In the afternoon, I smile with Mackenzie as we ride our bikes in Dalton Park — the fancy-pants park near Cherry Hill. We rack our bikes afterward, and I spring for one of the little remote control boats so Mackenzie can pilot it around the pond. I’m feeling like SuperMom, having checked off so many of the Good Mother boxes.
Never mind that I work too much for too little money and have been forced to abdicate raising my daughter to my parents, who I swore to never take charity from. Never mind that I’ve disappointed Mackenzie so many times that it’s now the norm, and keeping my promise is a rarity worth noting. And never mind that I’m a wolf in sheep’s clothing even now, as my mind strays to the texts deleted this morning.
I’m SuperMom. I can do it all. I can ask about Brownie registration while baking and biking. And never mind that the entire time, thoughts of what my life has become are mixing into an internal stew, making me crave someone’s touch the way a person craves water in the desert. Almost anyone’s touch.
I catch myself, at the park, pulling my phone from my pocket to check the lock screen for new messages or texts.
I catch myself thinking of what might have happened last night, if I’d answered my phone instead of Chadd leaving a message.
Or what could, if I still had his number, happen right now.
The thought warms me. I remember how he looked at me. I imagine how he’d look at me again. His eyes were all over me last night because I encouraged him, because I made it obvious that his attention was wanted, craved, anticipated. I picture myself somewhere, with all that attention, making the world go away for a while. Transforming me for a while, from Maya the mother into Maya the woman. Killing my responsibilities for the duration of five thousand sweaty heartbeats.
I’m leaning over the railing, watching Mackenzie’s boat circle the pond, when I begin to plan.
It’s barely 2. I work at 5, and the drive to my parents’ and the drive to the diner are both just five minutes. We could stay here for another full hour, and I’d still have plenty of time to get Mac to my mother’s by 4, probably 3:30.
I’d have over an hour to myself, probably more.
And that’s if I spend another hour with Mackenzie. Another whole hour. I’ve been with her all day, and we’ve done all sorts of things that good mothers and daughters do together. I don’t have to spend every minute I have with her, right? I deserve a reprieve, don’t I?
But the good angel on my shoulder tells me I’m being horrible. I’ve finally managed a day with my daughter, and here I am plotting ways to get laid. Selfishly. While lying to everyone because I know I’d tell Mom I work at 4, not 5. And I’d tell Mackenzie the same thing.
My little girl out the door. And me through another. Or, shit, into a nook in an alleyway. The filthier, hurried, urgent scenarios are more appealing than the soft and quiet ones. I don’t want to be a good girl. That’s who I’ve been all day. I’m a responsible, take-charge kind of person who honors her obligations unlike some people. I’ve been a good girl for ten years. For almost a decade now, I’ve put someone else’s needs before mine.
I deserve this. I deserve to take what I have coming.
To take it up against a wall.
In a back room somewhere.
To wear a skirt with nothing beneath, to get lifted up, my legs parted with a strong torso between them.
I’ve been a good girl for too long. I want the freedom to be bad for a while. And with as hard as I work to keep food on the table, it’s only fair.
I’m still leaning over the railing, picturing scenarios vivid enough to feel hot breath on my neck, when Mackenzie comes rushing over, remote in hand.
“You want to try it, Mom?”
For a moment I don’t know where I am. I was lost in fantasy. Now I’m in a big park, with this little girl smiling below me, holding a metal-and-plastic contraption with an antenna on its top.
And just like that, I feel like a failure. A traitor. A selfish bitch. A horrible, horrible person. The kind of mother whose kids should be taken away because proper mothers would never consider what I’d been plotting out in my head.
“No thanks, Honey,” I manage to say.
“Come on! It’s really fun. I can steer it through that hoop. See it there, Mom!”
“Which one is yours again?”
“Number fifteen.”
I see the boat. It looks like responsibility. Like me going to work on time, at 5, and only dropping Mackenzie off just before I go.
“Show me,” I say.
On the cordoned-off section of the pond, I watch Mackenzie’s boat steer toward the upright hoop in a tight circle, fire toward it, and miss.
“Dang. Hang on, Mom. I can do it. Mom, are you watching?”
“Yes. You have my undivided attention.”
I watch her focus on the boat. I watch her thumbs operate the controls. I watch her tongue sneak out of the corner of her mouth as she concentrates. Then she turns toward me, all wide blue eyes — a kid rather than the serious little woman she is too often.
“Did you see that, Mommy?”
She means the boat. I didn’t see what the boat did, but I saw the operator just fine.
“I saw it,” I say with a bittersweet smile.
She shoves the remote into my hands.
“You try it. And after this, can we play on the playground? And do we have time, after we get home, to frost the cupcakes from this morning?”
I look at my phone. There are no new messages, but I see that it’s now 2:15.
Of course we can do those things. We have until 5. SuperMom is on the case, and happy enough with what she has.
CHAPTER 7
Grady
There are only two seats in my truck. Usually, I’d have shoved the crap I care to hang onto (including a cot from Walmart, thanks to my last bedding situation) into the passenger seat, just in case it rains. But for now, because the skies are clear, I’ve relegated my scant life’s belongings to the truck bed so the other living being can ride beside me.
I’ve tried conversing with him, but he’s an awful conversationalist. No matter what I say, he complains. No matter what I try, he answers with “Meow.” Or, sometimes, “Rowr.”
I’ve named my new cat Carl. The cute vet receptionist, who kept smiling at me, told me it was a terrible name for a cat, but I haven’t had a pet since I was a kid. I’m not used to hanging out with animals as I roam the country, so I figure if I’m going to have one now, he’ll need to be at least somewhat relatable. I’ll need to talk to this guy, and I can’t do that if his name is Fuzzball.
I glance over at Carl. I bought him a traveling crate at PetSmart to replace the box, which the cute receptionist also said wasn’t a suitable cat home. The thing’s sides are thin bars, sufficient to let me and my passenger look at each other, or possibly to glance out the windows at any particularly attractive girl kitties we pass and might want to holler at. He’s calmed a lot in the past half day of driving and had already cooled visibly by the time I got him to the vet. We seem to be getting along, though I haven’t figured out is how he’s going to do his business. At first, I had the bottom part of a cut-off milk jug filled with kitty litter in the traveler with him, but the thing was too small for both cat and litter, and he kept having to sit in it. Plus, he kept looking at me with irritation, as if questioning my decision to trust him with such excellent aim.
We’ve been compromising. Every time I make a pit stop for me, Carl gets one, too. I know it’s not the most elegant solution to leave a cat loose in a truck with a kitty litter box on the floor while the owner runs into a rest stop, but so far it’s mostly working. I toss the clumps into the weeds and re-box him before driving, and he hasn’t made any attempts to sneak past me and flee. He seems to understand that I saved his ass and is content to see where this partnership might go. It’s not loyalty so much as feline logic. At some point, he may decide I suck and leave without apologies, but so far we seem copacetic.
According to the
vet, Carl is a domestic shorthair between six and nine months old. There was no way to know which shots he’d had, so he got boosters for some and instructions to get more later wherever I end up, whether that’s Inferno Falls or somewhere else. But we did see that Carl was neutered once, probably kicked at least twice. The latter could have happened whenever, but I stand by my original assessment: He was a pet; he was abused; he was tossed like garbage. I didn’t want a pet — and really, if I need a traveling pet with my lifestyle, a medium-sized dog makes far more sense — but here we are, Carl and me, on the road.
“Don’t you feel dumb for running from me now, asshole?” I ask him.
“Meow.”
“Yeah, I thought so.”
The radio is off. When I had it on before, Carl kept singing along. It was funny for five minutes, before it got annoying. With his two-word vocabulary I’m not sure if he likes the radio or hates it. But either way, I quickly grew tired of hearing it. There’s no meowing in Johnny Cash songs, period. The little bastard is screwing with the classics, and I won’t tolerate it. Not in my truck.
A bit later, I pull into a stop. Carl looks up at me. He has this expression I’m already getting used to. It seems to say, “What are you, stupid?” Like he knows better than me. He’s black and white and sits like a statue when not lying down like a carpet. I get the feeling I’m being judged, and coming off horribly.
“I just want to check the GPS.”
“Meow.”
“For the total trip time, not the road we’re supposed to be on.”
“Meow.”
“Who are you, my mother?”
He doesn’t answer. Which he shouldn’t. He knows it’s a touchy topic. I got along with Mom about the same as I got along with Dad, which is to say we had a lot of good days and a handful of bad. I got off a lot easier than many of my friends, but we definitely weren’t a ’50s sitcom. They were a picnic compared to Uncle Ernie, though — and on the subject of that asshole, Carl at least understands he’d best not offer any opinions.
“I think we should take the extra day,” I tell him, noting the time left on our trip.
“Rowr.”
“Well, just keep your mouth shut after I sneak you into the hotel, and we’ll be fine.”
“Meow.”
“Oh, you can too.”
“Rowr.”
I think about that for a second. It’s unrealistic to think I can waltz into town on my uncle’s lawyer’s suggestion, clear out Ernie’s shitbox house, and collect whatever I can at auction then move on without anyone knowing I’m there.
I’ve thought about Maya a lot. We’ve exchanged a few polite emails, but most of our communication has been one way, in the form of postcards. I like postcards because they’re old-fashioned and are the poker face of mail communication. Someone can send you a postcard if they love or hate you, and a postcard gives nothing away. A postcard says, “I was here and was thinking of you,” and that’s it. The tone of that thought is anyone’s guess.
So really, I have no idea what’s become of Maya, other than that the baby obviously wouldn’t be a baby anymore. Maya has mentioned things about her life in our infrequent emails, but mostly her messages have been as polite and straight faced as mine, as if we never shared a bed. We could be strangers, jawing about nothing to pass the time.
Now that I’m returning to Inferno Falls, part of me wants to go for the throat of the matter. Maybe I should leap past the awkward part and see her right away, assuming I can figure out where she is. It’s a small town, and her parents won’t have moved — or will still be active in the church even if they have. Locating Maya and her family won’t be a problem. The problem is how they’ll react to me after all this time.
But let’s face it. What happened with Ernie and my obligation to his estate is a convenient excuse. I told myself, when I left, that I was done with that place and everyone in it. But we both (and here, I mean me and my cat) know I’ve been fooling myself.
I pull the truck to the road’s side and search for a number. A moment later, I’ve got the phone to my face, and this dumb cat of mine is staring at me like he’s won some sort of a moral victory over my stubbornness.
“Rowr.”
“Oh, keep your collar on,” I say. “I’m just arranging for a dumpster.”
CHAPTER 8
Maya
The Nosh Pit does a lot of lunch business, but ever since it was featured on Best. Food. Ever., we’ve never really returned to our normal state of semi-busy for weekend dinner service. When I show up after dropping Mackenzie off, my day of calm and control breaks like a dropped plate.
I’m putting my purse into a locker when Jen approaches me. She’s wild-eyed, and her usually composed hair is coming out of her ponytail in a loose fuzz.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here,” she says.
“Why?” I look around. “Did something happen?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. It’s busy, and we’re short. But Ed, it’s like he doesn’t understand math. Two servers short plus a rush equals — ”
“Two short?”
Jen nods. “Yeah. Carla was on for tonight, and Ed made her come in even though she had a doctor’s note. Literally a note because Carla knows Ed won’t believe anything she says and would think she was just whining. She’s got stitches on her hand, Maya. Can you imagine that?”
I flinch a little. I’m not good with blood under the best of circumstances, but for some reason Jen’s revulsion is spot on; stitches on the hand sounds like a new kind of hideous.
“So she came in like Ed said because, well, you know how he is, and she made the mistake of actually asking to talk to him when she called rather than hiding and not answering her phone like I would. And Ed’s like, ‘You’re fine, pretty lady. Now get out there, and shake it.’” Jen doesn’t just do Ed’s voice; she actually manages to make her pixie face as ugly and grumpy as his. “And so what happens? First tray. FIRST thing she carries out, her cut comes open, and she starts bleeding. But she doesn’t notice it; she just knew it hurt, which it always does, so whatever. But the customers saw it because Carla was bleeding down her wrist, down her arm, like this, and then dripping off the end of her elbow.”
My hand goes over my mouth. Then I say, “Did she break her stitches?”
“No, thankfully. But it was like Carrie, anyway. That got Ed’s attention, when someone complained. He must have realized he was breaking the rules of, like, ten government organizations with acronyms at that point because he yelled at Carla and told her to think before doing something so stupid. Meaning: coming into work at all. Which he insisted she do. But if there’s an upside, Roxanne had to mop up the blood.”
I laugh at that, and Jen manages to join me.
“So Carla went home where she should have been to begin with. Big shock.”
“Who’s the second?”
“Abigail.”
“Where’s she? Oh, wait. It’s Saturday.”
Jen nods. “She’s at the Overlook again. Or … wait. Maybe they’re starting their tour? I don’t know.”
I scoff. If Ed had a brain, which he clearly doesn’t based on how frequently he violates sexual harassment laws, he’d have known that Abigail’s time here was at its end weeks ago. Ever since she hooked up with Gavin — and good for her; we can’t all be jilted forever — his band’s plans have added to her prospects, which had already improved the moment Danny Ross started giving her weekend shifts at the club. She hasn’t been available on Friday and Saturday nights in forever, and soon she’ll quit entirely. The idea that Ed would have booked her tonight proves that he’s oblivious or sloppy. Likely both.
“Can nobody else come in?”
“Nobody that Ed can get ahold of.”
“I wonder if I should call someone.” All the servers dodge Ed’s calls. The advent of caller ID and cell phones was death for someone whose calls are never wanted, like my boss. But I dismiss my offer as soon as I make it because I won’t be that pe
rson. I won’t be the girl who asks a friend to give up her Saturday night so she can spend it here, getting yelled at.
I’m already dismissing the idea, but Jen clearly didn’t take it seriously to begin with. She doesn’t even acknowledge what I said and instead perks an ear toward the front, where we can hear Ed remonstrating.
“I have to get back out there,” Jen says. “But I have a favor to ask.”
“How many tables do you want me to take?”
“Any two, if you could?” Jen is cute when timid. I might as well. I’m decent at my job no matter what Roxanne feels, and Roxanne’s ego will have made her take more than her share of tables anyway. I’d be left with an elevated but not insurmountable load, so I can handle two more if it’ll make Jen’s life less miserable. And besides, I thrive on activity. Anything to keep my mind off what it shouldn’t be considering.
Like escaping into bad habits.
Like the text I got back about Brownies, which reported that Mac can absolutely join, for sure, and they’d be delighted to have her — but I know deep down there’s no way I can make the schedules work.
Like Chadd, who I both hope and don’t hope will call again.
And like Mackenzie, when I left her. She asked about her father again — twice in one day, probably because of all the mother-daughter bonding we did, and a misperception that I’m open to talk about anything. She asked about Brownies, but I diverted to school, to her friends, to her clubs, to how she has plenty of companionship there, in preparation for my needing to drop the bomb later. She got this strange look on her face. One I’ve never seen, at least where school is concerned.
The busier I am, the less I have to think about any of it.
I head out. Roxanne gives me a snippy remark about how it took me long enough to arrive, but tonight I feel like slapping her perfect face or knocking her perky little tits out of alignment. She has pull with Ed, but he won’t be able to book Carla for weeks and is about to lose Abigail to her boyfriend’s band. His hands are plenty tied. If he threatens me, I’ll threaten back. If I walk, Ed is fucked … and not in the way he seems so pathetically determined to be when he says and does the inappropriate things that pass for normal around here.
The Second Chance (Inferno Falls Book Three) Page 5