Bad Mommy

by Tarryn Fisher

  “You’re kidding?” she said, her face mortified and amused. I wasn’t.

  “She told Hollis that we go to bed between eleven and twelve, and when I looked at her funny she added that our bedroom windows face each other and she always sees the light turn off.”

  Jolene shook her head. “She does that to me too. Especially when my friends are over. It always makes me feel like I’m her pissing pole.”

  “She bought your dress,” I said. “The new one. I saw her wearing it yesterday.”

  “Oh god. That’s just perfect.” She sighed.

  “You should say something,” I told her. “If it bothers you.”

  She was already shaking her head. “No. She’s mentally fragile. If she wants to copy me, that’s fine. Half the time I think it’s in my head anyway. Maybe we just have the same taste, you know?”

  I snickered. “I can prove that it’s not in your head.”

  She looked at me skeptically. “How?”

  “You know how you were talking about painting the dining room last week when everyone was over?” Jolene nodded. “She kept asking what color? What color? And you never really answered her.”

  “Okay…”

  “Post a picture on Instagram with a crazy color—something hard to get. Make it look like you painted the wall.”

  She made a face, shaking her head. “You want me to play games with her? How is that healthy for anyone?”

  “I want to show you how desperate she is to be you,” I said, grabbing her phone and pushing it into her hands.

  “Why are you doing this? Why do you hate her so much?”

  “I don’t.” I sighed. “I’m just trying to protect you.”

  “Really?” she said. “Is it me you’re trying to protect?”

  I doubted myself. I had to refocus, convince her. This wasn’t about me getting caught. It was about me doing the right thing.

  “I’m your husband, it’s my job.”

  “I’m aware,” she said, smiling faintly. “But you married me because I was the kind of girl who didn’t need protecting. That was the draw.”

  I’d never said that to her, but it was true. My last relationship ended because of how needy and exhausting she’d been. Sometimes I forgot how much Jolene saw.

  “So, you’d rather I not care? Wasn’t that your biggest complaint about Rey?” It was a low blow and I knew it. Rey was Mercy’s biological father. She left him before Mercy was born, and he had little to do with her, being that he lived in Alaska.

  “Yes,” she said, simply. Her eyes were boring into me. What had she caught wind of? I knew that look. “You’re doing that thing you do when you’re trying to distract me,” she said.

  I think I paled, but who knows. I felt the blood rush from my head. This is why I loved her: she saw.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I accuse you, you accuse me. It’s typical Darius.” She walked to the bathroom and started brushing her teeth.

  “Look,” I called after her, “make-out with her if you want. Get matching tattoos—I don’t care—it’s your life. Don’t believe the shrink when he says your new BFF doesn’t have your best interest at heart.”

  “Well, what if I told you I already knew that.” She bent over the sink to spit.

  I was scared of my wife in that moment. I got hard.

  When she walked back into the bedroom she handed me her phone.

  “Play your games,” she said. “Let’s see if you’re right.”

  So free with her phone. What if that fucker Ryan texted while I had it? Didn’t she care that I’d find out? Maybe she didn’t. It wasn’t the first time I’d gotten the impression that Jolene wouldn’t hesitate to tell me to fuck off if I stepped over one of her lines. There was also the fact that I couldn’t hand her my phone even if I wanted to. It was a ticking bomb of incrimination.

  I tapped her internet browser and searched paint colors until I found one of a bright teal metallic paint we’d had in our first house. Jolene had seen it in a magazine and it had been hard as fuck to find once she announced that’s what she wanted. The photo was of a wall half painted, a roller propped on a ladder. It could easily pass as our house. I took a screenshot, cropped it, and posted it to her Instagram wall with a cheerful:

  New paint!

  I handed the phone back to her.

  “I don’t use exclamation marks,” she said, blandly.

  I took the phone back, deleted the excitable punctuation and said, “Wait and see.” Then I pulled her onto my lap and let her ride me. No use wasting a good erection, even if you were afraid your wife was crazier than you.

  I was sitting in my office at work, reading a conversation that was transpiring between Fig and my wife on the iPad. It was like reality television, you never knew what was going to happen or who would say what. They were discussing the merits of being with someone like Ryan. How perceptive he was. How sensitive and yet masculine. How beautiful his lips were. I’d scrolled through pictures of the guy on social media, and to be honest, I just didn’t see it.

  To Jolene’s credit, she tried to change the subject multiple times, but Fig was relentless. I watched all of it with a mixture of anger and amusement. Fig Coxbury was working my wife just as hard as she was working me. A professional manipulator. The topic switched to Jolene’s ailing father. I was getting bored, but then Fig found a way to work Ryan into the conversation.

  What will you do when your father dies? Darius hasn’t been there for you. You need someone who can help you emotionally.

  Jolene took a few minutes to reply. I imagined she was folding laundry, or making herself a drink. She liked to drink in the day when no one was around to judge her.

  I think he’s just distracted with work. Busy. He doesn’t know how to check on me in the way I want. We all have our own love languages, you know?

  He’s a fucking shrink. Isn’t he supposed to have the love languages memorized? That’s a lousy excuse. I can see how you must feel. You have this other guy who always checks on you and knows what to say. He’s also gorgeous. By the way, I think Darius is intimidated by you.

  Jolene didn’t answer her for a long time, and when she did it was about something else. She didn’t even mention what Fig said. That didn’t stop me from being angry, angry that she’d even entertain this sort of talk. She was mine, goddamnit. She should be showing loyalty to me, to what we had together. Despite her dismissal of what most of Fig said, I knew it was taking root. My wife was susceptible to heartfelt whispering. If she loved you, she assumed you loved her too, and had her best interest at heart. A naiveté I’d always found charming. But, Fig was using it to her advantage, playing Jolene’s emotions. She didn’t even know Ryan, yet the seeds of doubt she was planting in Jolene’s mind were growing—I could see it in the way Jolene looked at me. It used to be with adoration, but lately I saw disappointment in her eyes. Then she’d ask these questions when we were together: How come you never ask me how I am? Do you just assume I’m fine? I’m vulnerable even if I don’t let on. And at a different time in my life, I would have been better about checking in with her, but Jolene was right, I was distracted, and she never showed weakness—and I didn’t go looking for it. How was I supposed to know she wanted me to check on her? And while Fig was telling Jolene that she needed someone better suited for her than I was, she was playing the part of the sexy, flirtatious friend with me. She made jokes about Jolene being a dictator, and I didn’t correct her, I liked it. Perhaps she was the type of person who could be friends with us both. See each unique perspective for what it was and not take sides.

  When I suggested a vacation to Paris to get away from things, Jolene was hesitant. She didn’t want to leave her father when he was this ill.

  “You need this,” I told her. “You can’t be your best for Mercy or your dad if you don’t take a break. Just five days. I’ll romance you.”

  She’d smiled at that, and we’d booked the tickets that night. When Fig found out we were going
, she’d texted me, angry.

  France? You’re going to France with her? You guys barely get along, how will you stand it?

  I ignored that one, and the subsequent texts where she tried to make out like she’d not really been angry, but joking. When our trip was just a few days away, she showed up at the house wild-eyed and spitting sarcasm at everything Jolene said.

  After she left I cornered Jolene in her closet. “Why do you let her talk to you like that? If anyone else said that shit to you you’d rip them a new one.”

  My wife had looked surprised … wait … no, it was more amused. I was trying to look out for her and she was amused by it.

  “It’s just the way she is,” she said. “It’s a defense mechanism, Doctor.”

  I didn’t like the way she was talking down to me, insinuating someone of my education should know.

  “But she’s genuinely mean to you. Cutting.” I watched her rifle through a drawer and pull out a nightie. A pink silk thing I’d bought for her on our anniversary.

  Jolene shrugged. “I have thick skin. Do you really think Fig’s little barbs hurt me? She’s terribly insecure, that’s why she’s so hateful sometimes.” I couldn’t argue with that.

  “It’s the principle of it. You’re notorious for not taking shit.”

  “I take your shit,” she said. “Are you jealous that someone other than you gets away with being an ass to me?”

  My skin prickled. Did she know? She was looking at me like she knew something. No, she was just being Jolene. Playing word games to throw me off.

  “I don’t like it,” I said, touching her face. Tenderness always won Jolene over. Touching her chased whatever she was feeling away, and replaced it with softness. That’s why when she looked at me with her sharp brown eyes, I was taken aback.

  “Then don’t let her,” she said. I pulled my hand away, let it drop to my side.

  “If you don’t like the way she speaks to me then say something yourself.”

  She pushed past me and walked into the bedroom without looking back. She probably thought Ryan would do that—jump to her defense—that’s why she was saying it. I was a mediator by nature, a Libra. I liked to keep the scales balanced without throwing my weight either way. They’d have to work it out without me, Jolene and Fig. I wasn’t getting involved. I went to the garage to pull out a suitcase for the trip. I’d timed everything just right, so we wouldn’t be here when the papers were served. I’d hired an attorney the week before, and I planned on telling Jolene what happened in France. All of it: Macey’s lies, her transference. She’d believe me, because she loved me.

  The first girl I kissed had coffee breath. We kissed in a storage room at school where I was helping her put away classroom supplies. She pushed me up against the cheap plastic shelving, and I saw the rolls of paper towel wobble above our heads, right before her lips hit mine. I didn’t like coffee until I tasted her mouth. When she was done kissing me she drove me home. She was my tenth grade English teacher. Three weeks later, I lost my virginity in the back seat of her Chevy Suburban. She was so wet I thought she’d peed herself. We had sex three more times after that: in my bedroom at home, in her bedroom while her husband and kids were out, and in a state park where we almost ran out of gas on the way back.

  A therapist once told me that I was eroticized at a young age. As a therapist, I agreed. If I were my own therapist, I’d say that I thrived on secret relationships and manipulating the vulnerable. We were products of our earliest experiences, replicating the ways we were taught to love, and fuck, and interact with humanity. Some of us broke free of our pasts; some of us weren’t that clever.

  Jolene is cheating on me with Ryan. Not physically, what she’s doing is worse—it’s emotional. There is a difference. I have a legitimate problem, a sickness. She’s just tired of me and fucking around for funsies. It hurts. Five months ago, she sent Ryan a picture of her in a bikini. She sent it to me first, and I forgot to respond. Hours later, I checked the iPad and saw that she sent it to him too. I didn’t call her out, of course, because then she’d know how I saw it. I wanted my window into her secret life. Here I was fighting for our relationship, buying flowers, cooking dinners, writing little notes—and she was fucking around with another man.

  Despite my pleas, the following night when I got home, Fig was sitting on the kitchen counter watching Jolene cook.

  “Dr. Seuss is home,” she announced.

  Jolene looked up from what she was doing in the oven to give me a weak smile. I gave her a look, but she just shrugged. What do you want me to do?

  There really wasn’t anything. Fig had invited herself on a couple of our dates before. No boundaries.

  A song started playing and they exchanged a look.

  “What is this song?” I asked casually, pouring myself a drink. I knew what it was. Ryan sent it to Jolene. Of course Fig knew; she hounded Jolene all day for news on Ryan.

  “Oh, just a song we like,” Fig said, smiling at Jolene. My wife looked away, uncomfortable.

  “It’s okay,” she said.

  “Where did you hear it?” Now I was just being an asshole.

  Jolene turned away. Fig hopped down from the counter and took the gin bottle from me, making eye contact as she did. “Oh, you know … around.”

  “Oh yeah…?” Lying bitches.

  I was angry. They were fucking around, spending all day talking about another man, listening to the songs he sent. It was disgusting.

  After dinner, Fig helped Jolene clean up the kitchen while accusing her of being high maintenance. When Jolene denied it, I snickered.

  “Denial is strong with this one,” I said.

  “We’ll just let her think she’s a walk in the park.” Fig winked at me.

  Jolene shot us both an annoyed look. “Why don’t one of you assholes pour me a drink while I give my daughter a bath,” she said. She left to fetch Mercy from the television.

  Don’t leave me with her! Don’t leave!

  We all had a little too much to drink and then Jolene went to bed. I gave her a pleading look as she stood up, stretching her arms above her head. Her tits lifted and I could see the impressions of her nipples through the flimsy material of her T-shirt. She caught my eyes and winked. It was a game we had, who would be left alone with Fig at the end of the night. We were both hesitant to tell her to leave, so one of us would stay up until she decided to wander home. I argued that I had work in the morning, but Jolene got up with Mercy even before I did, which on most nights won her the earlier bedtime. After Jolene left, I went to the kitchen to pour myself a drink. I made one for Fig, too, and carried it to where she sat curled on the couch, her eyes unblinking as she watched me in that careful way she did.

  What was nice about Fig was that she didn’t need to speak—being around another human was enough for her. I did most of the talking, which was a change of pace for me. There didn’t need to be depth the way Jolene demanded of conversations. We’d discuss the most asinine topics, making jokes and exchanging movie references in a sort of rapid-fire way only she could keep up with. I spoke about nonsense, whatever came to mind, and she sat attentively and listened. If I’d spoken such nonsense to Jolene she’d tell me to shut up, but Fig liked the sound of my voice. She liked that I had things to say to her.

  One drink turned into two, and by the time we drained our third, we were both so drunk that when her hand reached out to touch my chest I didn’t stop her. It was nice, someone wanting me so much. I didn’t have to do anything to earn it—even if she wanted me because I belonged to Jolene. I wondered if she knew how deep her obsession ran, or if she made excuses for it in that endearing narcissistic way. Her hand was on me, and then we were kissing, our alcohol breath mingling, her mouth wet and willing. She was tiny. I could feel her bones as I ran my hands over her body. She climbed onto my lap without prompting and started grinding against me, and all I could think about was how tight she said she was. She was wearing shorts, so I slipped my finger past the hemli
ne and found her wet and without panties. I leaned back so I could pull her shorts aside to see her: a tight neat, little pussy to match her tight, neat little body. I slid my finger inside her and she rode it, which almost drove me wild. I lifted her shirt and sucked on her nipples, my tongue running over the metal hoops of her piercings. Fig had pierced nipples. Who would have thought?

  Jolene could walk out of the bedroom at any minute to see us grinding on the couch. The thought should have scared me, caused me to push her off my lap; instead, I yanked her shorts down and lifted her hips so they were level with my mouth. I wanted to taste her. I sucked on her while she pressed against my mouth frantically, my two fingers pushing in and out of her. She was quiet, breathing hard, her hands on the wall behind the couch as she looked down at what I was doing. There was none of the darty timidness I’d come to expect of her. She was sexual, and even as I licked, she spread her legs wider. I worked her until she came then slid down next to me on the couch and pulled up her shorts.

  Neither of us said a word as she slipped on her shoes and I walked her to the door. She wouldn’t look at me and I wasn’t sure if it was because she was ashamed of what we’d just done, or if she liked it. I wasn’t sure which of those I was either. It was one thing fucking strangers, another a friend of your wife.

  “Bye,” she said, stepping outside.

  I lifted my hand weakly in response. That’s what I was, wasn’t I? There was no rhyme or reason for doing what I did, except I’d just wanted to. I could have walked into the bedroom I shared with my wife, rolled her over and fucked her with no complaints from her. Jolene was always willing, our sex always great. Instead I stuck my fingers inside of a woman I’d been accusing of stalking my wife, and let her come on me. I rubbed my hands across my face. I could smell her on my fingers. I was the worst piece of shit on the planet.

  “You wrote me a poem? No fucking way.” Her hair was up, pulled away from her face so I could see her neck. It was a good neck, one of my favorite necks of all time.