Bad Mommy(55)

“Tell me,” I said.

She laughed. “You have, like, no social cushioning.”

“I have it, I just don’t want to waste time on it.”

She sipped her drink, flinching at the taste. I’d made them strong. “Damn, did you pour the whole bottle in here?”

“Yes. You’re like a vault unless you’ve had some drinks.” I tossed my drink back and started to make another.

“It’s been a long time coming. He’s always mad at me. Always screaming. He doesn’t like me to be over here.”

My head jerked back. “What? Why?”

She shrugged.

“Bastard. Men are such pigs,” I said. I flexed my hand, wanting to send it straight into his face. I expected more of him. I’d always had the impression that he was really taken with her. Not that I’d been around him much, but the times I had. He made an effort.

“I can sure pick ‘em, huh?”

“I can’t believe he did that to you. I’m so pissed.”

“Nah, don’t be. It’s just how men are. Psychological warfare, you know? They want us till they don’t. If we don’t please them enough they get bored, move on.”

I shook my head at her. That wasn’t how it was. Not always. Look at me. When Darius came into my life he had nothing to gain but a burned woman and a child who wasn’t his. That’s when I noticed the weird swollen, red spot on her arm, right below her wrist. It looked like something had dug into her skin and made her bleed. When she saw me looking she pulled her sleeve down and looked away.

“You’re my friend,” I said, moving my eyes to her face. “I’ll make you a bed in the den for tonight. You shouldn’t be alone.” She tried to protest, but I waved her excuses away. “We can watch movies and eat things that are bad for us.”

“So same as always,” she said.

“I can have Darius take Mercy to his parents’ and spend the night there.”

“No, don’t do that,” Fig said, quickly. “I like when they’re around. You can’t kick him out of his own house.”

“All right,” I said, cautiously. “Can I tell Darius what happened, or do you want me to keep it a secret?”

She walked over to the liquor cabinet and started moving bottles around.

“Whatever, it happened. I don’t have anything to hide.” She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye, and for a brief moment I got the impression that she wanted me to tell Darius.

We spent the next few hours talking about George, who had apparently been meeting up with girls he met on one of those swipe it or keep it phone apps.

“Did he tell you that or did you find out another way?”

Fig’s cheeks colored and she looked away. “I was snooping,” she admitted. “He started liking and commenting on all of this girl’s pictures on Instagram, so I did some detective work and then confronted him.”

“And did he admit to it?”

“Yes … no … sort of in a roundabout way.”

She was so good at not answering questions. She redirected everything, deflected. I watched her closely, wishing Darius would get home so he could help me. She did that thing where her eyes tried to find a hiding place: bounce, skirt, roam, widen, bounce.

It was Darius’s day to pick Mercy up from school. I heard her squeals before the front door opened, and Fig smiled for the first time that day. I couldn’t help smiling with her. Children had that magic, their innocence lightened dark situations. When Darius saw Fig sitting on the sofa, he stopped abruptly. Mercy ran right over to her, and Fig pulled her in her lap. I made eyes at him while she was distracted, and he nodded discreetly.

“Hey,” he said. “I’ll get dinner started while you two chat.” I nodded at him gratefully, and he winked.

Fig was already awake when I put the coffee on the next morning. I could hear the clacking computer keys and the muffled sound of music coming from her headphones. When the coffee was done, I took her a mug.

“Thanks,” she said. “Where’s your husband?”

“He should be up soon. How are you feeling?”

“Like sticking my head in an oven.” She grinned.

“Okay, Sylvia Plath.”

She pulled up her sleeve and showed me a tattoo I’d never noticed before. I had to tilt my head sideways to read it.

“I want.”

“Yes, she has a line in The Bell Jar—I am, I am. I am. Well, the thing that always pulled me through every situation was how much I had left to experience. I want to travel, I want to taste foods I’ve never tasted, I want to kiss beautiful men, and I want to buy beautiful clothes. I want to live because I still want things.”