“A spoon?” she repeated, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes,” I said. I pulled it from my bag and held it up so she could see.
“What about a spoon?” Hollis walked in from the garage door, shooting me one of his easygoing smiles, as he kissed Amanda on the cheek.
“Oh, the crazy girl found a spoon.” She smiled. A smile!
I made a face at her, as I sipped at my wine. Hollis gave us both a look that said he thought we were crazy, then launched into a series of questions about my work and what I’d been up to. I liked him, maybe more than I liked Amanda. He was the perfect guy—the perfect husband—and I often wondered if Amanda knew how good she had it. He’d been brought up like me, and whenever we were in the same room, one of us started cracking jokes about our Catholic childhoods.
“He’s miserable,” I said.
Amanda and Hollis exchanged a look. Then Amanda said, “Why would you say that?”
It wasn’t tell me more—why would you say that? It was why would you ever say something so terrible about our precious Jolene?
“He’s told me. She’s condescending and mean—completely unsupportive. Trust me. They fight right in front of me. It’s like she’s always ready to berate him. She’s not who you think she is. I know her better than anyone.”
I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my videos to prove it to them.
“Look,” I said, holding it out so they could see. I watched their faces as I played the video of Jolene and Darius fighting. Amanda’s face was impassive, but Hollis looked away before it ended. He was uncomfortable, as he should be—imagine how I felt when they just started yelling at each other right in front of me.
“All couples fight,” Amanda said. “It doesn’t mean that they shouldn’t be together.”
I heard the slight defensiveness in her voice and I wanted to roll my eyes. No one ever saw things clearly when it came to Jolene. It was becoming a real problem. I ignored the bitterness I felt, telling myself I wasn’t that type of person. I was kind, and thought the best of others. I couldn’t let the Jolene show taint the type of person I was.
“You’re right,” I said, to Amanda. “But, he’s told me how unhappy he is.” I drove the point home by saying, “He’s told me,” in the firmest voice I could manage.
They were both quiet, looking anywhere but at me.
“Well, if that’s true then maybe this trip will help them,” she said, quietly standing up and walking toward the kitchen to check on dinner.
I felt dismissed. People didn’t want to hear the truth. They had their ideas and any deviation made them uncomfortable.
“He texted me from France, while they were at dinner,” I called after her, “right from the table to tell me how miserable he is. Just a few hours ago. It’s not going to get any better when they come back. They shouldn’t be together.”
Hollis excused himself to go to the bathroom, while Amanda stood at the stove stirring quietly.
“You see what I’m saying, don’t you?”
My left eye started to twitch in the wake of her silence. I poured myself more wine and watched a sailboat rock back and forth on the water. I was familiar with that feeling. This was all Bad Mommy’s fault.
“I have cancer,” she told me.
“Where?”
“Cervix.”
She was blasé about it, but I would later learn that was part of the game. Her face was a collection of well-practiced facial expressions. The only time you knew something was off was when you looked directly into her eyes. Her eyes were off. Mad. Loose. They avoided contact but loved to watch. Dart away … stare … dart away. They reminded me of little, flitty birds. Couldn’t catch them if you tried. But, I didn’t know that yet.
“How do you feel about that?” I asked. You could say something generic, like you were sorry, which always led to uncomfortable words, uncomfortable silence, a quick change of topic—or you could get them talking.
“It is what it is,” she said. “Everyone has cancer. Cancer is like the McDonald’s of disease. You’re gonna see it on every block.”
“You’re numb,” I said. It was usually a statement people adamantly denied or ran with.
“Yeah, I guess. Aren’t you?”
I smiled, shook my head. “Numbness isn’t like McDonald’s. I prefer to feel things.”
“Well, congratulations, Dr. Seuss. Feel all the things. Be my guest.”
“Is Fig your real name or is it short for something?” I asked, looking down into the drink she’d just made me. It was good. My wife hadn’t made me a drink but a stranger had. Good Samaritans everywhere.