Bad Mommy(8)

“A partial foil,” I told the receptionist breathlessly, “to match my daughter’s hair color.”

When I locked up and walked along the pavement to the Averys’ house in the expensive silver flats I’d bought just last week, my keys dangling from the tip of my finger, I felt lighter than I had in months. It was like the universe was opening up like a flower, paying me back for all of the suffering I’d endured. It was my time, and I wasn’t going to let anything stop me. Not George, and especially not myself.



Jolene Avery was not at all what I expected. Neither was the inside of her house. I hadn’t put too much thought into the house, I’d been too busy thinking of Mercy, the little girl in the house, to wonder what sort of living room and kitchen she spent her days in. I’d imagined something messy, holiday trinkets. Colorful afghans, chipped mismatched dinner plates from the Thrifty City. But, when I walked through the front door, opened by Mercy with Jolene watching from the kitchen doorway, I was taken aback. Everything was neat, tasteful. Light grey sofas squared around a white shag rug, in the center of which sat a teal leather ottoman. Her coffee table books had Kurt Cobain and Jimmy Hendrix on the cover. And on the wall was a large framed picture of a propeller plane set against the backdrop of billowing clouds. Jolene must have seen the shock on my face, because she said, “In another life I was an interior decorator.” I thought about the little blue bead in my junk drawer at home. My hand suddenly itched to hold it. It had a purpose. Someone who did up their house like this had something special planned for a tiny azure bead. I snapped out of my daze when Mercy pointed to my shoes and said, “Siver.”

“Yes, they are silver,” I said, dropping to my haunches to look her in the eyes. “Aren’t you a clever little girl.”

“Siver,” she said again.

“You can come right through to the kitchen,” Bad Mommy said, turning and walking through the wide arched doorway.

I gave one last fleeting look at the white stone fireplace and followed her, Mercy at my heels.

“Your house gets such wonderful light,” I said.

“Isn’t it lovely?” she said. “It’s why we bought it. Darius always says that if you’re going to live in Seattle, you find the house with the best light, or you’ll get depressed.”

“And do you?” I asked. It was an entirely inappropriate question to ask someone you’d just met an hour ago, but it slipped out before I could stop it.

Bad Mommy paused in her slicing of the cake. Her kitchen was just as charming as her living room—all stainless steel and white with a few emerald green accent pieces.

“I suppose sometimes I do,” she said. “When I’m alone often and I get lonely.” I was struck by her honest answer, and more struck by the fact that I related to her.

“What does your husband do?” I asked. “I’m sorry, am I asking too many questions? I do that.”

She waved me away. “Don’t be silly, that’s what people do when they’re getting to know each other.”

She set a slice of chocolate cake down in front of me, the one she had claimed wasn’t very good, and went to pour the coffee. I could hear Mercy in the other room, her little voice loud and shrill from whatever game she was playing.

“He’s a psychologist,” she said. “He has his own practice in Ballard.”

“Oh!” I said. “How fancy.”

“What do you do, Fig?” she asked. I was startled that she said my name. Most people didn’t say your name when they were speaking to you.

“I build websites,” I said. “Freelance.”

“Cool,” she said, dropping a mug of coffee in front of me, and then heading to the fridge to fetch the cream. “And did you grow up in Washington?”

I shook my head. “Small town in Wisconsin. I moved here with my husband after we got married,” I said.

“Are you still…”

“It’s a long story,” I said. “Complicated. It’s hard to make marriage work.”

“Are you okay?” she asked.

No one had ever asked me that question before. How did you answer something like that?

“I’m trying to be,” I said, honestly.

I thought she’d pry more, but she just set the sugar and cream in front of me and smiled.

The cake was good. Delicious. That’s when I knew she was a liar. No one baked cake that tasted that good and didn’t know it.

Mercy trotted into the kitchen after a few minutes and tugged on Bad Mommy’s shirt.

“Are you tired, or do you want cake?” she asked.

“Cake,” said Mercy. And then added, “Please.”

Bad Mommy praised her for her please and then cut her an extra large slice.

While I was finishing off my coffee, the dregs of sugar rolling around in my mouth, Darius Avery arrived home. I heard the bang of the front door and loud squealing from Mercy as she threw herself at him. He came into the kitchen a minute later with her perched on his hip, a briefcase in his free hand. He was better looking up close. Bad Mommy grew visibly flustered when she saw him, her cheeks flushed with color, and her eyes … dare I say … sparkling? I watched them, remembering my first observation of him in the drive. He’d looked happy. Now they all looked happy, and I suddenly felt like I was intruding on something private I wasn’t supposed to see. I shifted on my stool uncomfortably until she remembered I was there.