To rest her feet, to feel like one of the girls by Hannah Grieco
Lucy just isn’t the kind of person who would do something like this. She’s such a good mom.
It’s been a shock for all of us, especially poor Tim. I saw him yesterday out in front of their house. I was walking with Michelle and Symone, thinking about turkey burgers for dinner and Genevieve’s 1:00 parent-teacher conference, half-listening to Michelle talk about that bitch in the PTA group chat who’s always emailing the principal and cc’ing everyone about bullying at the bus stops—when Symone literally gasped.
“There he is! Jesus, he hasn’t showered in weeks, has he?” she said.
“Hi Tim! How’s it going?” I called.
Michelle elbowed me.
“I’m sorry. Shit.”
“Is that Ethan or Jesse?” Symone whispered as a child began to wail from inside the house.
“Hey Melissa,” Tim said. He picked up two newspapers, then a third one sticking out from under an azalea. He tried to smile—it was painful, really—then turned back toward the house, where Jesse now had his face smashed against the screen door, chanting, “Dad! Dad!”
“Hi Jesse! How’s it going?” I called. Michelle elbowed me again.
Tim opened the door, shoved his son back inside, and slammed the door behind him.
“Oof,” said Symone.
We’ve texted each other constantly since then, trying to figure out some way to help. The police seem stuck, their updates coming less and less often, though that video footage they shared on TV of Lucy at Starbucks—it was crazy, right? Her walking in, strapping Ethan into the high chair next to Jesse at one of those little tables, grabbing chocolate milks for them from the fridge section. Then talking to some lady nearby, and leaving them there to go to the bathroom.
Then less than a minute later, Lucy appears again…and walks out the back door. Right there on camera. Just walks out.
I’ve watched it at least a hundred times.
The whole neighborhood got involved in the search. Symone started a phone bank in her living room, and Michelle and I put up posters. She was our friend! Is, is our friend.
Later that week, I saw on the Facebook group that there were clues, credit card receipts. An ATM withdrawal after a few days, south of here, down toward Raleigh. A Wendy’s receipt at the South Carolina border.
“She never ate fast food!” Symone said. “Something serious is going on.” And she was right. Lucy’s been a health nut ever since she lost all that weight.
But apparently the trail stopped cold at the Georgia-Florida border, the last hint a video of her at a Mega Mart. This black-and-white footage of her standing by a gas tank, talking to two other women. Nobody any of us recognized. They were kind of lesbian-y, though I know that sounds terrible. Or maybe they were athletes. Like soccer players? Not anyone from around here, in any case. And Lucy had buzzed her hair short, too. I mean short-short, like shaved on the sides, and she wore a baggy t-shirt and cargo shorts.
“It’s like she’s been body-snatched,” Michelle said. “She’d never be caught dressed like that.” And she was right. Lucy is very put-together. Ever since, well, since she lost the weight.
But between you and me, she looked happy in that video. And really fit, too. I mean all three of them looked ready to kick some ass, you know? Like that Charlie’s Angels movie with Kristen Stewart, which we saw on a girl’s night out last year. That was a fun night.
Anyway, there she was, looking like a totally different person, though it was absolutely her, and she put her arm around one of the women’s shoulders. Like intimately. She leaned in and whispered something in her ear and the woman laughed, and this wasn’t two friends laughing, if you know what I mean.
Then they finished getting gas and just took off. I wonder where they went. What’s it like, no kids, no husband, not even your regular friends who know you. Who remind you who you are and where you come from?
I wonder.
***
She was pretty, and I love long, blonde hair. I thought she was maybe twenty-five at first, but she had a baby and a bigger kid, too. I figured she was their nanny, but then she came up to pay and I realized she was older. Plus, those were her kids, this big baby chewing on the top of her Diet Coke bottle and the older boy, whining and waving around a pack of Pokémon cards.
“Hand that to the nice man so he can ring you up,” she said and that kid, man the attitude. He shoved it behind his back and glared at me.
“I promise to give it right back,” I said, and scanned the pack fast and took her ID for the boxed wine. She didn’t look thirty-nine.
Then her big kid started yelling for Starbucks, which is right across the parking lot from us, and the baby took it up, too. Crying “Tah-buks!” like his brother, and he threw the Diet Coke down on the floor, the little brat.
“Shit,” she said.
“SHIT!” the bigger kid yelled. I tried not to laugh, I did. I even offered to get her another one.
“No, it’s okay,” she said, “But thank you.”
But right then, that big kid, I mean that kid was nothing but trouble, he grabbed the bottle before she could. And he shook it. He shook it hard, and for a minute I thought she might let loose on him. I wouldn’t have blamed her for just slapping him. But she didn’t.
“Hand it over, kiddo,” she said. So calm, so nice. Her eyes, though. They were wild, tiger wild. Do tigers eat their babies? Or is that another kind of cat? I don’t know, but her eyes said something totally different than hand it over, kiddo and her boy must have known it. He gave that bottle right back.
“Sorry, mama.”
“You have your cards?”
“Yeah!” He held them up to show her.
Then BAM, he ran to the door.
“Shit!” she yelled again and took off after him, still holding the baby, grabbing the kid by the collar of his shirt right before he got out. She stood there with her eyes closed, holding him as he kicked, breathing in and out like some kind of yogi. The baby was practically hanging upside down over her arm, screaming and kicking his feet. I can’t explain what she was like. Except maybe like right before a big storm, when you go outside and it’s really quiet. The birds all stop and the air gets heavy, you know? The whole store was like that, even the people in line waiting at that point.
I was all, “You okay?”
“You know what? I will be.” She looked down at her kid, who’d stopped messing around and was hugging her legs now. And she looked so sad. But then she almost dropped the baby, and that big kid started yelling some more about Starbucks and chocolate milk, so she dragged them out the door.
I forgot about the whole thing until I saw the news a couple of days later. It’s weird, how people aren’t ever like you expect. I hope she’s okay. She seemed like a good mom.
***
Lucy has always been so lovely. She’s not like the other mothers who walk around as if they’re too good to mind their own children. You know the sort, the same ones who hire au pairs. Teenage girls from some other country raising their babies, can you imagine?
Lucy’s more like the mothers I used to know. We even talk about that sometimes, when she stops by to check on me. Did I mention she always checks on me? My own daughters don’t even call once a week! Without fail, though, every afternoon after her run. She apologizes for being a mess, and I always say, “You are more together than I am, my dear, and I haven’t run 10 feet in years!”
I just can’t believe it.
It was so different in my day. We’d all meet for coffee and our children would play. A mother could rest her feet and feel like one of the girls for a little while.
I had three daughters and they were enough of a handful. It’s hard to have two little boys, and nobody ever lifts a finger to help poor Lucy, oh no. Her friends are busy getting pedicures and meeting up for walks, cackling like hyenas as they speed walk the neighborhood. But Lucy always has her boys with her, even on the weekends, even on her runs with that enormous two-child stroller.
Or she did, of course.
It’s dreadful. Her husband, Tim, is constantly working, too. He’s barely at home for five minutes. I know a man needs to provide for his family, but I used to wonder how they even had those boys. He’s gone so often! But who am I to judge?
I’ve seen him home every day since. He doesn’t look good. He clearly misses her, of course. Lord knows what’s happening in that house without her. I’d offer to help, but I don’t think he’d know me from Adam. In any case, I’m sure his mother will come to lend a hand. Lucy always said his mother was very involved in their lives, so I’m sure she’ll step up now.
***
Oh Lucy. I haven’t talked to her in eighteen years and I can still hear her laugh, still see that mole on her throat, her head thrown back, her hands over her eyes. She laughed so big and loud, like her whole body was this ball of energy. Jesus, I was so in love with her.
I never held it against her, the way we ended. Not that we ever really started. One kiss isn’t a relationship, I know, but after three years of tiptoeing around it and then that one night, when it finally happened-
But then, well. Anyways.
To see this now, that video of her, and to know what she’s finally done, who she’s finally become. I don’t care about her damn family. I know it’s terrible, but I’m happy for her.
Really, really happy, but also…Jesus. It’s like it was yesterday.
***
How is a father supposed to feel when his only son marries down, and nobody listens, of course, and then his wife ends up running off? What did everyone expect?
I’m sad for my son, and obviously, I had reservations about her from the start. She tried to put on a show, acting like she was some kind of saint, as if she was better than us. I wasn’t fooled. That bossy streak, the whole “I’m just trying to define boundaries” talk? Sorry, but therapist-speak doesn’t impress me. Look where we are now.
Tim will be fine, of course, and our grandsons will be fine. We call them from every port. Tim says not to come home early, but as soon as this cruise ends, his mother will be on that plane. She’ll take over and he won’t have to lift a finger.
Ellie really is devastated, though. She always sees the potential in people and works hard to educate them, to bring out the best in them. I’m the one who says, “Trust, but verify,” but Ellie, Ellie’s the real saint. All that time and energy put into developing Lucy and for what?
Tim should have married Bridget. Cute as a button. Her father and I have been friends since St. Albans.
***
First, she smiles at me at the gym. 5 AM, no makeup, bags under my eyes, and this boyish girl, definitely younger than me, smiling as she walks by my treadmill. I nod, just to be friendly. I notice her arms. Hours of Bikram and I still don’t have biceps like that. Sculpted, smooth, this pretty tattoo circling down toward her elbow.
I try to ignore her, even though she’s there every day. But I can’t help it. I smile back, say hi, ask her to spot me at the bench press in the free weight room downstairs. I start thinking about her while I grind Ethan’s baby food, while I spoon it into his sweet little mouth, while I watch him blowing green bean bubbles. I picture her tattoo, her shoulders, her strong hands gripping the bar, pulling it up to her waist, then swinging it up to her chest and shoving it above her head. I start thinking about her baggy sweats and her tight t-shirt, her breasts, smaller than mine, perfect really, never scratched and stretched by a baby. I bet her nipples are small, light pink. I bet her stomach would jerk if I touched it, just ripple like a snake.
She knows everything about lifting, shows me how to isolate my biceps, which exercises work the different back muscles. She corrects my form when I try weighted squats for the first time.
“Watch those knees,” she says from behind me.
“My knees are messed up,” I say and she nods, taps at the inside of my right foot, spreading my legs wider. The pain stops immediately.
“You never go down on me anymore,” Tim complained once and I wanted to shriek, “My fucking knees hurt from this baby weight, okay?”
“Keep those hips tight,” she says and her hands gently push down on each side of my waist, almost tickling, her breath stopping and starting again. “Okay, you’re good.”
“Alex.” But it’s a whimper, an animal noise I don’t even recognize, deep in my throat.
“I’m sorry,” she says, but no, it’s too late, and I drop the bar in front of me, jumping back into her, against her, leaning my head on her shoulder and neck.
“You’re married. You have kids.”
I slide my fingers into her hair, short and sweat-spiked, turning towards her, pulling her in to me, her mouth to my mouth, wrapping my arms tightly around her neck, her entire body shrinking as my mouth and skin suck her in, and how can I be this wet, this hot? She gasps, “Wait-” But I’ve waited for so long, waited for ever, it seems, and I swallow her, devour her, coming in waves until I pass out with the taste of her in my mouth, nothing else left of her at all.
I startle awake, Tim snoring next to me, Ethan wedged between us. My baby boy. Wide awake, staring at me, cute as a button.
I boop his nose.
“You’re awake too, huh?”
Hannah Grieco is a writer in Washington, DC. Find her at www.hgrieco.com and on Twitter @writesloud.
12 August 2022
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