Things We Didn't Say

Chapter 35

Mallory



She’s staring at that drink like she’s going to f*ck it.

If she weren’t trying to replace me, I’d feel sorry for her. She’s not such a bad girl, but she doesn’t belong with Michael and she’s not going to mother my kids. She should go back to her hick Pete and go have ten fat hick babies. Everyone would be happy.

I go to the counter and refill my glass with Coke, pantomiming adding some Jack Daniel’s. My back is to her, and she’s not looking, anyway. She’s still staring at her own glass.

I’ll get her talking some more about Pete, anything to keep her going so she doesn’t stop to think. So I ask her how she met him, her hick Pete. So she blabs and I put on my “listening” face.

It all came into focus when Angel came to talk to me about that diary, and the awful things she wrote about my girl. I pressed Angel for more detail, and that’s when she told me about the drinking this Casey girl used to do, and how she loved Jack Daniel’s, and must have some boyfriend named Tony on the side, and how Angel was pretty sure her dad didn’t know any of it.

But he will. And I won’t have to be the bad guy, for once.

Then I can put the rest of my plan in motion.

It seemed like a good idea at the time, letting Michael have the kids. Angel was making me crazy. We’d have epic screaming fights, and Dylan would hardly talk to me, and Jewel was all over me every minute. I couldn’t breathe. And worse, I couldn’t keep track of all the stuff. Girl Scouts and school reports and she needed money for this or that and Dylan needed reeds for his sax and every time something got missed I could just feel them all hating me, the bad mother.

Only, Michael never helped, did he? Oh no, he flounced off to work every day, leaving me to deal with it, and in all his criticism over the forgotten permission slip and my napping and how tired I was, which he always said with a sneer, did he ever offer to help me? Did he inquire as to why I needed to have a glass of wine or five just to get through the day without jumping out of the second-story window?

No, the smug righteous bastard would come home and just be full of complaints.

So one day I was having a really bad brain day. It was like my mind was full of static turned up loud and I wanted to scream and run through the neighborhood tearing my clothes off, so instead I poured a drink, just to settle me. No one was supposed to be home for hours. I was going to calm myself down, sleep for a while, and then wake up feeling better so I could be Mom for them.

It wasn’t my fault Jewel got sick. Probably his fault that she has stomachaches all the time, as much as he demands from those kids, always frowning when they get anything less than a B. And I felt fine. To this day I think the cop fudged the paperwork on my breath test out of revenge, because I yelled at him. But then, my little girl had just been in an accident and they were trying to haul me off to jail right in front of her. I was supposed to be a good little obedient girl and go quietly?

That will be the f*cking day.

Then Michael kicked me when I was down by presenting me with papers. He should have stood by me and sued the police department for false arrest, he should have had his dad hire a hotshot lawyer to get the breath test results thrown out, but no. He divorces me and takes my kids.

And this was the guy who once was so chivalrous and kind that he carried me up my apartment stairs when I felt dizzy during my first trimester with Angel.

My first instinct when he told me about the divorce was to break a wine bottle and slash his face. So I’m actually proud that all I did was cuss him. I went all mother-bear and psycho and screamed that he couldn’t take my kids away.

Then, after I wound down, I gave it some thought.

I imagined Dr. Turner hiring the best lawyer in town, and hauling out every bad thing I’d ever done. I imagined them going through the wine bottles in the recycle bin, visiting the liquor store to see how often I went. Michael would be testifying about how much I drank in a week, how I’d slur my words when he came home.

I could sit there all day protesting that I waited until the kids were in school, and anyway, if they thought I was bad with some drinks in my system, they should see me without any, that I’d probably climb a clock tower and take out half the neighborhood.

All they’d see is a substance abuser with big tits and a spotty record of attending parent-teacher nights, versus the esteemed Dr. Henry Turner’s son, Clark-f*cking-Kent who never takes a wrong step.

I’d still probably win if it stopped there, because mothers don’t lose their kids much, but then there would be the day of the accident. Driving under the influence with my daughter in the car. Unseatbelted, though Jewel was old enough to do it herself and should have remembered.

Hell, if I heard that story on the news I’d hate that awful woman, too.

So I started to think again.

I started to think of my lost twenties, spent raising babies and cleaning house, my carefree days over and done.

I could have my freedom back. I could see my kids, and we’d spend our time together doing fun stuff, like going to the zoo and getting ice cream. Let Clark-f*cking-Kent manage the homework and buy new shoes and see if he can get all the permission slips straight all the time. He can get up with Jewel when she has midnight tummyaches. Let him deal with Angel’s sassy mouth.

Meanwhile, I’d get my own place, decorate it any way I want. I could date again, guys who didn’t make me feel like I was the worst vermin to crawl the planet because I’m not perfect. I could go out at night and not get grilled the next morning about where I was and what time I came home and how many I’d had before I got in the car.

And so I caved, though when the day came to actually move out I cried so hard I threw up in the bushes by the front porch. Like most things, it was better in theory than real life.

Turned out that making a living was pretty hard. I’d lost my license after the accident. And since I didn’t have custody, I didn’t get child support. The alimony check Michael sends me is a joke, really, included in the settlement, I suspect, to soothe his guilty conscience.

And then the bosses and coworkers every place I did work harassed me constantly, or screwed with my hours, or promoted other people ahead of me. I’m not going to stand for being treated like that, not for some T. J. Maxx fitting room gig. Hell to the no.

So I found some boyfriends, and usually they help me make rent, or I borrow from my sister if I’m desperate, but she’s such a snoot about it, nose so high she can’t smell her own farts.

And the visitations don’t exactly go like I’d hoped. The kids complain about sleeping all in the same room, or in my room, but I’ve only got two bedrooms in my place. Dylan always wants to practice his sax, but that’s not allowed in an apartment. They argue about what kind of ice cream on our “happy” excursions, then sass me back as if I’m not their mother anymore. Angel even said that to me once, “You don’t even live with us; you can’t tell me what to do,” and I slapped her so hard she staggered back three steps.

I had to beg her not to tell her father. I thought that time I’d lose the kids totally.

And sometimes I’d have bad weekends I wouldn’t be up to taking them, bad brain days, filled with those climb-on-the-clocktower feelings. I can’t take them like that, not with no help and backup like I would have had when we were all together and I could go in my room and let Michael deal. And I can’t very well pour a drink first because Michael watches me like the f*cking CIA and he’d run to Friend of the Court saying I was parenting under the influence. It’s not cocaine or something, but it’s not like he cares.

So now I’m also the evil mother who doesn’t want her children to visit.

Still, I thought it would work out in the end, that Michael would eventually get tired of the saintly single-dad gig, and my kids would come to live with me. Only now he’s gonna get married, and Miss Girl Scout will slide right into my place, and from the looks of it, she’ll do all the dirty work and never complain. And probably never throw a glass at him, either.

She needs to go. Obviously.

My new boyfriend, Dean, has a big house in Forest Hills, and he keeps hinting that it’s time I move in and he’s got lots of bedrooms and I bet Dylan could play his sax all he wanted there.

Plus I can show the Friend of the Court all this great stuff I’ve been working on—I haven’t had a drop to drink in weeks—and I bet they would love to reunite a mother with her children.

Casey’s babble is trailing off now, she’s looking away from the glass. She looks tired. Maybe ready for bed.

“So, Casey,” I say. “You guys gonna have some kids, soon?”

Her eyes dart down, and I detect a tiny flinch.

She shrugs. “We’ll see. After we’re married.”

“Right. Do things in the proper order.”

“What’s wrong with that?” she says, eyes narrowed at me.

“Nothing. Don’t be so defensive.” I stretch, swill my fake drink, and get up to make myself another fake drink. This time I pour some Jack into the sink, so it looks like I’m making a dent. “I’m surprised he wants another go-round. He always told me two was his limit, and we had three.”

Her hands are trembling. She thinks I can’t tell. I know it by the way she’s got this supercasual posture all of a sudden, leaning way back in her chair, fooling with a fingernail.

“We’ll work it out.”

“Or maybe you won’t have any. Man, pregnancy is hard. Stretches you all out in every which way. You think PMS hormones are bad, whew. Pregnancy. Makes the men run for the hills.”

Her pretend-casual has crumbled completely. She’s leaning on her elbows now, her hands deep in her hair like she’s going to rip it out.

“Oh, sweetie. I can see how bad you want a baby. Sure you do, you’re so young.” I pat her arm. “Wow, a fourth baby for Michael. That’ll be a tough sell.”

“I know,” she says, almost whispering.

“He’s not into it, huh?”

“He used to be. He said he would, but . . . Whenever I try to bring it up, or set a wedding date, he changes the subject. Says we’ll talk later.”

“Oh, the famous later.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

I shake my head. “He’s got you feeling like you’re the one taking every wrong step. And look, you’re not me, okay? You haven’t pulled half the shit I did. In fact, it looks to me like you’re a goddamn Girl Scout. So what’s this ‘what I’m doing wrong’ bullshit? Doesn’t he have a part in this? Don’t let him saddle you with the whole thing. He does this all the time, he expects perfection out of everyone. It’s his dad who f*cked him up like that. And he’s barely even aware of it, is the funny thing. Sad thing. Whatever.”

I lean in close. “You gotta ask yourself. If he doesn’t want to have a baby, or set a date, what’s his problem? Because from where I sit? You’re doing your damn best, and he doesn’t give you any credit at all.”

She picks up the glass without even appearing to notice she’s done it, and pours half of it down her throat.

I take a drink, too, to hide my smile.

That’s it, sweetie. Drink up.