt that said Daddy’s Princess in silver letters. When I spoke, she immediately stopped what she was doing to give me her undivided attention.

“Fig,” she said, in a sweet voice, and then she giggled. I couldn’t help but smile.

“Yes, Fig,” I said. “That’s my name.” I pointed to myself. “What’s yours?” I jabbed a finger in her direction. I was leaning over the fence to see her, almost too far. An inch more and I’d have toppled forward.

She looked over her shoulder for Bad Mommy, presumably. Yes, where was she, anyway? Leaving the tiny thing out in the yard by herself. Why, she could just wander off … or be taken.

“Where’s your ba-mommy?” I asked her.

She pointed to the back door. I could hear the clank and clatter of dishes coming through the kitchen window. Some sort of folk music played and a woman’s voice sang along.

“Mommy,” she said, pointing to the house. There were remnants of blue paint on her tiny fingernails. I longed to reach out and touch her fingers, caress her. I was about to say something else when I heard a voice calling. I straightened up quickly, neutralizing my face.

“Mercy … Mercy Moon…” Bad Mommy walked out the back door drying her hands on a checkered dishtowel. She was wearing coveralls and her hair was piled on top of her head in a giant black hive.

“Mercy, who are you talking to?”

I blinked. Was that her name? They’d named her Mercy Moon? I smiled halfheartedly. Bad Mommy sauntered toward us, her hand held over her eyes to shield them from the sun.

“Hello,” I called out. “I’m Fig. I just moved in. Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare your little girl. I know she’s probably not supposed to talk to strangers.”

Bad Mommy smiled at me. Full white teeth to match her wife beater. “Hey there. So nice to meet you. My name’s Jolene. This is Mercy.” The little girl, already bored by the new person, was squatting in the grass and poking at a bug with a stick.

“Don’t hurt that bug, Mercy, it’s a living thing.”

“How old is she?” I asked.

“Mercy, tell Miss Fig how old you are,” Jolene prodded. “Mercy…”

Mercy threw down her stick to hold up two chubby fingers.

“I would have had one. She would have been two this last January,” I said, glancing at Mercy.

Jolene made the face that all people made when you tell them you lost a baby—sympathetic mixed with mild relief that it wasn’t them. Yeah? Fuck you.

“Mercy turned two in September, didn’t you, love?” she asked, stroking the little girl’s head. “We had a pony party.”

“Pony,” said Mercy, looking up from her bug hunting. I wanted to clap my hands in glee. I loved horses, as a child I’d had my own pony party and dressed up like a cowgirl.

I looked at Mercy. It was actually lovely on her. The tiny embodiment of benevolence. Perfect little wonder to the world and none of us, not one, deserved her.

“I like ponies.” And then to Bad Mommy, “Is your last name Moon?”

She shook her head, grinning. “No, that’s her middle name. Her dad’s choice. Our last name is Avery.”

“Mine’s Coxbury,” I told her. I used my maiden name and it felt good. It felt so good I shimmied my shoulders a little when I said it.

Fig Coxbury sounded like a little dance.

“You should come over for some coffee, Fig. I baked too, but my baking’s not very good unless it’s from a box, and it’s not from a box this time, I’m afraid.” She took hold of Mercy’s shoulders, the way mothers do, and smiled at me. It was a genuine smile, but I resented her for the way she was touching Mercy.

“Love to. Just need to run in to turn off some lights,” I said, nodding back toward the house. “I’m still unpacking, so it’ll be a nice distraction to get out for a bit.”

There’s a gate there.” Jolene pointed to some bushes a little farther left to where I was standing. “You can’t see it because it’s hidden by the brambles, but if you push them aside you should be able to jimmy the lock and get through. Give it a hard shove. These houses belonged to a mother and daughter years ago,” she said, looking back at her own. “They put in the gate so the grandchildren could get back and forth without having to go around the front.”

Well, isn’t that fitting? And they still do.

“You can come around the front if you’re more comfortable…”

“No, that’s just fine,” I said, sweetly. “I’ll be right over. Just let me wash up.”

I watched them walk inside, Mercy’s hand tucked inside Jolene’s. Was it a loose grip? Did she wish it was my hand? I rushed back inside searching frantically for my green cardi and hairbrush. It wouldn’t do to go visiting without wearing something nice. Children liked bright colors, didn’t they? I studied myself in the mirror. I’d put on some weight since all of the trouble started. I was thicker around the middle, and my face, which was normally long and thin, was round and full. I reached up and touched my hair, which was starting to show silver at the roots. When I was a child it had been the color of Mercy’s hair. Somewhere in my twenties it changed from the cornsilk to a dirty dishwater blonde. And no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t get it to grow. Not past my chin anyway. I pictured the pile of thick black hair on top of Jolene’s head and frowned. Probably those extensions. I’d get it colored tomorrow, I decided. A color and trim as a treat for myself. Mercy would like that, if we had the same hair. Before I left the house I made a call to my salon and scheduled it for the next day.