The Perfect Mom

by Janice Kay Johnson

  Her fingers bit into his back as he drove the last, exquisite inches, filling her so that ripples began immediately, deep inside. Tiny ones that shivered and dissipated as he withdrew, thrust again, kissed her, his tongue mimicking the primal rhythm. She opened herself to him in every way she could, accepting his power and size and the dominance of a man claiming a woman, however gently he tried to do it.

  The ripples spread, bringing his name to her lips as spasms began, so strongly they shocked her, washing her with pleasure and wonder, even as he groaned deep and thrust hard and fast, jerking with completion.

  No, it was nothing like what she’d known, and as he lifted her and rolled, so that she sprawled atop him, she felt something else new: joy and hope.

  CHAPTER NINE

  KATHLEEN KNOCKED ON EMMA’S door and got in return the familiar, grudging, “Come in.”

  It was three weeks later, and the teenager had made the room more distinctly hers in that time. Pictures of guys she considered “hot,” cut from magazines, were taped to the walls, along with others that seemed random: a photo of a rosebud, a Bart Simpson poster, an art-style portrait of an anonymous, naked woman sitting with head bent and arms and legs crisscrossed. All were from her room at home, brought by Kathleen on demand. Emma’s school-books littered the desk and bedside table, and she hastily shoved a journal out of sight under a binder as her mother entered.

  “I didn’t know you were coming today.” Her tone was an accusation.

  “I’ve been talking to Sharon and Dr. Tisdale.” Kathleen sat at the foot of the bed. “They think you’re ready to come home.”

  Emma’s face lit. “Really?” Then a mask covered the bright light of happiness. “Whatever.”

  Why, Kathleen wondered, was she so determined to be unhappy? Emma looked so much better than she had a month ago, her hair shinier, her skin flushed with color. Her hands weren’t so icy cold. She was still frighteningly thin, but she might pass in a crowd as a pretty, delicately built girl.

  Kathleen watched her daughter’s face. “Do you think you’re ready?”

  “To be good?” Emma mocked.

  “To continue eating without a monitor. To live,” Kathleen said quietly.

  The teenager rolled her eyes. “It’s not like I don’t have you to tell me what I’m doing wrong all the time.”

  Once, Kathleen had enjoyed every minute spent with her daughter. Now, she had an ache in her chest that only became more painful with each barb.

  “No.” She made herself stay completely calm and in control, giving away no indication that the barbs had drawn blood. “I won’t monitor your eating, Emma. You know that. Sometimes I couldn’t hide my worry. Probably I’ll slip again in the future. I’m your mother. How can I help it? But these are choices you have to make for yourself.”

  “Sure.”

  Ignoring the sullen taunt, Kathleen continued, “I won’t let you become dangerously thin. I’ll check you back in here in a heartbeat, if you start losing weight and Sharon recommends it. But day to day, I’m going to do my best to pay no attention to your eating. If we fight, it’ll be about other things.”

  Emma looked at her sidelong, betrayed by curiosity. “Like what other things?”

  “Your tone when you talk to me. I don’t think asking you to be polite is unreasonable.”

  Emma bent her head, so that the curtain of fine blond hair shielded her face.

  “I don’t want you stomping out anymore without telling me where you’re going. It scares me when hours go by and I have no idea where you are.”

  “I just go for walks,” her daughter muttered.

  “Seattle isn’t a small town. It’s not safe for you to wander for hours by yourself.”

  Emma flung her head up and stared defiantly at her mother. “So now I’m going to be under house arrest?”

  “No.” Kathleen willed herself to gaze back without letting frustration or anger show. “I’m asking you to show some common sense and some consideration for me and for Jo, Helen and Ginny.”

  Eyes dark with resentment, Emma said, “And him, I suppose.”

  “You know, you might like Logan.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “Quite a bit, to me.” Kathleen dared to reach for her daughter’s hand, feeling its fragility but also renewed strength and warmth. “I love you, Emma.”

  Emma sat unmoving so long, on a sharp bite of grief Kathleen let go of her hand.

  “I love you, too, Mom.”

  For a moment, Kathleen thought she was hearing things. “What?”

  Emma’s eyes were huge and blue and pleading. One crystalline tear trembled on a lash. “I do love you. Even when I’m all mixed up and mad.”

  Feeling the sting of tears herself, Kathleen leaned forward and gave her daughter a quick hug. “I’m glad,” she whispered. “If I was always sure of that, it would help.”

  “Sometimes I think maybe you wish you didn’t have me.”

  Kathleen sat back, disentangling this hasty, mumbled sentence. “What on earth would make you think something that silly?” she asked in amazement. “I love you more than anybody or anything in the whole world.”

  Emma stole a glance at her. “Even when I’m not very nice?”

  Kathleen gave a tremulous smile. “Even then.”

  “When I was fat, I embarrassed you.”

  “You never embarrassed me.”

  She wished she could be sure that wasn’t a lie, that she could honestly say she’d been proud to introduce Emma as her daughter no matter what. She thought it was the truth, even if she’d had a few pangs when friends’ daughters were prettier or more graceful or accomplished at some given age.

  Why had she wasted so much energy on unspoken, perhaps even one-sided competitions? Was she so insecure that she always had to win, always had to be part of the in-crowd, had to be the best, had to have the best, whether it was husband, child or home?

  Kathleen wished she’d channeled all that drive into something more fruitful. When younger, she could have attended law school or gone into business. She could have accomplished something, instead of spending her days worrying about image.

  The sad thing was, she didn’t know if those inner battles had been won. Did she still care?

  Enough that she would turn her back on what she had with Logan?

  She shelved the self-doubt and smiled at Emma. “So? Are you ready to come home?”

  “Like…now?”

  “Why not?”

  “Cool!” Emma flung herself at her mother, gave her a quick, hard hug, then leaped to her feet. “Let me take my stuff off the wall. And I have to pack.”

  Kathleen stood. “I need to go down to the office and do some paperwork. Take your time. I’ll help when I get back.”

  Emma must have spun through the room like a whirlwind, because her suitcase and book bag were bulging when Kathleen returned, and Emma sat waiting at the foot of the bed.

  Picking up the suitcase, Kathleen asked, “Any goodbyes you need to say?”

  “I already did. There are only a couple girls I liked that much.”

  “Will you be glad to be back at school?” Kathleen asked, as they walked down the hall.

  Emma’s brightness dimmed. “I like class, but…” Her voice flattened. “Yeah. Sure.”

  “Well, Ginny can hardly wait to see you.”

  “Really?” The light came back on. “That’s cool. I’ll be glad to see her, too.”

  A few girls and women nodded or smiled and said, “Bye, Emma,” or, “Good luck.”

  Emma’s standard response was, “Yeah, see ya.”

  Kathleen prayed she wouldn’t, not if that meant she had to check into Bridges again.

  On the drive home, Emma studied the passing buildings and pedestrians as if she’d never seen them before. “Just think,” she marveled, “what it would be like if you’d been in jail for, like, twenty years, and suddenly you were out?”

  “Very, very weird.”


  “I feel weird.” She was quiet for several blocks. “Is he coming over tonight?”

  Kathleen’s stomach knotted again. “I didn’t ask him. This is your homecoming. I figured I’d let you choose the dinner menu, and we can even go to a movie or something if you’d like.”

  “Can I cook dinner?” Emma asked eagerly. “I haven’t cooked for ages.”

  Kathleen had never been able to understand how Emma could spend several hours preparing dinner and not eat a bite, but she claimed to love to cook. The therapist had said this wasn’t uncommon, that anorexics were, despite—or because of—their reluctance to eat, obsessed with food. They thought about food, dreamed about food, worried about food. Cooking was a way to handle it, look at it, smell it, without partaking. It was also a way to disguise how little they ate.

  “I sampled so much I’m not hungry,” was Emma’s standard excuse, as she avidly watched other people eat.

  Kathleen didn’t know if her eager desire to cook dinner tonight was a good sign or bad. But she had resolved to let Emma take responsibility for her own problem, so she said after only the briefest hesitation, “If you really want to. As long as you’ll let me help. Do we need to stop at the store?”

  “I want to make spaghetti. Also—” Emma sounded hesitant “—maybe I could pick out some stuff just for me? I mean, not that I wouldn’t share, but you know. Food I’ll eat.”

  “Sure. Whole Foods?”

  “Cool!” Emma declared happily.

  Kathleen didn’t go there often for general shopping, because the prices weren’t the lowest, but the produce was luscious and the selection unusual. Emma loved the store, which specialized in organic and vegetarian foods and toiletries.

  In harmony, they pushed the cart around, Emma frowning in long concentration over cereals and soups before making selections. Kathleen assumed she was studying the caloric and fat contents, but she didn’t comment or try to hurry her.

  “Can I make the spaghetti with soy instead of hamburger?” Emma asked. “I especially hated eating the meat. I think I’m going to try to be vegetarian.”

  “You know, you’ll have to work at getting enough protein and the right nutrients—”

  “I know, I know!” Emma interrupted. “I talked to the dietician at Bridges about it, and she gave me a book to read. But I really like the idea.”

  It would give her an excuse all too often not to eat dinner, unless the whole household went vegetarian, but Kathleen figured the first day was too soon to break her resolve.

  “Fine,” she said mildly. “It’ll mean you making your own dinner sometimes.”

  “That’s okay. I thought I’d pick out some frozen stuff here.”

  Kathleen gulped at the total the checker rang up, used her debit card and waited apprehensively for Approved to appear on the small screen. Ian’s child-support check would be welcome this month.

  The remainder of the drive home was short. They’d barely pulled into the driveway when the front door flew open and Ginny came racing down the porch steps.

  “Emma!” she cried.

  Emma met her partway up the concrete stairs carved through the retaining wall. The two girls hugged and, chattering, came down to help carry groceries.

  With big eyes, Ginny gazed at the sea of grocery bags. “Ohh,” she said happily, peering in. “I like angel food cake.”

  “I thought we’d celebrate,” Kathleen said. “Here. Is this bag too heavy for you?”

  The six-year-old shook her head and, accompanied by Emma carrying her suitcase, began trudging up the steps. They were met by Jo, coming down.

  She hugged and kissed Emma, too, then arrived at the car to blink in surprise at the contents of the trunk. “Wow! You went to town.”

  Kathleen sighed. “It seemed like the thing to do. Emma wanted to pick out food she’s comfortable eating, and everything looked so good. You may have to buy the toilet paper this week.”

  Poking inside a bag, Jo said, “If I can have some of these cookies, toilet paper is a small price to pay.”

  “Needless to say,” Kathleen confessed, “Emma didn’t pick those out.”

  Jo laughed. “I guessed.”

  As the two women, fully loaded, climbed the steps, Jo asked, “Is Logan coming to dinner?”

  Tartly, Kathleen said, “Why does everybody assume…”

  “Everybody?” Jo glanced over her shoulder. “Oh. Emma.”

  “Yes, Emma! I haven’t even told her that much about him, and she’s braced for a wedding! For Pete’s sake, it’s not like I’m that serious.”

  “Aren’t you?” Jo murmured, just as they crossed the threshold, ensuring that Kathleen couldn’t argue.

  Helen had appeared from the bathroom, hair wrapped in a towel, to greet Emma. Now they all put away the groceries and talked. Emma had already found Pirate, who draped contentedly across her thin shoulders.

  “He missed me,” she declared, when she and her mother found themselves briefly apart from the others.

  “Looks that way,” Kathleen agreed.

  Emma looked around at her bustling “family” and said, “Everybody is acting like they missed me, too.”

  “They did.” Kathleen hugged her carefully and kissed the top of first Emma’s head, then Pirate’s. “We did.”

  “Good.” The teenager nodded with blatant satisfaction. “It feels just like always. I don’t want any thing to change. Not ever. Except I guess Jo can marry Uncle Ryan, ’cuz then she’ll be family and that’s okay. But Helen and Ginny and us can stay like this forever. Right?”

  Kathleen knew a pointed message when she heard one. She also recognized the frightened desire to hold on to the familiar.

  “I don’t know about forever,” she said lightly. “You, kiddo, will be graduating from high school in two years and going on to college. Life doesn’t stand still. But for now, I think we’re all pretty happy with the way things are.”

  It wasn’t a lie, not quite. She was happy, when Emma was being her sweet self. But Logan was part of “the way things are” for her now, and Emma didn’t want to acknowledge it.

  And what if Logan wanted more?

  Quelling a small burst of panic, Kathleen grabbed empty grocery bags and stuffed them in the drawer where they were kept.

  She was worrying much, much too soon, she re assured herself. He might not want more. She might not. She probably wouldn’t.

  The “probably” made her stop, her hand on the drawer handle.

  Why “probably”? Because she wasn’t in love?

  Or because a mere cabinetmaker was okay for a lover, but not a husband?

  Wishing she didn’t even have to ask herself such questions, she buried the creeping shame and self-doubt.

  “Well, Chef Emma, shall we get started with dinner preparations?”

  THIS FIRST MEETING would be interesting, Logan figured. Not since he was sixteen himself had he cared what a teenager thought of him. This particular teenage girl, though, might eventually cast a deciding vote. Since the outcome of that vote had begun to matter a whole lot to him, it would have been nice to know if there was anything at all he could do to sway her opinion.

  Or would Miss Emma Monroe hate any man her mother dated?

  It was Tuesday night and a dinner invitation had been tendered. Logan had talked to Kathleen several times since Emma was sprung on Saturday, and she’d sounded…lighter. Excited.

  “She actually is eating! Not just when someone’s watching. The other day, I came down and I know she didn’t hear me. She was eating a bowl of cereal just like anyone else. I had to back out and get a grip on myself before I went in the kitchen and pretended I didn’t notice.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Do you think?”

  What did he know about raising a kid? Nothing. Nada. Zip. But he did know that compelling someone else’s behavior was damn difficult. And kids seemed programmed to rebel, from the Terrible Twos to the teen years.

  “She’s being so loving,” Kathle
en had said, during another conversation. “So sweet. It’s like all our arguments never happened. I worry this is…oh, a honeymoon period. You know? Things don’t turn around that fast.”

  He didn’t know what to do but advise her to enjoy it while it lasted. Logan just hoped he wasn’t the cause of the first rupture.

  Tonight he had to park a block and a half away from the brick house the three women shared. On his walk back, he stumbled several times when the sidewalk buckled over tree roots. The streetlights seemed far apart, the drizzly night dark. He hunched inside his coat against the dampness.

  The house was brightly lit and welcoming. Looking up at it, he realized ruefully how eager he was, how long these past four days had seemed. His own house felt cold and empty now when Kathleen wasn’t there. He wondered how he’d endured years of solitude. Even aside from how hungry he was to be with Kathleen, he liked coming here, with the lively talk, laughter, smell of lavender and cinnamon and kiwi all mixed together, the shy little kid and the clatter of feet on the old staircase. It felt homelike.

  Ringing the doorbell tonight was the first time since that introductory dinner that he’d been nervous. He braced himself when he heard the dead bolt unlatch and the door opened, but it was Jo, wearing sweats and fuzzy socks, who let him in.

  “Hey,” she said with a friendly smile. Over her shoulder, she called, “Kathleen! Logan’s here.”

  Kathleen called back, “Send him into the kitchen.”

  “She’s cooking,” Jo told him.

  “Smells good.”

  Seeing right through his lie, Jo laughed. “She was experimenting with some bizarre combinations of essential oils last night. Helen and I nixed the idea the minute we got home. Unfortunately, it lingers. Dinner really does smell good, when you get close enough.”

  “Ah,” he said in relief. “I thought maybe we were having squid or seaweed or…” His imagination failed him. The smell was both pungent and distinctly unpleasant.

  Kathleen looked cute with an apron tied around her neck and waist over a long-sleeved pink T-shirt and chinos. She wore clogs. “Hi,” she said, coming to kiss him on the cheek, one hand in an oven mitt and the other holding a spatula. “Dinner will be ready in just a few minutes.”