I’d polished off at least two fistfuls of crackers when my phone rang. Shit. It was Mom. She understood I shouldn’t be bothered when I was on deadline, but she didn’t care when she desperately needed somebody to talk to about family drama, a.k.a. “What did Dad do now?”
It couldn’t be about anything underhanded he was doing to sabotage my career, because we’d already figured out the One-Star Hit Squad. So…was he “working late” again? Did he go home without showering first at a hotel?
Mom wasn’t stupid, just in terrible denial about her marriage. I took another big swig of the wine cooler because it wasn’t the kind of conversation anybody could have while sober.
“Hey, Mom,” I said. My voice sounded flat, even though I was aiming for friendly. Shit.
Instead of saying hello, Mom sobbed. “Oh my God, Emily!”
“What’s wrong?” I asked with all the sympathy I could scrape up, although I already knew. This was her standard greeting every time she caught Dad cheating.
“Your father. His shirt smells like perfume!” She sobbed harder.
All the jubilation at having written six thousand words vanished, and the familiar feeling of resignation and pity settled over me. She just noticed that today? Didn’t he always smell like perfume?
“I was going to do a load of laundry, and…and… It was so strong. I’m devastated,” she continued. The sound of her blowing her nose came through the line.
This was going to be a looong call. “Mom…”
“It wasn’t my perfume!” she yelled like a wounded animal, then cried again.
“Why do you put up with this? With him?” It was the same question I always asked. Futile, of course. She’d only ever given me one answer. But I hoped she would finally open her eyes and see the light, because it was frustrating as hell that she was calling me instead of kicking him out, dumping all his stuff in the front yard and setting it on fire. It was the least he deserved.
“Where would I go? What would I do?” she wailed.
Annoyance welled like poison. It was the same answer she always gave. And I knew exactly what she’d say next.
“A woman’s place in life is next to her husband,” she added, at the same time I muttered it. “Wait, what did you say?”
“Nothing.” It’d only add to her angst if she thought I wasn’t one hundred percent on her side, even though I was. To her, unless I agreed with everything she said, gave her unconditional, boundless sympathy and a shoulder to cry on, I was against her.
If I’d had a decent meal, I might’ve been more sympathetic. But some Animal Crackers and a wine cooler weren’t enough to fortify me for the endless understanding she wanted when she continued to reject my solution—Divorce Dad. Boom! Problem solved.
So maybe that was why I said, “You forgot to add faithful.”
“What?” Mom said, more confused than ever before.
“A woman’s place in life is next to her faithful husband.”
“You are so judgmental.” Rage vibrated in every syllable, a predictable turn. This was what I called the “Incomprehensible Tantrum” phase, because she was angry with the wrong people. She could criticize Dad for being a cheating asshole, but nobody else could, including me, even when she was the one who’d called to complain about him being a cheating asshole in the first place. “You think everything in the world is like your books.”
“I actually don’t,” I said dryly. I wrote romance because I knew how crappy real-life relationships could be. “If he’s coming home with another woman’s perfume all over him, leave him.” But don’t come here, I added—silently, in case that hadn’t occurred to her yet. I didn’t want to give her any ideas. Staying with me was her typical “revenge” for Dad’s cheating. Usually, I let her, because I couldn’t exactly flee the country to avoid it, even though she drove me crazy by insisting on remaining with Dad. But right now, I couldn’t afford several days of babysitting her hurt feelings. I had a book to finish.
I wondered vaguely if this had been his plan all along—to get caught so Mom would drive down to Kingstree and disrupt my writing. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit.
“I can’t do that!” Mom wailed. “We love each other, even if he strays from time to time.”
My jaw slackened with shock. Time to time? Dad “strayed” at least every other month. And that was only the times he’d gotten caught. There probably had been a lot more. How could Mom be so blind?
“Besides, he needs me.” She sniffled. “He always comes back.”
“He just doesn’t want to pay alimony.” He had a law degree. Even though he didn’t practice, he had to know exactly how much he’d pay in a divorce settlement.
“That’s so cold,” Mom said, her voice hard.
Oh, for God’s sake. “You don’t have to leave permanently,” I clarified quickly before she started accusing me of being insensitive. I still thought she should divorce his sorry ass. But if she hadn’t done it in the last twenty-some years, she wasn’t going to do it now. “Just long enough for him to learn his lesson. Don’t you want to see him groveling on his knees to get you to come back?” I laid it on thick. I couldn’t imagine Dad doing that. He was a proud man. Just not proud enough to keep his wedding vows. Or play fair to win a bet.
But he was clever enough to understand that some flowers and silly gifts would soften Mom. That was how he’d gotten her to come back every time she came over to stay with me after discovering some new infidelity.
“Huh.” I could hear the gears in my mom’s head turning. “That does sound…doable. And fun, too. I’d love for him to grovel.”
“Exactly,” I said, warming to the most critical point in all this. “Go to New York, check into a hotel for a week or so and don’t answer his texts or emails or calls. Go shopping. Have fun. Post lots of happy selfies on Instagram. He’ll get the hint.” The issue was that they were terrible enablers of each other’s vices. Dad needed to cheat to feel smart and powerful, and Mom needed a financially well-off husband to feel secure and wanted.
“That’s not a bad idea. I’ll do that next time,” Mom said.
“Do it now,” I said, trying not to sound desperate. I couldn’t have her come here. Go to New York City! Please! “I’ll pay for your hotel.”
“I can’t do that, not when I have to plan and strategize your next release launch.”
That meant she wasn’t coming to Kingstree. I took a relieved swig.
“By the way, are you on target with the next book?” Mom asked, finally on another track.
“Yes.” Now that my asshole neighbor was quiet… “As long as I’m not interrupted, I should be fine.” I tried to subtly emphasize “not interrupted,” so she got an extra-heavy hint not to come.
“We have to make sure to push it to number one in the entire Amazon store. I’d love to see your dad eat his words.” Vengeful malice laced her words. She might believe her place was by her philandering husband, but she could be surprisingly vindictive when she wanted. She just wasn’t vindictive enough to divorce him and take all his money.