by Amy Hatvany
Peter raised his thick, dark eyebrows, which lifted his baseball cap. “He didn’t tell me that part.”
“Shocking,” I said, and Peter gave a short, rough laugh.
“Does he need a tutor?”
I shook my head. “He understands the work, he just doesn’t want to do it.” I paused. “Maybe I’ll have my mom help him, while she’s here.”
“No way,” Peter said. “Did you forget the flashcard torture she put you through?”
I laughed, feeling a brief flicker of connection with my ex—a fond memory in our shared history. We’d been at an on-campus coffee shop a few weeks after meeting, having a conversation about our childhoods, when I told him a story about my mom.
“She made me multiplication flashcards when I was six,” I said. “When other kids were playing with Barbie dolls and learning to read, she sat me down at the kitchen table and ran math drills.”
“That’s nuts,” Peter said.
“Right?” I shook my head, remembering. She’d done the same thing with me to learn addition and subtraction when I was four. “She was dead set on me knowing that shit before anyone else,” I told Peter. “She’d say, ‘What’s two times two Jessica? Come on, that’s an easy one!’” My throat swelled a little, thinking about how scared I’d been to disappoint her by giving her the wrong answer. “She wanted me to be exactly like her, and I’m just not.” I’d done fine in my math and science classes throughout my formative years, but never loved them the way I knew my mother wanted me to. I wasn’t passionate about any subject, really, and chose to get a business degree because I figured it was general enough in scope to qualify me for a variety of jobs.
“Fuck your mom,” he said, firmly. We were sitting together on a couch in front of a warm fire, holding hands. “You can do whatever you want.”
He’d kissed me, then, right there, amid the sound of coffee grinders and the chatter of other customers, and I felt like he was the kind of man I wanted to spend my life with, someone who would encourage me to be my own person. He seemed resolute, at ease with defiance in a way I found sexy. It wasn’t until later, a year or so into our marriage, that it dawned on me that the characteristics that first drew me to him—his strength, the decisions he made about what he wanted his life to look like, and what role he expected me to play in it as his stay-at-home wife—was a tool he used to keep me at arm’s length. It felt too similar to how I felt in my relationship with my father—a realization that had made me cringe. I knew the marriage wouldn’t last.
“Good point,” I said, now. “Maybe you can talk with him? Jake and I have already tried.”
“Yeah. Of course.” He glanced at his phone, which had just buzzed. “I gotta go. Kari’s heading to Tuck’s game with Ruby.”
“Okay. I’ll bring my mom by in a couple of hours and take him home after. Thanks again for being flexible, so she can see the kids.”
“No problem,” he said. “Tell Ella to kick some ass.”I watched him pull out of the parking lot, imagining how he would have reacted if another man had asked me to dance, the way that Will had. Certainly not the way Jake did. Peter had been more possessive than that, instantly jealous if another man even looked my way. I was sure if I’d worked up the courage to tell him about my fantasy of having a threesome with another guy, he would have freaked out. When we were together, if I mentioned a male coworker or customer at my waitressing job—the only job I could find when we first moved to Seattle, before I got pregnant—he would ask me if I thought the guy was good-looking, his tone already an accusation. Usually, I’d reply “no,” because any other answer would have started a fight. But there were times when I’d say “yes” for the sole purpose of pushing his buttons, tired of being punished for something I wasn’t doing, knowing it would piss him off.
I made my way across the grass to join my mom, who was busy chatting with Charlotte on the sidelines. I looked at the other men on the field—the fathers and coaches—and my eyes landed on a tall, dark-haired man I didn’t recognize. We made eye contact, and I felt myself give him a slow smile. He smiled, too, then, in a way that suggested if I asked him too, if I walked up and began flirting with him, if I touched his arm and held his gaze in a certain kind of way, there was no doubt I could get him to fuck me. I could probably even sneak him into the park’s bathroom, lock us in a stall, and then let him take me up against the wall. It would be quick, physical, and satisfying. I wouldn’t even have to know his name.
I looked over at Jake, then, only to find him watching the way I’d been looking at the other man. I felt a sharp stitch of panic, worried that I’d upset my husband—that I’d crossed some kind of unspoken line—but then he raised a single, suggestive eyebrow, and I realized from the look on his face that it turned him on to have caught me looking at someone else that way. He might even have been imagining a similar scenario, or the same one, with him out on the field, watching our daughter play soccer while I fucked a stranger in the bathroom, knowing he’d hear every detail about it, later. The idea of that sent a rush of pleasure through my body, and I had to force myself to ignore it. I hadn’t thought about sex this much, so blatantly and with such fervor since I was a teenager. It felt like I was tapping into something that had been too long-suppressed, unleashing a part of me that had been yearning to be freed. It felt like I was becoming a new person—like a brand new world was about to open up.
Ten
My mom spent the entire weekend spoiling her grandchildren, ignoring my request to avoid doing exactly that. When they returned from a shopping trip on Sunday afternoon—yes, she would even spend time at the mall for her grandchildren, something she had loathed when I was a kid—Ella carried two bags from Forever 21 and Tuck, an elaborate Star Wars set from the Lego store, one Jake and I had deemed too expensive to buy for his twelfth birthday the previous month.
“Look!” Tuck said, showing off the box to me and Jake. We were in the kitchen, getting dinner ready before Jake would drive my mom to the airport. He hugged and kissed my mom before racing upstairs. “Thanks again, Grandma! I love you!”
“You’re welcome,” my mom said, beaming with self-satisfaction.
“Grandma bought me six outfits!” Ella said, lifting her bags for me to see. “I love them!”
“I’m glad, sweetie,” my mom said.
“I’m going to try it all on again!” Ella said, and in a flash, she was gone, too.
“Mom,” I said, but she cut me off.
“I know what you’re going to say.” She held up a single hand. “And I don’t care. I don’t get to see them often enough and when I do, I’m going to buy them what I want. It’s more for me than for them.”
I glanced at Jake, who was over by the sink, suddenly very studiously chopping romaine for a Caesar salad, purposely avoiding looking at me. He knew better than to get involved in a discussion like this. I sighed. “Fine. But only because you don’t get to see them very often.” I’d explained to my mom more than once how important it was to me and Jake—and Peter and Kari—to teach the kids that they needed to work to afford extravagances, but seeing the joy on all three of their faces allowed me to make an exception. It wasn’t like my mom did this every weekend. It suddenly struck me that in doing these kinds of things for them, maybe she was, in her own way, attempting to make up for the fact that she’d never done them with me.
“They’re such good kids,” my mom said. “You’re doing a great job.”
“Thank you,” I said, feeling the kind of internal glow that only praise from a parent can ignite.
The next morning, after a Sunday night, family dinner and a fashion show where Ella modeled the new pieces of her wardrobe—including a pair of Daisy Duke short-shorts that would be promptly returned as soon as my mom had left—Jake carried my mom’s suitcase out to his car. He had just returned from dropping the kids off at school; they’d said goodbye to their grandmother before they left.
“I’m happy I came,” my mom said as I hugged her goodbye.
“I need to do it more often.”
“Sure,” I said, despite a flicker of apprehension. The only reason my mom and I were able to get along as well as we did, now, was because she didn’t visit very often. It was better when we went to them, so we could control when it was time to leave.
A few hours later, after Jake had dropped her at the airport and both of us were at work, I was in the middle of showing a property in the far outskirts of Woodinville when Ella called from the nurse’s office, saying she had thrown up in gym class.
“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry. Can you hang in there for an hour for me to finish up with one of my clients and then I’ll come grab you?”
“No, Mom,” she said in a tiny voice. She was on the verge of tears. “I’m really sick.”
“Okay, baby,” I said, knowing she had to really not be feeling well to drop her normal sassy tone. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I would have called Jake or Peter to see if they could pick her up, but my husband was at Amazon headquarters in Seattle for the day, meeting with the HR team to better understand the newly-created executive management positions he’d be recruiting for, and Peter was working a construction site way out in Maple Valley for the next couple of weeks, where cell phone coverage was spotty, at best. And with Ella sick, I was sure Kari wouldn’t want her around Ruby.
Thirty minutes later, I had rescheduled with my client and pulled into the parking lot at the school. But as I was about to head toward the building, I heard my name called. I turned to see Tiffany charging toward me, wearing neon-green yoga capris and a matching tank top; I felt a twinge of envy of her stay-at-home mom status—the freedom she had to go to the gym in the middle of the day. “Hey, Tiff,” I said. “How’s your mom?”
She flinched. “The pain meds make her sick and forgetful, and it looks like she’s going to need surgery to get a few screws put in so her wrist will heal properly.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I glanced toward the entrance of the school, then back at her. “I don’t mean to cut this short, but Ella threw up in gym, so I need to get to get her home.”
“Oh, poor thing!” Tiffany said. “Wait. Which class is she in?”
“Ms. Kelly’s.”
Tiffany frowned.
“What?”
“Well, I hate to tell you, but Lizzy said that Skylar Woo is bulimic, and apparently, she’s been showing other girls how to throw up their lunch.”
“Hmm,” I said, unsure if this was true. From what Ella had told me, Tiffany’s daughter, Lizzy, had a reputation for starting rumors. “That’s terrible. But Ella’s actually sick.”
“Are you sure?” Tiffany asked, lifting a blond brow. “Lizzy told me that she watched six girls do it yesterday in the locker room. That’s why I’m here, to talk with Principal Martinez. I’m positive he doesn’t know what’s happening.” Her face brightened. “Maybe you and Ella can come with me?”
“There’s no way Ella’s doing it on purpose.” Ella had loathed throwing up since she was seven and chugged three cans of root beer, then ate a King-size bag of Skittles in less than an hour. She spent the night over the toilet, crying as I rubbed her back and held her hair. Ever since, if she even felt a hint of nausea, she would start to cry, terrified she might end up vomiting. She had also never touched another root beer or bag of Skittles.
“Can I talk to her?” Tiffany asked. “Maybe alone? If you’re not there, she might tell the truth.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” My jaw clenched, irritated by her implication that my daughter was lying. Moments like this with Tiffany made it difficult to want to know her better. When she wanted something, when she was convinced she was right, she had a tendency to push, which only made me want to shove back, harder. I turned to walk away. She called out after me again.
“I haven’t seen your request for me to approve you on the Neighbors app!” she said.
I gave a half-hearted wave, but kept moving. I’d downloaded the app, but had been so distracted by our time spent with Will, I had forgotten to create a login. I’d try to remember to do it later, if anything, for the possibility of more advertising for my current listings.
I got Ella home—the poor thing was hollow-eyed and pale when I found her in the nurse’s office—and set her up in front of the TV in the family room upstairs, placing a giant bowl next to her on the couch in case she had to throw up again and couldn’t make it to the bathroom in time. When I returned a few minutes later with ginger ale and a sleeve of Saltines, I set them on the coffee table and plopped down beside my daughter.
“Back tickle?” I asked, and she nodded, shifting onto her side so she could lay her head in my lap. I lightly ran the tips of my fingers in circles around her slender back, over and over again, as I had since she was a baby. Slowly, she began to relax, and her breathing became deep and regular.
“Thanks, Mama,” she whispered. She only called me “mama” when she didn’t feel well, or when she was upset. She’d changed to calling me “Mom” when she was around eight, and I’d been saddened by the transition. For whatever reason, “mama” felt more intimate to me. Like she needed me, still.
“You’re welcome, sweet girl,” I said. I had to fight to not tear up. I stroked her curls away from her face. “I’m sorry you feel sick.” I checked her forehead, but as the nurse had told me, Ella didn’t have a fever.
“Barfing is the worst.”
“I ran into Lizzy’s mom on my way in to get you,” I said. “She told me that Skylar has been showing other girls how to throw up their lunches.”
Ella turned her head and looked at me. “What? It’s Lizzy who’s doing that! It’s so gross.” She settled her gaze back at the TV, where she was streaming an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. “I mean, who would do that on purpose?” She shuddered.
“Lizzy’s doing it?”
“Yeah. For like, six months.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Ella shrugged. “I was pretty sure Lizzy didn’t want anyone to know. So it’s weird that she told her mom it’s Skylar.” She paused. “Why would she lie?”
I thought for a moment. “Well,” I finally said. “Maybe she’s trying to ask for help, in her own way. She might not have the courage to tell her mom what’s happening with her, but by saying that someone else is doing it, she might be hoping that Tiffany somehow realizes what’s really going on. Or at least asks her about it.”
“That’s stupid,” Ella said. “Why wouldn’t she just tell her mom the truth?”
“Maybe they don’t have a close relationship,” I said, as diplomatically as possible, even as I wondered about how Tiffany might react to this kind of information. I didn’t know her well enough to know for sure, but I imagined she might not automatically believe what Lizzy had to say. “Maybe she’s scared her mom will get mad. Not all moms and daughters know how to really talk to each other.”
“Did you and Grandma talk to each other when you were my age?”
“Not the way you and I do,” I said. “She was pretty focused on her job.”
“Like Grandpa?” Ella asked. “Grandma told us this weekend that he should get his mail at the hospital instead of their house.”
“Your grandma can exaggerate a little bit,” I said, again, watching how I worded my thoughts. “He probably could spend more time with her, but his work is important to him.”
“Well, yeah,” Ella said. “He like, saves people with cancer!”
“Yes, he does. But like I said, Grandma’s work is important to her, too. That was what they talked about with each other, more than anything else. It’s what they had in common. Now that she isn’t dean of the department anymore, she has more time on her hands, so I think she wishes he would cut down on his work, too.”
“They should talk about spending more time together,” Ella said, sagely.
“You’re right, they should.” But try as I might, I couldn’t imagine that conversation resolving anything. Though I never saw my parents discuss it
outright, it had always been clear that the crux of their marriage was centered on each other’s intellect, and the loneliness my mother seemed to be experiencing fell outside of those bounds. I doubted that either of them knew how to work through something so emotionally complicated.
We were quiet for a few minutes, watching the drama at the fictional Seattle Grace hospital unfold as I continued to tickle Ella’s back. After a while, she sat up and ate a few crackers, then took a couple of sips of ginger ale.
“Feeling better?”
“A little bit.”
“Good. Hopefully, it’s only a 24-hour bug.”
She nodded, and then looked like she was thinking about saying more. “Lizzy does something else, too,” she finally said. The words were hesitant. “Or at least, she says she’s doing it.”
“Really?” I said, trying to sound casual, despite the fact that my motherly warning bells had sounded. “What?”
Ella dropped her eyes to the couch. “She’s giving Conner Hendrickson blow jobs. But she says it’s no big deal, because it’s not really sex.”
“Wow,” I said, as evenly as I could. “What do you think about that?” Despite my resolution to be as open about sex with my kids as possible so they didn’t experience the same confusion and shame that I had, it was still a bit disturbing to hear the phrase “blow job” come out of my thirteen-year-old daughter’s mouth.
She widened her round, green eyes, looking a little fearful. “I don’t know.”
I reached over and squeezed her hand. “It’s okay to talk with me about this kind of stuff, honey. I’m glad you brought it up. It can be really confusing.” I didn’t want her to shut down, so I had to force myself not to launch into am immediate lecture about condoms and how blow jobs aren’t actually in some mystical, “not really sex” category. I waited for her to speak again.