My eyes were closed and I was leaning into him, liking the feel of his warmth.
“What exactly is the point of this lesson?” I asked.
“They say a person lives up to their name.” His voice was muffled against my neck.
“Got it,” I said. “Fig crazy, Fig strangles the life out of me. Fig…”
He was fucking obsessed with Fig Coxbury. Warning me about her, watching the odd things she did. Don’t think I don’t know who you are, Darius. I know you get hard for crazy.
The following week I tried to steer clear of our newish neighbor. I wasn’t used to having a friend live so close, close enough to where I felt obligated to invite her in if she was lurking around the rose bushes looking sad. I didn’t mind her as much as everyone else seemed to, but I was getting tired of hearing it—the constant cautioning. What was it exactly that they were seeing and I was not? I liked people, I wanted to help them, but not at the expense of my relationships. They were right about some things—she’d moved in six months ago and she was starting to resemble me more and more. She’d even dyed her hair black like mine. I’d not have thought anything of it, except the following week when I went to the salon, my stylist told me that Fig had come in and asked for the exact color formula he used on me. Distance, that’s what I needed. It was oppressive to have someone watching your every move, be it through their blinds or right on the street corner. And then I got the call. My dad wasn’t doing well. I booked my ticket, all thoughts removed from Fig, and Darius, and strangler trees.
My father was dying. He’d been dying for two years now, I’d lost count of the times I’d said goodbye. I flew to Phoenix, renting a car at the airport and driving the rest of the way to the hospital in Mesa. Cancer is the most awful thing, a slow eating monster. What was once a man is now a shadow. A hard thing for a child to behold.
On the first day there, he grabbed my hand between fitful sleep, then all of a sudden, his eyes opened and he said, “Darius is wrong. Bad.”
I balked. My father had always loved Darius. I chalked it up to a nightmare. But, when your mind was already having tremors of doubt, something like that stayed … seemed prophetic. I asked him about it when he was feeling better and letting me spoon soup into his mouth.
“Darius? What? What did I say?”
I paused, the spoon suspended between us. “That he was wrong … bad.”
My father raised his eyebrows. “He has a problem with sex. I can see it all over him. But, he’s a nice guy. You know me, I like the degenerates.”
I frowned at him. “What does that even mean?”
“Eh, everyone has their demons, Jojo, babydoll.” He reached out and rubbed my knee, then looked exhausted from the simple gesture.
“Okay, Dad,’” I said. “Okay.”
When I left two days later, he was crying. It alternated who sobbed the most. But, that happened when you didn’t know if it was the last time you were seeing someone. I was getting used to the goodbye thing. That was so sad.
“I don’t think he’s it,” my dad said when I kissed him goodbye.
“Who, Dad?” I asked, confused.
“Darius.”
“Oh.” I didn’t know what to say. Did you argue with a dying man, or leave it be?
“There will be one more, but he’ll come after I die.”
“Dad!” I said. “I can deal with the one more part, but nix the death.”
“We all die, Jojo,” he said, sadly. “All of us, filthy humans.”
On my plane ride home I couldn’t stop thinking about what he said. My dad was insane, that was a given. I credited my career to the emotional chaos he inflicted on me as a child. But, he was also usually right. He predicted things, saw right through people. It was terribly creepy. He didn’t believe in a sixth sense and said psychics “licked Satan’s balls for a living,” but I’d always thought he’d been born with foresight. By the time the plane landed and I was collecting my luggage from the belt, I had convinced myself that I was trying to build a case against Darius. It was childish and offensive. I imagined how hurt he’d be. I had to stop this. He was the best man I’d ever known, and I was deeply in love with him. Like clockwork, Ryan texted me.
“Fuck you, Ryan,” I said, under my breath. It was like he had a sixth sense when it came to my emotional turmoil. He de-centered me. Was that even a word? But, he never pried, God bless him. Knew what to say and how to say it. You’d think my therapist husband would be good at that, but he wasn’t. Not with me anyway.
Your dad?
Way to hit the soft spot, I thought.
Dying, I sent back.
What can I do? Are you okay?
I didn’t answer him. I checked my texts from Darius. He’d not asked me that. He’d not asked me anything in the last forty-eight hours after the required: Have you landed yet? And then later: Where is Mercy’s toothpaste? He never called either.
What do you want from me?
You’d think I was shooting off drunken texts, and I guess Ryan sort of made me feel drunk, but enough was enough already.
That’s a really inappropriate question.
I laughed. I did. Leave it to Ryan to make me laugh at a time like this. I tucked my phone away and stepped outside into the cold.
Darius was waiting for me curbside. He popped the trunk and I loaded my suitcase, then walked around to the passenger side.
“Hey.” He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek even though I offered my mouth. He was distracted, dark … wouldn’t look at me. I wondered if he was angry because I went to Phoenix and he had to cancel his appointments to be with Mercy.
“What’s wrong?” I asked once we were on the highway.
“Nothing, just tired.” He gave me a half smile and turned back to the road. I ground my teeth. I didn’t want a fight. I was emotionally exhausted. I just needed someone to be soft with me, maybe ask me how I was and care.
“Mercy with your mom?” I asked.
“Yup.”
I pulled out my phone.
Okay, tough girl who doesn’t have feelings and doesn’t want anyone to check on her. I know you’re hurting, and I’m here. And I care. Talk soon.
Fuck, Ryan.
“My dad was eating when I left,” I said. “Just some soup, but still,” I glanced over at him to check his reaction.
“Good, that’s good,” he said.
Okay
“When did you take Mercy to your mom’s?” I asked, looking out the window. The sky was my favorite, a deep grey. When it was like this, the rain came down in a mist, the type of thing you felt when standing at the bottom of a powerful waterfall.
“After you left,” he said.
I wanted to say something. I was annoyed. Why would he send her away when he had the chance to spend one-on-one time with her? I’d been imagining them on the couch watching movies together, or playing tea party in her room.
“Then why were you asking for her toothpaste?”
“To send it in her overnight bag.”
“What have you been doing?” I tried to keep my voice casual, tried not to look at him, but there were alarms going off in my head.
“Working, Jolene. What do you think?”
Liar. He was a liar.
The next week I was about to settle down in my office to work on my manuscript when a notification popped up on my phone that Fig had posted a new photo to Instagram. I tapped the icon and a screenshot of a song popped up. That was a good sign, right? People who listened to music were in good moods. I was about to close it out when I noticed the tiny train emoji underneath the photo. I listened to the song. It was mournful, sad. I’d have maybe thought she just liked the sound of it rather than relating to the lyrics, but for that damn train emoji. I texted her right away with all caps: WHAT’S WRONG?
I just have more than enough shit going on. Daily. It’s a struggle to wake up. To function. To work.
Well, what’s going on? Tell me.
I glanced at my manuscript. T
his was going to take a while.
I’ll be fine. Just chugging along. Trying to be a good human.
You posted a train emoji. Can you stop fucking around the bush and tell me what happened.
I think he’s having an affair. I found things. On his computer.
I went straight to the hall closet and put my sweater on. I could see my breath when I stepped outside and pulled the door closed behind me. Four days, I thought. Four days until my manuscript was due. How was I going to finish it? My editor was going to have a shit fit if I didn’t turn it in on time. I’d never knocked on Fig’s front door before. For one reason or another, she’d always come around to our house. I should make more of an effort to be a good neighbor. I pounded until she opened the door, just a crack. She’d been crying. Her eyes were swollen and red, and her mascara was running.
“Let’s go,” I said.
She rubbed her nose and it left a trail of wet snot on the back of her hand. “Where?”
“To my house. Come on. I’ll make you a drink.”
She shrugged then nodded. “Okay, just let me put pants on. I’ll be right over.”
I mentally rescheduled my week as I walked home. I’d have to catch up on my edits another day. Maybe if I cried they’d give me an extra week. Fig needed me. People were more important than books, or writing, or anything else. As I walked in my own front door, I felt resolve. I’d work around what happened. Darius’s mother could help with Mercy. Or mine. I hated that, but oh well. It would just be for a week. I stood at the bar and mixed two drinks, rum and Coke. She came in without knocking ten minutes later. I heard the door open and close. She’d brushed her hair and put on lip gloss. I eyed her sweats as I handed her the drink.
“Tell me,” I said.
She laughed. “You have, like, no social cushioning.”
“I have it, I just don’t want to waste time on it.”
She sipped her drink, flinching at the taste. I’d made them strong. “Damn, did you pour the whole bottle in here?”
“Yes. You’re like a vault unless you’ve had some drinks.” I tossed my drink back and started to make another.
“It’s been a long time coming. He’s always mad at me. Always screaming. He doesn’t like me to be over here.”
My head jerked back. “What? Why?”
She shrugged.
“Bastard. Men are such pigs,” I said. I flexed my hand, wanting to send it straight into his face. I expected more of him. I’d always had the impression that he was really taken with her. Not that I’d been around him much, but the times I had. He made an effort.
“I can sure pick ‘em, huh?”
“I can’t believe he did that to you. I’m so pissed.”
“Nah, don’t be. It’s just how men are. Psychological warfare, you know? They want us till they don’t. If we don’t please them enough they get bored, move on.”
I shook my head at her. That wasn’t how it was. Not always. Look at me. When Darius came into my life he had nothing to gain but a burned woman and a child who wasn’t his. That’s when I noticed the weird swollen, red spot on her arm, right below her wrist. It looked like something had dug into her skin and made her bleed. When she saw me looking she pulled her sleeve down and looked away.
“You’re my friend,” I said, moving my eyes to her face. “I’ll make you a bed in the den for tonight. You shouldn’t be alone.” She tried to protest, but I waved her excuses away. “We can watch movies and eat things that are bad for us.”
“So same as always,” she said.
“I can have Darius take Mercy to his parents’ and spend the night there.”
“No, don’t do that,” Fig said, quickly. “I like when they’re around. You can’t kick him out of his own house.”
“All right,” I said, cautiously. “Can I tell Darius what happened, or do you want me to keep it a secret?”
She walked over to the liquor cabinet and started moving bottles around.
“Whatever, it happened. I don’t have anything to hide.” She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye, and for a brief moment I got the impression that she wanted me to tell Darius.
We spent the next few hours talking about George, who had apparently been meeting up with girls he met on one of those swipe it or keep it phone apps.
“Did he tell you that or did you find out another way?”
Fig’s cheeks colored and she looked away. “I was snooping,” she admitted. “He started liking and commenting on all of this girl’s pictures on Instagram, so I did some detective work and then confronted him.”
“And did he admit to it?”
“Yes … no … sort of in a roundabout way.”
She was so good at not answering questions. She redirected everything, deflected. I watched her closely, wishing Darius would get home so he could help me. She did that thing where her eyes tried to find a hiding place: bounce, skirt, roam, widen, bounce.
It was Darius’s day to pick Mercy up from school. I heard her squeals before the front door opened, and Fig smiled for the first time that day. I couldn’t help smiling with her. Children had that magic, their innocence lightened dark situations. When Darius saw Fig sitting on the sofa, he stopped abruptly. Mercy ran right over to her, and Fig pulled her in her lap. I made eyes at him while she was distracted, and he nodded discreetly.
“Hey,” he said. “I’ll get dinner started while you two chat.” I nodded at him gratefully, and he winked.
Fig was already awake when I put the coffee on the next morning. I could hear the clacking computer keys and the muffled sound of music coming from her headphones. When the coffee was done, I took her a mug.
“Thanks,” she said. “Where’s your husband?”
“He should be up soon. How are you feeling?”
“Like sticking my head in an oven.” She grinned.
“Okay, Sylvia Plath.”
She pulled up her sleeve and showed me a tattoo I’d never noticed before. I had to tilt my head sideways to read it.
“I want.”
“Yes, she has a line in The Bell Jar—I am, I am. I am. Well, the thing that always pulled me through every situation was how much I had left to experience. I want to travel, I want to taste foods I’ve never tasted, I want to kiss beautiful men, and I want to buy beautiful clothes. I want to live because I still want things.”
I smiled faintly, thinking of all the times Darius had commented on Fig wanting my life.
“Hey, come with us to the park,” I said. “It’s beautiful outside.” To illustrate my point, I ripped the curtain aside, letting sunlight stream into the living room. Fig flinched away, pretending that the light was burning her.
“You can’t burn a bitch so early in the morning.” As she crawled away her shirt lifted. I could count the knobs on her spine. How much weight had she lost? I tried to remember what she looked like when she first moved in.
“But, first breakfast,” I said, stepping toward the kitchen. With lots of butter, bacon, and sour cream. Mercy came barreling down the hall in her pajamas and I set her to work washing the fruit.
She hesitated, but only for a moment before nodding happily.
I used to take Mercy to the train park when Darius worked late. A little place at the base of a hill with trees all around it. Mercy Moo was too little to play on the monkey bars or to climb onto the brightly colored structures like the other children. One day. For now, we liked to roll down the hill amongst the weeds and soft grass. And there was a glorious sand pit she could spend hours in—mostly eating the sand or rubbing it in her eyes and then screaming. It was our sacred place, Mercy’s and mine. We’d found closer parks since, but the train park was our favorite. It was the first time I was taking Darius there, and I was excited for him to see it. In retrospect I’m not sure what I wanted from him that day. A love for the park he had no history with? A reaction? Maybe I thought we’d all bond there together, in which case I never should have taken Fig.
“Twain park,” M
ercy said, from the back seat. I flinched. Trains held a whole new meaning for me since Fig had moved in. I’d never be able to look at them the same way.
“It was nice of you to invite her.” Darius gave me the side eye, his finger tapping on the steering wheel to whatever was playing on the radio.
“But…” I said.
“Well, it’s family day. I thought we were supposed to spend time being with our family. Not crazy people who want to steal your family?”
“What the fuck, Darius?” I slapped his chest with the back of my hand and he laughed. Was he serious or had this become our running joke?
“She’s not that bad, I guess.” He glanced out the back window to make sure Fig was still following us in her SUV, white and bright, a sore thumb on the highway.
“She’s a little intrusive,” I admitted.
“Has no social boundaries, is an obsessive over-thinker…”
“Hey, okay,” I said. “But she cares. She has a good heart.”
“What’s your definition of a good heart?”
“Come on. Aren’t you supposed to be the one who sees through people’s bullshit? Finds the humanity?”
“Yes, but all she does is wear masks. You could search for years and you still won’t be able to know who that woman is, because she doesn’t know herself. And that’s exactly why she’s obsessed with you.”
Darius always said that women were drawn to me because I knew who I was and they wanted in on that. Like I had a secret recipe I could just impart to them. It was true, I knew who I was, but that didn’t necessarily mean I knew who they were.
“Okay,” I said. “I can accept that. But, I don’t care either way. She needs something from me. I’d like to try to help.”
He reached out and squeezed my knee. “You’re the only good person left on the planet.”
“Hardly,” I said, in return. But, I was buzzing from the compliment.
Bad Mommy Page 15