“Oh my god,” I whispered, turning it over in my hand to examine it. It was a sign. I felt something warm on my cheek, and when I reached up to touch my face I realized I was crying. I held the spoon to my chest, tears leaking from my eyes. “A sign,” I heard myself saying over and over.
The story Darius sent me, he’d written it for his English class in high school. I’d printed it out and read it over and over, his words rich even at a young age, falling off the paper and into my heart. I’d looked for meaning or significance in his story of the spoon. In the end, I’d decided that the spoon symbolized his happiness, how the boy in his book found it by chance and carried it around with him during a tumultuous time in his life. I walked back to my car with the spoon clutched in my hand, determined to keep living, sure nothing so far had happened by chance.
Amanda was waiting for me by the door when I pulled up to their two-story, her curly hair catching the breeze as it dove past her. I thought about how hair had started this whole journey, and smiled. I missed Mercy, but I shoved the feeling to the back of my mind as I grabbed my overnight bag and walked up the cobbled drive. I had been wrong about Amanda. She may have initially approached me with caution, but she’d since opened up, making sure to include me any time we were all together.
“Hey crazy,” she said, without smiling. If it were anyone else I’d question if they were delivering a disguised jab my way, but Amanda called me crazy in an endearing way. I’d learned that she rarely smiled and had an air of world-weariness about her that only dropped away after she’d had a few drinks. Jolene told me once that Amanda loved more intensely than anyone she’d ever met, so she was careful about who she gave her love away to.
Their house had expansive glass windows that faced a spectacular water view. She set me up at the dining table with a glass of sweet Moscato that she knew I liked and started making dinner while we chatted from across the room. I was dying to tell her about the spoon, and finally, I just blurted it out.
“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.
The story Darius sent me, he’d written it for his English class in high school. I’d printed it out and read it over and over, his words rich even at a young age, falling off the paper and into my heart. I’d looked for meaning or significance in his story of the spoon. In the end, I’d decided that the spoon symbolized his happiness, how the boy in his book found it by chance and carried it around with him during a tumultuous time in his life. I walked back to my car with the spoon clutched in my hand, determined to keep living, sure nothing so far had happened by chance.
Amanda was waiting for me by the door when I pulled up to their two-story, her curly hair catching the breeze as it dove past her. I thought about how hair had started this whole journey, and smiled. I missed Mercy, but I shoved the feeling to the back of my mind as I grabbed my overnight bag and walked up the cobbled drive. I had been wrong about Amanda. She may have initially approached me with caution, but she’d since opened up, making sure to include me any time we were all together.
“Hey crazy,” she said, without smiling. If it were anyone else I’d question if they were delivering a disguised jab my way, but Amanda called me crazy in an endearing way. I’d learned that she rarely smiled and had an air of world-weariness about her that only dropped away after she’d had a few drinks. Jolene told me once that Amanda loved more intensely than anyone she’d ever met, so she was careful about who she gave her love away to.
Their house had expansive glass windows that faced a spectacular water view. She set me up at the dining table with a glass of sweet Moscato that she knew I liked and started making dinner while we chatted from across the room. I was dying to tell her about the spoon, and finally, I just blurted it out.
“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.
