Bad Mommy

by Tarryn Fisher

  Darius nodded. “I told her I was going to be there for a conference next week, and she asked if we could have coffee.”

  “You should see her,” Jolene said. “If she has no one else, maybe you can help.”

  Darius’s eyes flashed like he was angry she’d suggest such a thing.

  “She’s my ex-girlfriend, Jolene. Doesn’t that matter to you?”

  Her chin jutted defiantly as her eyes filled with tears. “No, of course not. I trust you. If she’s in trouble, you’re equipped to help. You’re a psychologist, for God’s sake.”

  “I’m sure she has help,” he said under his breath, turning away and pouring himself another drink.

  I stood as still as I could, afraid that if they remembered I was there all of this would stop.

  “It was just a suggestion, Darius. I didn’t mean anything by it,” she said, softly.

  Darius leaned with his back against the counter, running the rim of his glass across his lower lip. He was different in that moment, perhaps too much to drink. I shivered at the wild look in his eyes.

  “She still has feelings for me. Is that what you want, Jo? For her to come on to me so you can do your own thing?”

  “That’s sick,” Jolene spat. She stood up from the table, her phone falling to the kitchen floor with a loud bang.

  “Not that I’d say no. She’s still sexy as fuck.”

  I felt a surge of jealousy toward this Rachel girl. I wanted to see her, know what she looked like.

  Jolene’s face turned a bright shade of red. I expected her to lash out, maybe yell at him, but instead she walked calmly to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water.

  “Whatever you want, Darius.” Her eyes were glued to his face as she unscrewed the cap on the bottle and took a sip. Was she suggesting that he wanted Rachel? It was sort of hypocritical when you knew what she was up to with Ryan.

  “I’m going to go take a shower,” he said. “That’s what I want.”

  After he left we just stood there in silence, both of us too afraid to look at the other. What just happened?

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “No,” she snapped, and I thought I saw her swipe away a tear. “He told me that he wants to fuck another girl in front of my friend.”

  “He didn’t mean anything by it,” I said. “He was just joking around.”

  “Fig, you have a skewed view of Darius. I know you … respect him. But, you don’t know him.” She was red in the face, her lips a pale thin line. I thought of all those women who posted on her fan sites and wondered what they would think if they could see her now: ugly and flustered. Deeply human. No one would be running out to get tattoos of her words if they could see her being this pathetic. I briefly considered taking a picture of her just like this and posting it somewhere. She’d know it was me.

  “You want to fuck Ryan,” I shot back. “How is it any different?”

  Her mouth opened and closed as she blinked at me. “I’ve never once said that.” Her voice was clipped; it made me afraid that she was angry with me.

  “I know,” I stumbled. “I was just saying—you probably have. It’s human to wonder what it’s like to be with someone you’re close to, sexually.”

  She cocked her head and something crossed her eyes too quickly for me to decipher.

  “I love Darius. I want to be with Darius. What you and I have said about Ryan is just girl talk, do you understand?”

  I nodded. “Of course, but just saying. Men are men. They want to fuck pretty girls. He loves you. It was just something careless he said.”

  “You don’t know him,” she repeated. It made me really, really angry.

  I thought of the line in Funny Girl when Rose said to Fanny: When you look at him, you only see what you want to see. And Fanny’s response: I see him as he is. I love him as he is!

  She didn’t know him like I knew him. She pushed and prodded and nagged at him until he shut down. He wasn’t happy; I knew that and Darius knew that. Jolene was living in some sort of fantasy world. I saw all of the parts of him that he was too afraid to show her. And thank God for that—he needed someone who understood him. Besides, I thought what he said about that Rachel girl was funny. We all wanted to fuck someone we weren’t supposed to. Whenever I met someone new I pictured myself having sex with them. A habit I developed as a teenager. If Jolene thought that Darius only fantasized about her, she was living in Lala Land.

  The first thing I did when I got home was dig Nubby out from the back of my spice cabinet. I hid him in an empty bottle of paprika through most of my marriage. George was staunchly against vibrators, insisting they ruined women for the real thing. But, in eight years together, George hadn’t been able to give me an orgasm. I’d purchased Nubby from one of those online sex shops, stressing for days over when it would arrive in the post, and if George would intercept the package. When it finally arrived I’d carried it straight up to my bedroom and had my first orgasm in years. In the subsequent weeks, George made several comments on what a good mood I’d been in lately. I introduced new spices into my diet, I told him. I read about them in a magazine.

  “Whatever it is, keep doing it,” he’d said. So, I had.

  I carried Nubby to my new white leather sectional, hitting the play button on the stereo before sitting down. Barbra started singing “What Kind of Fool” as I lay down thinking of Darius and what he would do to Rachel.

  Sleep was always an issue for me. I had so many things to digest, contemplate about my day. Sometimes I replayed something that happened over and over until I thought I’d go mad. My mind never shut off, and I woke up early each morning with new worries. Once awake, I couldn’t switch off the anxiety. It rolled down a steep hill gaining speed, except it never crashed, never came to a stop. Sometimes I sat down on the couch at midnight, my MacBook open on my lap, Barbra playing softly through the speakers, and I’d work a little, but mostly I’d think. When I looked at the time again it would be five AM and I wouldn’t know where the time went.

  I made mental lists: all the ways I’m better than her, the ways I can make him happier than she does. If he left her we would have Mercy part of the time. I would be her mother. My whole family complete. But, what if she found out before it’s time? This is what kept me up. I had to be a good friend to her, so she didn’t become suspicious.

  I’m not wrong.

  She’s wrong.

  When she didn’t call me, didn’t ask me over—I reached out. I sent her a naked picture of myself in the shower. I texted her little encouraging quotes and stories since she was writing again, offered to come over and cook them dinner so she could work. There were days when she would ignore me and days she’d respond. Manic, that was an artist thing. I could relate. I was an artist even if I hadn’t found my medium yet.

  At first she resisted, but then—miracle of miracles—she started saying yes. I rushed to the market, filling my cart with things I thought would impress: goat cheese, and arugula, and the leanest organic ground beef I could find. Then I’d show up at their house with a treat for Mercy, who was always happy to see me. Since things had progressed with Darius and me, he was less attentive in person, not making eye contact, not directly addressing me. I wanted to tell him to stop that. To act normal. But, I figured he was grieving the end of his marriage, so I let him be. We both needed time to process what was happening. Jolene gave me the number of her stylist when I asked. I have an appointment in two weeks, she told me. I dye it black for the winter.

  Black? Her hair was already a dark ebony, how much darker could she go? But, since my appointment was before hers I had him dye my hair black too, that way I had it first. I watched her face the first time she saw it. The shock. It was a big change for me.

  I’m not wrong.

  She’s wrong.

  “Where’s your colander? I’m sorry, am I bothering you?” I glanced over to where she was working.

  She pointed to a cabinet and I smiled. Sometimes being in a room with her
was like being alone. I shivered, thinking of Darius. NO! I was done with taking sides. I could be friends with them both, love them both, have them be separate entities in my mind. Maybe after Darius and I were together, Jolene and I could still be friends. She’d see how wrong they were for each other, she’d be happy with Ryan and want to have a good relationship for Mercy’s sake.

  I made a casserole with Jolene tapping on her computer nearby, thinking about what it would feel like to have Darius’s cock inside of me. Would I cry out like she did, where I could hear her clear across the space between our houses? Would he kiss me with his full soft lips while I came? My hands shook as I worked. I was making the casserole for Darius. I wanted to be the one to meet his needs: my cooking, my body, my mouth. I was also making the casserole for myself, to prove that I could be a good friend, however unworthy I may see Jolene. It was a struggle.

  I was taking the casserole out of the oven when the doorbell rang. I heard Darius open it, and then Amanda and Hollis’s voices drifted to the kitchen. Had she known they were coming? Had he? It was outright rude and inconsiderate not to tell me. Jolene stood up and walked to the other room. I tried to catch her eye, but she was smiling, walking toward Amanda like I didn’t exist. I immediately excused myself to the restroom, feeling sick. I heard them talking, and then a minute later, all four of them walked into the kitchen. I forced a smile as I reached into the cabinet for the plates, ignoring the surprise that registered on Amanda’s face.

  “Fig, your hair!” she said. I reached up to touch a strand of it as her eyes traveled between Jolene and me.

  “Hey, hey. You guys staying for dinner?” I said, to distract her.

  Amanda looked at Jolene, who was nodding. “Yeah, yeah they are.”

  “Good thing I made this giant fucking casserole then.” I laughed. I busied myself setting the table for six, pouring wine, and filling water glasses with ice cubes. I hardly looked up at them, but I could feel their eyes on me. Vipers. Mean girls. That’s what they were. Jolene didn’t own black hair, so they could go fuck themselves.

  When I set the salad on the table I called them in.

  “What’s it feel like having two wives, man?” Hollis laughed, eyeing my spread and smacking Darius on the back. Darius shot a nervous look my way before walking over to Jolene and hugging her like he was trying to prove some kind of fucking point. Pathetic. Yet, everyone bought it, his delicious display of affection. The happy couple. I watched Hollis watch Darius and couldn’t decipher the look that passed over his face. Maybe I underestimated him and he wasn’t buying into it either. When it was time to eat, I ended up next to Hollis with Darius and Jolene across from me (Mercy between them), and Amanda at the head of the table.

  Hollis and I reached for the salt at the same time. He drew back first and apologized profusely.

  “Hey, it’s just salt,” I said. “You must have been raised Catholic.” It wasn’t a joke, but he burst out laughing.

  “I was actually. Did my profuse apologizing give it away?”

  I grinned. “It doesn’t matter if you actually did something wrong, right? Nine times out of ten, even if you were squarely not to blame for something going wrong, it tends to feel like your fault. Someone body-slams you in the grocery store: My bad! You accidentally drop the soap in the shower: Ahh, sorry! Literally any time there’s a brief moment of silence, you’re convinced it’s because you did something wrong. Quick!! REMEDY IT WITH AN APOLOGY.”

  Hollis was laughing so hard he was almost crying. Even Mercy was giggling at him.

  “Oh god,” Hollis said. “What about our need to have everyone like us?”

  “Is that a thing?” I laughed, sipping my wine. He was right, though.

  TSA employees definitely did not need my friendship. The same was true with DMV clerks, cable installation techs, the checkout lady at the grocery store. But that sure as hell never stopped me from relentlessly trying to please them. Cheerful conversation, being as helpful as possible, making self-depreciating jokes to make their job easier.

  I liked the bond I felt with him. Ha! Catholicism bringing people together. I reached down and rubbed his leg a little, just above the knee. Catholic solidarity. I’d lie if I said I wasn’t attracted to him—he was a good-looking guy. I was attracted to most men—they didn’t even have to be handsome, just had to have that spark. And I almost always pictured myself having sex with them. Amanda was lucky … undeserving.

  “More wine?” I smiled, filling glasses.

  “It’s delicious, Fig,” said Jolene. “Thank you so much.” There were murmurs of agreement around the table. She turned to the others. “Fig has been taking care of us while I finish the book. She cooks and helps me with Mercy. I’m so grateful for her.”

  I looked down, embarrassed, but couldn’t hide my smile. When I glanced up, Amanda was staring at me, her head cocked to the side.

  “What made you go … black?” she asked.

  “Oh, you know. I just needed a change,” I said. “I like to go darker for winter.”

  “Me too,” said Jolene. She raised her glass. “To winter.”

  We clicked glasses and I was grateful for the distraction. If I wanted Amanda to trust me I had some work to do.

  How did it start? When did we officially cross the line? I can’t even remember, to be honest with you. I think I have post-traumatic stress disorder from it all. I’ve definitely blocked things out. All I know is that one day, one of us went too far. I suppose that was bound to happen when you’re playing a game of toe-the-line. Humans were sexual creatures, you could suppress it for as long as you wanted, but eventually we all resorted to our animal nature. I don’t think anyone really means to cross the line with a married man. It’s socially unacceptable. And now I had this constant elation, tempered by dread. I tried to tell myself that I wasn’t this person. But, you could only tell yourself something for so long and then you were doing it again. I was this person.

  Maybe it was boredom or the feeling of usefulness. Maybe you just wanted to remember who you used to be before the suburbs took over and told you that you needed to be normal and fit in. Darius spoke to me, like really spoke. Some days we’d shoot the breeze, which was always fun and made my day go by faster. Other days we’d delve into the serious shit we didn’t tell anyone else. I was lonely and Darius made me feel less lonely.

  George never really spoke to me. I don’t think it was necessarily me he had a problem with, he was just the sort of guy whose thoughts never reached his mouth. Darius wanted to know about George and sex. So, I told him. Every time we fucked, George spent ten minutes working his way in, gasping and panting about how tight I was. It got Darius all worked up. We were just two frustrated, emotionally starved humans. It felt nice to know I wasn’t alone. He told me that when Jolene was writing, he ceased to exist. When he texted her it took her hours to text back. I wondered if she was talking to Ryan. Wouldn’t that be a kicker?

  She often complained to me about Darius’s neediness, saying he preferred to text all day than actually talk to her when he got home. “Maybe he’s tired of talking since that’s what he does all day,” I’d suggested. She didn’t bite. Work was separate to home life, she’d said. He needed to be present for her and for Mercy. Or why bother having a family? I thought she was too hard on him. Darius always texted me during the day while he was at work. I got it. While everyone was dumping their shit on him, he needed someone to make things light and fun. Jolene was selfish.

  And then one day, shortly after the tight pussy comment, he texted: I want to see how tight it is. My heart had raced uncontrollably. Of course he could see. I was his. It took me an hour to get the perfect picture: me sitting on the edge of the tub, legs spread, my two fingers framing what Darius called the prettiest pussy he’d ever seen. It made me smile, and swoon, and feel like the sexiest woman alive. I thought about Jolene’s pussy just then, how Darius thought mine was prettier, and I got so turned on.

  I’ve heard you having sex with he
r, I fished. Sounds like a good time…

  It’s good, he sent back. I was disappointed. I wanted him to tell me it wasn’t. She couldn’t be good at everything, and besides, she was too uptight to be good at sex. And then he followed up with: She just lies there, but I make the best of it.

  I didn’t want to sound too eager, so I sent a simple: Sounds boring.

  Yeah…

  I thought maybe he was regretting telling me that when he sent something else.

  I really want to taste you.

  I pictured him between my legs, how I’d grab onto his hair and arch my back, pressing his face into me.

  Only a taste? I sent him.

  He sent me a picture of his dick to show me how hard he was. I recognized the floor tile from the downstairs bathroom and I wondered where Jolene was. It was exciting. She was right there in the house and he was looking at my pussy and touching himself.

  It’s really big. You’ll have to work it in.

  He liked that a lot. He sent back an OMG and then showed me that he’d come. For all of her tits, and ass, and overall sex appeal, I’d been the one to make him come tonight. I wondered if he’d turn her away tonight if she wanted to have sex, and that thought made me happy.

  I watched their bedroom window for a long time. I even thought about sneaking into their yard to eavesdrop. At eleven o’clock, the light turned off and Darius sent me one last text.

  Can’t stop thinking about you.

  The next day I baked a Quiche Lorraine and took it over to Jolene’s. Darius was at work and she answered the door in her towel, having just got out of a shower.

  “I thought I’d feed you,” I said. “Since you’ve been working so much.” I shoved the quiche at her and just like I expected, she invited me in. My Mercy was on the rug playing with blocks.

  “Is it hard to work with her here with you? Can you get anything done?”

  She unwrapped the towel from her head and set it on the back of one of the barstools to dry.