Bad Mommy, Page 2

  Giana’s third birthday party!

  Where: Queen Anne Park

  Pavilion #7

  2:00 sharp.

  RSVP Tiana’s cell

  I wondered what type of woman wrote sharp on her daughter’s birthday invitations. Someone with OCD is who. The type of woman who peeked out of her window at night to make sure the neighbors weren’t setting out their trash can too close to her lawn. Petty, pathetic people. Weren’t parents of small children known for always being late anyway? It was sort of demoralizing to remind them of their failures on a birthday invitation.

  I set little Giana’s invitation down and pulled the package toward me. What could be inside a box that small? The writing on the paper was cramped. Sharp, scratchy letters in blue ink. It was addressed to Jolene Wyatt—must be her maiden name.

  I used scissors to slice the tape, humming softly to myself. Once it was open, I tilted it to the side and let the contents slide out. A blue velvet box rolled into my palm—the kind of trinket box people put jewelry in. There was an invoice folded on top; I set it aside and cracked open the lid. Right away I felt disappointed. Secured by a red thread, was a tiny azure bead. I plucked it out and held it up to the light. Nothing remarkable—or as my mother would say—nothing worth writing home about. Maybe Bad Mommy was one of those crafty people who made bracelets and such. A jewelry business on Etsy. I made a mental note to search for her later. Having a child wasn’t good enough for her, she needed extra activities to make her feel like her old bar hopping, whore, necklace-crafting self. I put the bead back in the box and shoved everything into a drawer, suddenly feeling a migraine coming on. I wouldn’t think about that anymore, how ungrateful people were. It was making me feel ill. She didn’t deserve that little girl. I settled on the couch with a cool washcloth over my eyes. And that’s where I fell asleep.

  Fig, people always said to me. Why don’t you have children? You’re so good with them. And what was I supposed to say to that? I almost did once. But, my husband failed me, you see. And I lost my baby—a girl.

  My baby. I’d waited for her for so long, doing two rounds of fertility treatments that emptied our bank account and ended in an empty womb. I’d given up hope … and then, a missed cycle … two … a pregnancy test. It was all confirmed that tearful day in the doctor’s office. He’d handed me a wad of tissues when he told me the results of the blood test, and I’d bawled like … well, like a baby.

  She’d only been the size of a clementine. I’d been following her growth in an app on my phone, every day checking the way her little body was changing. I sent screenshots of it all to George who responded with emojis. She went from a tadpole to a tiny transparent person with fingers and toes. And then she was nothing. My miracle girl, gone. My body expelled her in pieces. A violent thing no woman should ever have to experience. George hadn’t been there, of course. He’d been at work. I drove myself to the hospital and sat alone, while the doctor explained that I was having a miscarriage. When George found out, he’d not even cried. His face had gone pale like he’d seen a ghost, and then he’d asked the doctor how soon we could try for another. He’d just wanted to erase her and try for something new. George, who had me cut the crusts off his grilled cheese sandwiches and blow on his soup until it wouldn’t burn his mouth, hadn’t cried like the baby he was. I was angry, bitter. I chalked the miscarriage up to the neglect I felt from him. Good luck to George and his cold heart. I wasn’t going to be his mommy anymore. I was a mommy to a real little girl, and I’d found her again, hadn’t I? Of all the billions of people on the planet, there she was, just five blocks away. It seemed too good to be true.

  I found myself taking long walks, all the way up Cavendish Street, past the park with the purple benches, and the frozen yogurt shop where you could pull down a lever and pour your own yogurt into large paper cups. I turned left by the Little Caesars, where there were always at least two cats sitting outside on the wall, and stopped in the Tin Pin for a quick cappuccino. The Tin Pin had very good cappuccinos, but all the girls that worked there looked like whores. I tried not to look at them when I ordered, but sometimes it was hard not to. It was difficult to understand what all of that pink, puffy flesh had to do with coffee. I’d written some suggestions and put them in the suggestion box on the wall: Have girls wear less provocative clothing, I said. Hire some older ladies who have respect for their bodies, I said a different time. And then finally: I hope you half-naked fuckers all burn in hell. But, nothing ever changed, and the girls never covered up those little muffins stuck to their chests. I couldn’t remember if mine had ever been hard like that.

  There were tables and chairs on the sidewalk, and since the weather was nice, I carried my drink outside and sat watching the traffic, keeping my eye on the cats who hadn’t moved a smidgen since I arrived. And then, when I was done, up and on to their house on West Barrett Street. I hated to admit it, but their street was nicer than mine. The trees were larger; the houses more cared for. It was the small details: the white shutters around the windows, and the tulips edging the flower boxes that made it seem more … more … personal. At the moment, there was a carpet of pink flowers across the street. I could see the little girl squealing in delight and asking Bad Mommy if she could run in-between them. She’d probably let her too. Never mind the cars, just play in the street, dear. Careless, reckless, distracted.

  I lingered outside their house pretending to tie my shoelace. When that was over, I labored over picking something up off the sidewalk, commenting to a woman walking by about the litter. She glanced at me like I was mental and kept walking, her earbuds pushed in her ears. Probably listening to something foul like that Justin Belieber. My ears prickled. There was a noise like a child. I listened for her. Laughter from inside, or perhaps a cry—any trace of her little voice—I felt starved for it. But, there was nothing but passing cars and the occasional dog barking. I sighed in disappointment. And then I saw it: the house next door to theirs was for sale. At first I registered it with surprise, but then something inside of me started to prickle. What were the chances? All of the pieces were falling into place. I needed something new, didn’t I? Deserved it. All of those bad memories lingering around me like ghosts. There didn’t need to be, did there? I could move right here to this little box house with the cream shutters and the olive tree out front. Make new, beautiful memories, and be next door to my little girl. Who knew what would happen? Who knew…

  I told my therapist about my plan to buy the house.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said. “You’re buying a house to be close to a child you think has the soul of your miscarried baby.”

  Dr. Matthews was youngish—too young to really know what she was doing. For the most part that’s what I liked about her. She was less judgmental than, say, someone who’d been doing this for two decades. We were both learning together. Come to think of it, she was probably really grateful to have someone like me to study and learn from.

  “Oh, come on.” I smiled. “I’m not that crazy. Selling my house and moving for a person is a little far-fetched. It’s just a coincidence. I really like the house.”

  Dr. Matthews stared at me while tapping her pen on the yellow pad she was holding. What did that mean—the tapping? Was she frustrated with me? Did it help her think? Or was she imitating a metronome trying to get my thoughts to have rhythm? Tiny dots were appearing where her pen hit the paper creating messy little flecks of blue. What type of professional used blue ink? She looked like she had been a band geek in high school, pasty with mousy brown hair and glasses. Today she wore a yellow cardigan and matching yellow shoes. I bet she played the trombone, and as a result, gave great head.

  “You have a history of becoming fixated on things to the point of obsession,” she said.

  I didn’t like her tone.

  “Oh? Like what?”

  “Why don’t you answer your own question,” she suggested.

  I eyed the way her jeans bunched at the ankles
right above her flats. Yup, definitely a band geek. She was a menstrual girl—a Josie Grossy.

  “Well…” I said, timidly. “I obsessed over the house for a while. Projects, DIYs…”

  “What else?” she asked.

  I couldn’t think of anything. Dr. Matthews narrowed her already-tiny eyes at me and I squirmed in my seat. It was almost like her eyes disappeared when she did that. She became a woman with no eyes.

  “You have a history of obsessing over what people think of you,” she said, finally.

  Oh, that.

  “Is that what you think? I’m so bothered by this,” I joked. If she got it or not, she didn’t acknowledge my attempt to be funny when uncomfortable. I made a mental note to find a non-menstrual therapist with a sense of humor.

  “Why do you think you care so much about outside opinion?” She bypassed my admittance and went straight for the kill.

  I felt unsteady. I didn’t trust people who wouldn’t laugh at my jokes. I was funny. That was my thing.

  “I don’t know … daddy issues?” I squeezed my thighs. It was sort of like squeezing a stress ball … only it hurt.

  “You have paranoid personality disorder, Fig,” she said.

  I jarred, horrified.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “Our time is up,” Dr. Matthews said. “We’ll explore that next week.” We both stood up—me in shock, her to go to lunch. How cruel to tell someone they’re fucked up and then leave them to roast for a week.

  The first thing I did when I got home was Google paranoid personality disorder. If Dr. Matthews wanted to diagnose me and then wait a week to discuss it, I was going to lean on Google for support.

  They are often rigid, and critical of others, although they have great difficulty accepting criticism themselves. That was the first thing that jumped out of the text I was reading. I chewed on the skin around my fingers and thought of Dr. Matthews’ menstrual girl jeans. And then I read the rest.

  Are chronically suspicious, expecting that others will harm, deceive, conspire against, or betray them

  Blame their problems on other people or circumstances, and to attribute their difficulties to external factors. Rather than recognizing their own role in interpersonal conflicts, they tend to feel misunderstood, mistreated, or victimized.

  Are angry or hostile and prone to rage episodes.

  See their own unacceptable impulses in other people instead of in themselves, and are therefore prone to misattribute hostility to other people.

  Are controlling, oppositional, contrary, or quick to disagree, and to hold grudges.

  Elicit dislike or animosity and lack close friendships and relationships.

  Show disturbances in their thinking, above and beyond paranoid ideas. Their perceptions and reasoning can be odd and idiosyncratic, and they may become irrational when strong emotions are stirred up, to the point of seeming delusional.

  When I was finished reading the article, I breathed a sigh of relief. None of that was me. Dr. Matthews was dead wrong. She was probably all of those things and trying to pin me with her psychosis. I should probably tell her that. Maybe she’d thank me.

  I decided against seeing her again, and canceled my appointment for the following week, leaving a message with her secretary saying I had a wedding to go to. It wasn’t until I hung up that I realized my appointment was on a Wednesday, and no one got married in the middle of the week. Maybe lesbians. I’d say it was a lesbian wedding if they followed up. I called my real estate agent and told her to make an offer on the house. I didn’t need anyone’s approval to live my life.

  Astrology is a bunch of salty bullshit. The stars are giant flaming balls of gas, floating in a vacuum. They do not care about you, or your future husband, or your dead-end job, or if you see the world in black and white and have little use for grey (Scorpio). They most definitely don’t care, Taurus, if you tend toward conservatism, or if you’re doggedly determined. If you’re any of these things it’s your own fault, not the galaxy’s fault. I’m a Taurus, and I can tell you about myself without help from the stars.

  I’m not a follower, but I’m not brave enough to be the leader either. I don’t see this as a flaw; it’s a strength, really. Leaders get burned for having strong opinions. I get to have them without the pretentious bravado. Like every time there’s an issue on Facebook that everyone is fighting about, I get to repost someone else’s opinion about it without saying a single word of my own. I follow the leader in a way that strengthens and builds them up without losing my independence. For instance, if someone says, “I don’t agree with your status,” I can say, “Well, yeah, but I didn’t write the article, and there were some good points.” And that gets me off the hook as they nod and agree.

  For my birthday I asked for new rain boots. I didn’t really ask, I guess. I pinned them to my fashion board on Pinterest—the Nightfall Wellingtons. Bad Mommy had the black on white, so I pinned the white on black so we wouldn’t have the same ones. Let’s be real: I live in Seattle. I already had rain boots. The cheap drugstore kind in floral print. The designer boots were totally impractical, which isn’t a Taurus trait at all (salty bullshit). I wanted them, and I was learning to be okay with wants. My mother, of all people, delivered on the boots, which was a surprise, considering they were expensive as fuck and my mother was the type of cheapskate who would ask for gas money if she gave you a ride. That’s what years of parental abandonment will do to you—guilt you into the pinned designer rain boots. But, hell, did they ever look good on me. My horoscope probably read: You will receive an unexpected and expensive gift from a loved one!

  The day of my birthday I was wearing my new rain boots when my real estate agent called.

  “We have a closing date!” she screamed. She was forever screaming. This is such a beautiful house, so much potential! Oh my god, look at that backsplash!

  “You’re kidding,” I said. “Nothing good ever happens to me.”

  “Well, your luck is changin’, sweetheart,” she screamed again.

  I was breathless at first then I tried to cry because it seemed like the right thing to do. All I could manage were a few throaty noises and a sniff.

  “Do you have a cold?” she yelled. “You should drink hot tea with honey! It’ll clear up your phlegm!”

  I thanked her and hung up. What a narcissist. Still, I sent her a fruit basket to thank her for all of her hard work. I cared about people even if they were annoying.

  “Are you so happy?” my mom asked when I called to tell her.

  “Yes. Unless everything goes to shit before then—story of my life. Will you come help me move?”

  “I have to check with Richard, but I think so.”

  Richard was her new boyfriend. I liked to call him Dick because that’s what he was.

  “Richard can come too,” I sang. “I could use the extra muscle.” I was packing my medicine cabinet, putting all the little bottles into a shoebox. I pulled one out from the time I pretended to have cancer and shook it in front of my face. I’d always liked the idea of being doomed. Plus, dying gave you perspective, purpose. People told you you’re brave and believed it, like it was my fucking choice to have this cancer that I didn’t really have.

  There was a long pause by my mother. “Oh, he’s not into that sort of thing.”

  The sort of thing where his girlfriend had children?

  “Oh fine. I really just want to have you to myself for a few days anyway,” I lied.

  “I’ll do all the cleaning,” she said, cheerfully. “You know how I am about that.”

  Yes, yes I did.

  “I have to go, Mom. Tina is calling.”

  “Oh good, tell her hi-”

  I hung up before she could finish. Tina was my friend. My imaginary friend. I invented her to get out of phone calls and family obligations. She was a missionary to Haiti so she was hardly ever in the country. Thus, when she called or came for a surprise visit, I had to drop everything to see her. I loved
Tina. I wasn’t super into the religion thing, but her heart was in the right place. Besides, she was the type of friend who always showed up when you needed her.

  “Hey, Tina,” I said, dropping my phone on the counter. “So nice of you to call.”

  I carried my box of pills to the living room and looked around at the empty beige walls. Good riddance to this place, and this life. Somewhere up in the vacuum the stars were agreeing: Taurus, your life is about to take an unexpected turn for the better.

  I decided to have a look at the garden. My real estate agent had screamed something about it having great potential, which usually meant it was a piece of shit that was going to cost thousands of dollars to fix. Someone once told me I had great potential, and look—I’d need at least thirty thousand dollars of surgery to get my tits and ass to where they needed to be. When I stepped outside I couldn’t even see any flowerbeds, everything was so overgrown. The grass was filled with clover and was patchy like a dog had peed his way through the lawn. A gnarled apple tree was in need of a good pruning. The only thing redeeming about the yard was the gazebo that stood at the far end of the lawn. Its paint was chipped, and the remains of a rose trellis now crisp and dead, clung to its latticework, but it was once pretty and could be again. Like me.

  George would be good at this. He liked to do things in the yard. Maybe I’d hire someone, that way it could get done quickly instead of me having to wait around. Someone I could rely on to come on the regular to maintain it. I decided I’d ask the neighbors if they knew of anyone. Asking people for advice was a good way to form camaraderie, even if you didn’t necessarily need their advice. I was about to go back inside to look up some phone numbers when I heard a child’s voice from the garden next door. My heart was beating fast as I walked over to the fence that divided Bad Mommy’s house from mine and peeked over. There she was—the reason for all of this, my reason. She suddenly looked up like she sensed I was watching her. Our eyes locked and her little face was neither alarmed nor afraid. And why should she be? We knew each other. I cleared my throat.