Bad Mommy(5)

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.