“Mommy,” she said, pointing to the house. There were remnants of blue paint on her tiny fingernails. I longed to reach out and touch her fingers, caress her. I was about to say something else when I heard a voice calling. I straightened up quickly, neutralizing my face.
“Mercy … Mercy Moon…” Bad Mommy walked out the back door drying her hands on a checkered dishtowel. She was wearing coveralls and her hair was piled on top of her head in a giant black hive.
“Mercy, who are you talking to?”
I blinked. Was that her name? They’d named her Mercy Moon? I smiled halfheartedly. Bad Mommy sauntered toward us, her hand held over her eyes to shield them from the sun.
“Hello,” I called out. “I’m Fig. I just moved in. Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare your little girl. I know she’s probably not supposed to talk to strangers.”
Bad Mommy smiled at me. Full white teeth to match her wife beater. “Hey there. So nice to meet you. My name’s Jolene. This is Mercy.” The little girl, already bored by the new person, was squatting in the grass and poking at a bug with a stick.
“Don’t hurt that bug, Mercy, it’s a living thing.”
“How old is she?” I asked.
“Mercy, tell Miss Fig how old you are,” Jolene prodded. “Mercy…”
Mercy threw down her stick to hold up two chubby fingers.
“I would have had one. She would have been two this last January,” I said, glancing at Mercy.
Jolene made the face that all people made when you tell them you lost a baby—sympathetic mixed with mild relief that it wasn’t them. Yeah? Fuck you.
“Mercy turned two in September, didn’t you, love?” she asked, stroking the little girl’s head. “We had a pony party.”
“Pony,” said Mercy, looking up from her bug hunting. I wanted to clap my hands in glee. I loved horses, as a child I’d had my own pony party and dressed up like a cowgirl.
I looked at Mercy. It was actually lovely on her. The tiny embodiment of benevolence. Perfect little wonder to the world and none of us, not one, deserved her.
“I like ponies.” And then to Bad Mommy, “Is your last name Moon?”
She shook her head, grinning. “No, that’s her middle name. Her dad’s choice. Our last name is Avery.”
“Mine’s Coxbury,” I told her. I used my maiden name and it felt good. It felt so good I shimmied my shoulders a little when I said it.
Fig Coxbury sounded like a little dance.
“You should come over for some coffee, Fig. I baked too, but my baking’s not very good unless it’s from a box, and it’s not from a box this time, I’m afraid.” She took hold of Mercy’s shoulders, the way mothers do, and smiled at me. It was a genuine smile, but I resented her for the way she was touching Mercy.
“Love to. Just need to run in to turn off some lights,” I said, nodding back toward the house. “I’m still unpacking, so it’ll be a nice distraction to get out for a bit.”
There’s a gate there.” Jolene pointed to some bushes a little farther left to where I was standing. “You can’t see it because it’s hidden by the brambles, but if you push them aside you should be able to jimmy the lock and get through. Give it a hard shove. These houses belonged to a mother and daughter years ago,” she said, looking back at her own. “They put in the gate so the grandchildren could get back and forth without having to go around the front.”
Well, isn’t that fitting? And they still do.
“You can come around the front if you’re more comfortable…”
“No, that’s just fine,” I said, sweetly. “I’ll be right over. Just let me wash up.”
I watched them walk inside, Mercy’s hand tucked inside Jolene’s. Was it a loose grip? Did she wish it was my hand? I rushed back inside searching frantically for my green cardi and hairbrush. It wouldn’t do to go visiting without wearing something nice. Children liked bright colors, didn’t they? I studied myself in the mirror. I’d put on some weight since all of the trouble started. I was thicker around the middle, and my face, which was normally long and thin, was round and full. I reached up and touched my hair, which was starting to show silver at the roots. When I was a child it had been the color of Mercy’s hair. Somewhere in my twenties it changed from the cornsilk to a dirty dishwater blonde. And no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t get it to grow. Not past my chin anyway. I pictured the pile of thick black hair on top of Jolene’s head and frowned. Probably those extensions. I’d get it colored tomorrow, I decided. A color and trim as a treat for myself. Mercy would like that, if we had the same hair. Before I left the house I made a call to my salon and scheduled it for the next day.
“A partial foil,” I told the receptionist breathlessly, “to match my daughter’s hair color.”
When I locked up and walked along the pavement to the Averys’ house in the expensive silver flats I’d bought just last week, my keys dangling from the tip of my finger, I felt lighter than I had in months. It was like the universe was opening up like a flower, paying me back for all of the suffering I’d endured. It was my time, and I wasn’t going to let anything stop me. Not George, and especially not myself.
Jolene Avery was not at all what I expected. Neither was the inside of her house. I hadn’t put too much thought into the house, I’d been too busy thinking of Mercy, the little girl in the house, to wonder what sort of living room and kitchen she spent her days in. I’d imagined something messy, holiday trinkets. Colorful afghans, chipped mismatched dinner plates from the Thrifty City. But, when I walked through the front door, opened by Mercy with Jolene watching from the kitchen doorway, I was taken aback. Everything was neat, tasteful. Light grey sofas squared around a white shag rug, in the center of which sat a teal leather ottoman. Her coffee table books had Kurt Cobain and Jimmy Hendrix on the cover. And on the wall was a large framed picture of a propeller plane set against the backdrop of billowing clouds. Jolene must have seen the shock on my face, because she said, “In another life I was an interior decorator.” I thought about the little blue bead in my junk drawer at home. My hand suddenly itched to hold it. It had a purpose. Someone who did up their house like this had something special planned for a tiny azure bead. I snapped out of my daze when Mercy pointed to my shoes and said, “Siver.”
“Mercy … Mercy Moon…” Bad Mommy walked out the back door drying her hands on a checkered dishtowel. She was wearing coveralls and her hair was piled on top of her head in a giant black hive.
“Mercy, who are you talking to?”
I blinked. Was that her name? They’d named her Mercy Moon? I smiled halfheartedly. Bad Mommy sauntered toward us, her hand held over her eyes to shield them from the sun.
“Hello,” I called out. “I’m Fig. I just moved in. Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare your little girl. I know she’s probably not supposed to talk to strangers.”
Bad Mommy smiled at me. Full white teeth to match her wife beater. “Hey there. So nice to meet you. My name’s Jolene. This is Mercy.” The little girl, already bored by the new person, was squatting in the grass and poking at a bug with a stick.
“Don’t hurt that bug, Mercy, it’s a living thing.”
“How old is she?” I asked.
“Mercy, tell Miss Fig how old you are,” Jolene prodded. “Mercy…”
Mercy threw down her stick to hold up two chubby fingers.
“I would have had one. She would have been two this last January,” I said, glancing at Mercy.
Jolene made the face that all people made when you tell them you lost a baby—sympathetic mixed with mild relief that it wasn’t them. Yeah? Fuck you.
“Mercy turned two in September, didn’t you, love?” she asked, stroking the little girl’s head. “We had a pony party.”
“Pony,” said Mercy, looking up from her bug hunting. I wanted to clap my hands in glee. I loved horses, as a child I’d had my own pony party and dressed up like a cowgirl.
I looked at Mercy. It was actually lovely on her. The tiny embodiment of benevolence. Perfect little wonder to the world and none of us, not one, deserved her.
“I like ponies.” And then to Bad Mommy, “Is your last name Moon?”
She shook her head, grinning. “No, that’s her middle name. Her dad’s choice. Our last name is Avery.”
“Mine’s Coxbury,” I told her. I used my maiden name and it felt good. It felt so good I shimmied my shoulders a little when I said it.
Fig Coxbury sounded like a little dance.
“You should come over for some coffee, Fig. I baked too, but my baking’s not very good unless it’s from a box, and it’s not from a box this time, I’m afraid.” She took hold of Mercy’s shoulders, the way mothers do, and smiled at me. It was a genuine smile, but I resented her for the way she was touching Mercy.
“Love to. Just need to run in to turn off some lights,” I said, nodding back toward the house. “I’m still unpacking, so it’ll be a nice distraction to get out for a bit.”
There’s a gate there.” Jolene pointed to some bushes a little farther left to where I was standing. “You can’t see it because it’s hidden by the brambles, but if you push them aside you should be able to jimmy the lock and get through. Give it a hard shove. These houses belonged to a mother and daughter years ago,” she said, looking back at her own. “They put in the gate so the grandchildren could get back and forth without having to go around the front.”
Well, isn’t that fitting? And they still do.
“You can come around the front if you’re more comfortable…”
“No, that’s just fine,” I said, sweetly. “I’ll be right over. Just let me wash up.”
I watched them walk inside, Mercy’s hand tucked inside Jolene’s. Was it a loose grip? Did she wish it was my hand? I rushed back inside searching frantically for my green cardi and hairbrush. It wouldn’t do to go visiting without wearing something nice. Children liked bright colors, didn’t they? I studied myself in the mirror. I’d put on some weight since all of the trouble started. I was thicker around the middle, and my face, which was normally long and thin, was round and full. I reached up and touched my hair, which was starting to show silver at the roots. When I was a child it had been the color of Mercy’s hair. Somewhere in my twenties it changed from the cornsilk to a dirty dishwater blonde. And no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t get it to grow. Not past my chin anyway. I pictured the pile of thick black hair on top of Jolene’s head and frowned. Probably those extensions. I’d get it colored tomorrow, I decided. A color and trim as a treat for myself. Mercy would like that, if we had the same hair. Before I left the house I made a call to my salon and scheduled it for the next day.
“A partial foil,” I told the receptionist breathlessly, “to match my daughter’s hair color.”
When I locked up and walked along the pavement to the Averys’ house in the expensive silver flats I’d bought just last week, my keys dangling from the tip of my finger, I felt lighter than I had in months. It was like the universe was opening up like a flower, paying me back for all of the suffering I’d endured. It was my time, and I wasn’t going to let anything stop me. Not George, and especially not myself.
Jolene Avery was not at all what I expected. Neither was the inside of her house. I hadn’t put too much thought into the house, I’d been too busy thinking of Mercy, the little girl in the house, to wonder what sort of living room and kitchen she spent her days in. I’d imagined something messy, holiday trinkets. Colorful afghans, chipped mismatched dinner plates from the Thrifty City. But, when I walked through the front door, opened by Mercy with Jolene watching from the kitchen doorway, I was taken aback. Everything was neat, tasteful. Light grey sofas squared around a white shag rug, in the center of which sat a teal leather ottoman. Her coffee table books had Kurt Cobain and Jimmy Hendrix on the cover. And on the wall was a large framed picture of a propeller plane set against the backdrop of billowing clouds. Jolene must have seen the shock on my face, because she said, “In another life I was an interior decorator.” I thought about the little blue bead in my junk drawer at home. My hand suddenly itched to hold it. It had a purpose. Someone who did up their house like this had something special planned for a tiny azure bead. I snapped out of my daze when Mercy pointed to my shoes and said, “Siver.”
