Chills crept up my spine. Was it Darius’s cologne? Oh god. I took the tea with shaking hands. I’d been the one to buy it for him years ago. It definitely wasn’t mainstream and it was hard to find.
“You okay?” Fig asked, cocking her head to the side. “You’re shaking like me after chemo.” She laughed. A distraction! Good.
“Yeah, I’m worried about my dad. Have you had a doctor’s appointment lately? What are they saying?”
She did what she did every time someone brought up her cancer, she wouldn’t make eye contact. She’d stare at the ground and try very hard to not answer your question.
“You know … same ol’, same ol’…”
“Well, are your test results coming back clean? Are they finding anything we should be worried about?”
“There’s always something, she said. But, I’m fine. I deal. I’m mostly not okay, just trying to survive. I think about death a lot…” Her voice dropped away as she stared into her tea. If I weren’t so used to this I would have fallen for it. It was a brilliant diversion tactic and she used it in almost every situation. You became so distracted worrying about her that you completely forgot your question wasn’t answered.
“Are the tumors benign?” I tried again, something more direct.
“I have more tests next month.”
“To find out if the tumors are benign?”
She shrugged. I looked at my watch.
“I have to go,” I said. “Thanks for the tea.”
When I got back to the house, I locked the kitchen door. I never kept it locked, something Darius was always on me about. He’d say, Someone can just come right in here and…
And what? I’d say. Because no one wanted to say rape out loud. I knew he was right. I was just being stubborn. But, I didn’t lock the door because I was afraid of rapists, or the robbers. I locked it because I wasn’t sure what exactly was happening. What I’d allowed into our lives.
When I was a little girl, everything hurt me. My mother called me tender heart, my father would often pull me into his lap as I sobbed after glimpsing a homeless man. Neither of them sheltered me, I think they wanted me to see. When I inquired as to the purpose of suffering, they’d say the same thing: because people are flawed and nothing is fair. I looked for the cracks in people after that, the things that made the world an unfair place. I wanted to avoid those kinds of people in case I became flawed and unfair as well. And there it was, my very own crack. I was looking for the flaws in others and that was unfair when I had so many myself. I looked instead for that which was good, and lovely, and pure. You could find it if that was your focus, and all of a sudden, when you looked at people you saw why they were worth loving. I was a cause kid, and though I had many causes from the age of six to sixteen, the one closest to my heart was the friendless. Yeah, you can sit with me. And everyone did because people want someone to sit with. Soon people were sitting on me. Shit gets heavy, you know? Especially when people realize you’re willing to carry their weight.
The best way to deal with this was to become friendless. No, you can’t sit with me, I like sitting by myself. So, I did. For a while anyway. People can smell kindness on you even when you act like an asshole to scare them away. Darius was the first person I gave a seat to, he called me on my bullshit so I had to. Once that happened, others came, but this time they didn’t try to sit on me. I shifted back into the friendship zone somewhat awkwardly. No one seemed to notice. By the time Fig moved in next door, I’d allowed the little girl with a cause back into my heart. I let her sit with us. I wanted to take some of her burdens and let her know it was okay.
But, this wasn’t normal. What I’d seen next door wasn’t normal.
I pulled out my phone to call Darius. It rang once, twice, and I hung up. It could be in my head, all of it. I was a fiction writer; maybe I was bored and exaggerating details in my mind. Maybe I was crazy, that was entirely plausible, but then my mind drifted back to that day in the park, the songs I’d found on her Spotify when I’d decided to take a look. Things I could no longer ignore even if I wanted to.
I pulled up her Instagram account, scrolling through the pictures, looking for what Darius had tried to tell me about so many times. What Amanda and Gail had pointed out. I’d ignored them, not because I didn’t see the similarities myself, but because I didn’t care. We were all copycats, weren’t we? We saw celebrities wearing high-waisted jeans and then we wore them. Our friends listened to music that we immediately downloaded and became obsessed with. We were a generation of see it, want it, take it. But, this—this was different. More sinister. I scrolled all the way back to the first picture she posted, two years prior: grainy, beige photos—somewhat depressing. Not a biggie, most of us had a rough start to Instagram. Around the time she moved in next door, her Instagram style changed dramatically. She’d changed the style of her layout to match mine, enlarged white boxes around her pictures. She copied the angles too—half of Seattle’s Ferris Wheel captured in the top right corner of the photo, the fruit stands in Pike Place Market, a close-up of radishes I’d taken, sunsets, a photo of a shirt I’d seen in a department store, a yellow building we’d taken family pictures in front of, jellyfish from the aquarium. It was all there, and each of her pictures were taken days after mine. But why? And did she realize she was doing it?
When he got home that night I told him everything, starting with the knick-knacks in her kitchen and ending with his cologne.
“Are you sure it was mine?”
“Darius, you’ve been wearing that shit for four years. I’m the one who bought it for you. AND I have to order if from fucking Timbuktu to get it. Nordstrom, my ass.” I was pacing the living room, my hands tucked into my back pockets. I spun around to look at him, to gauge his reaction. He was sitting on the sofa, head bowed, hands dangling between his knees.
“I’m so uncomfortable right now I don’t know what to say.” He glanced up at me, and I felt so terrible. This wasn’t his fault. I thought about the times I questioned him, got angry and accusatory. It was so wrong of me to blame him for something I’d invited in.
“I’m going to make you even more uncomfortable,” I said, holding up a finger. I ran over to my MacBook and clicked on the music list I’d compiled. I’d play him each song, make him see.
“Listen to this.” I played them all while he sat quietly next to me and listened.
“You think these songs are about me?” His words were clipped.
I nodded. “The lyrics, Darius. They’re about her being in love with someone she can’t have. She thinks I’m evil and you need someone better—her. Pair that with the cologne, the way she acts when you’re around, and look!” I pulled up a screenshot of her Instagram account. “She’s posted four pictures of you. Just you. I’ve never made a solo cameo on her account, not once. Why is she posting another woman’s husband on her Instagram, for God’s sake? That’s just weird.”
He didn’t respond. After months of Darius insisting she was stalking me, copying my every move, this wasn’t the response I’d expected. Something wasn’t right. I could feel it.
“Darius, did something happen between the two of you? Just tell me the truth.”
He looked alarmed. Hurt? I’d just done what I told myself I wasn’t going to do not five minutes ago. God, I was a mess. I backed down right away, apologized. I couldn’t keep doing this to him, accusing him. I started crying.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It was a bizarre day. Your cologne…”
He pulled me into a hug before I could say anything else, and I buried my face in his shoulder. “It’s okay,” he said. “She’s crazy, I don’t blame you for being shaken up. But, it’s not me, Jo. She wants what you have and I’m just an extension of that.”
I nodded against him, breathing him in. I loved his smell, without the cologne. Just the smell of him. How could I have doubted him? He was so good to us, Mercy and me. The effects of Fig Coxbury were subtle, but when someone’s presence was starting to affect y
our relationship it was time to jump ship.
“I feel really good about being right about the paint,” he said, into my hair. I elbowed him in the ribs and he grunted. “And remember when the shower curtain arrived in the mail, and she asked what you got because she saw the package sitting by the door?”
I nodded.
“You texted her a picture of it. I told you not to because she’d track it down…”
I vaguely remembered something like that happening. But, I’d not told her where I got it—just texted her a picture after I hung it up. I voiced this to Darius who shook his head at me like I was completely naive.
“You can Google search images, Jo. She just plugged your picture in and voilà!”
“She could have done that anyway when she saw it in person,” I pointed out.
“True.” He nodded.
“It’s crazy, Darius. The site I bought it on has five thousand whale images to put on shower curtains. Why did she have to buy that exact one?”
He shrugged. “Because you have it? Because she doesn’t know who she is and she’s using you as a vision board.”
“A vision board,” I said. “This is nuts.”
“Take a break. Maybe don’t have her over for a while. You’re busy right now anyway. You’re dealing with stuff with your dad. We have our trip coming up. Forget about Fig. Stop stalking the stalker. Let her be crazy from a distance.” He took my face in his hands, and I nodded at him dumbly. He was right. I’d take a step back. I couldn’t emotionally afford to be pulled into this nonsense. I had to focus.
I met Darius at Target on his lunch break on a rainy weekday afternoon. We were choosing a trike for Mercy for Christmas. It was an exciting parent thing, and we were marveling at how our little baby was suddenly in need of wheels. I could see him as I ran toward the entrance of the store, having forgotten my raincoat at home. His collar was up around his neck, as he stood with his hands in his pockets surveying the parking lot. My heart felt so happy in that moment, so in love. We had weathered many storms, fought hard to be together. Our love felt full of weight and worthiness. Once inside, we walked up and down the aisles picking up things we didn’t need and putting them into the cart. Our mood was light and fun. It was a good afternoon. We were already at the register paying when we realized we had forgotten the trike.
“This is your fault,” I joked.
“Yes, yes it is. I saw the throw pillows and everything else went out the window.” He made jazz hands, and I laughed.
We were finishing up at the register, grabbing our bags and trying to fit them all in the cart. Darius was swiping his credit card when I heard her voice behind me, shrill … emotional.
“You’re going to just pretend like you didn’t see me?”
I turned to see Fig with her own cart, already loaded with bags. I thought she was joking, but there was no smile on her face. She wasn’t wearing makeup and her hair was stringy like it hadn’t been washed in days.
“I see you now,” I said, smiling. “Hello.”
Her eyes were focused on Darius. I glanced at him over my shoulder, my paper Starbucks cup clasped in my hand. Had he seen her and not acknowledged her?
“You saw me,” she said. “And you pretended you didn’t.”
Now she was looking at me. “I didn’t see you. I’m sorry.” I turned back to Darius. “Did you see her?”
He was putting bags in our cart, not looking up.
“Darius…?”
He shook his head.
When I turned back to Fig she was gone, an empty space in front of me. I glanced toward the doors just in time to see her disappear.
“What the hell?” I said.
“She’s crazy.” He frowned.
I trotted after him as he pushed the cart from the store.
“Did you see her?“
“No,” he said, firmly. “I absolutely did not.”
“Why would she do that? Are you guys fighting?”
“No,” he said, again.
“Darius! Stop!”
We were in the middle of the street, but he stopped.
“What the fuck happened back there?”
“Look, I can’t explain the actions of a mad woman. You’ll have to ask her. She’s a loose cannon, that’s all I know.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Guess so…”
I kept turning it over in my mind. The words, the small history I collected from her, the opinions of other people. It was a lot to consider. At first I thought I saw agony in her eyes. She loved Plath, said she related to her. Who related to Plath but the manic-depressives? The suicidal? There was no real agony, I realized. It was all self-inflicted. Suffering made her feel important. All of her wounds were carefully rehearsed, much like her personality. She gave plastic flowers. So real and brilliant in color you almost believed the lie. But, she took little things, thefts that were so small you hardly noticed: a cause, or a playlist—something that would give her something to bond with you about. It’s not like I didn’t see the patterns. Everyone thought I didn’t see. But, I did and I wanted to watch. That’s what writers do—the good ones anyway—we watched and we learned the faux pas of human nature. The delicate ways people came undone, the tiny little frays in the tapestry. Fig acted delicate. Her headaches, for example, she always got them when Darius was around. We could have been laughing and carrying on ten minutes before, and the minute Darius walked through the front door her face would become sour … pained, like she’d been stabbed through the temple with a butter knife. Darius wouldn’t notice, but I’d mention it to him later.
“Seriously?” he’d say. “Why do you think she does that?”
“You’re the shrink.”
He stroked his face and then said, “It’s her thing. She plays vulnerable for attention.”
“It works.”
“You have to be careful with what you tell her,” said Darius with a frown. “She-”
“She what?” I snapped then almost immediately regretted it. He was trying to help. I was always so hard on him. He was also a shrink. If he thought that Fig was taking everything I said too far, then she probably was. I thought about all the things I’d told her about Ryan and flinched. Was she pushing me toward Ryan because she wanted Darius? I’d seen the way she looked at him, the way she tried to create a divide between us whenever we were all together. Sometimes we’d play board games, and even with her guy there, Fig would somehow end up on a team with Darius, the two of them hunkering down on the other side of the table together, plotting their strategy. I thought it was cute at first. They shared humor, and movie quotes, and sarcasm. It was almost a relief at first to not have to pretend those things with Darius, scrounge around in my brain for a movie quote to match his movie quote. The bantering came easy for them. If I wanted to feel a connection to Darius I had to come to his level. He had no clue how to get to mine. She was quite the pro at setting up emotional teams and then rallying her players against me. A real smooth gamer. Up until now it had mostly annoyed me, but seeing her behavior in a new light—in Darius’s light—made me feel sick to my stomach. We’d once had dinner with Amanda and Hollis and I’d been the butt of her jokes—she’d even had Darius laughing—until Amanda had caught my eye from across the table and changed the subject. After dinner she’d grabbed me by the arm and whispered, “What the fuck?” in my ear.
Later at home, I thought back to the first day we’d met Fig. The day she’d spoken to Mercy in the garden, a completely different person, overweight with limp blonde hair—eager, so eager in everything she did. I’d invited her into my home because of something I’d seen in her eyes.
As soon as Darius passed out on the couch, per usual, I called Amanda.
“Jo, I told you from the beginning that something was up with her. She’s strangely obsessed with you. Even Darius thinks that.”
“Yeah,” I said, weakly. “I just figured she needed a friend, you know…” I heard myself making excuses for her and scrunched up my nose.
> “She’s no friend,” Amanda’s voice trailed off.
“What do you mean? Do you know something? You have to tell me.”
I heard her sigh into the phone. “Look, I didn’t want to get involved. I know you like your projects. But, while you were in France with Darius she came here.”
“Yeah…” I said. I vaguely remembered seeing photos of them in front of the water near Amanda’s house. Fig had looked drunk; Amanda was humoring her.
“She spoke about you. Like, for hours. Ask Hollis if you don’t believe me. She went on and on about how you and Darius didn’t belong together. She was drunk, so I gave her that. But, then she started talking about some spoon she found on the pier. Something about Darius and a story he told her. She thinks the spoon is a sign that … I don’t know. This is all crazy.”
I poured myself a glass of wine, right to the top of the glass. It was so full I had to bend down and sip some off the top so it wouldn’t spill when I picked it up.
“What’s the spoon a sign for?” I asked.
“That everything is going to be all right? Work out her way. Who knows, that bitch is bat shit crazy.”
I sighed into the phone. Amanda was my most levelheaded friend. Darius was my husband. If both of them were calling Fig bat shit crazy they were probably right. Right?
I chugged the rest of my wine. So classy.
“Jolene,” Amanda said, “promise me something.”
“What?”
“Don’t ever leave Mercy with her, okay?”
I got chills. I didn’t leave Mercy with anyone but my mother, but Fig had been asking—begging. She was relentless about watching my daughter.
Bad Mommy Page 17