Bad Mommy(4)

I set the bill aside and turned the next one over. This was addressed to her husband, Darius Avery. It was an insurance quote, junk mail. Darius and Jolene Avery. I bit into my cookie. The third letter was a birthday invitation. Red and yellow balloons floated all over the card. You’re Invited! it said in bubble letters.

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.