Page 22 of Play Nice

To be fair, I am incapable. Painting is one thing, but I’ve come to realize there’s no way I can replace a countertop or put in hardwood floors by my lonesome. Those Instagram Reels are deceiving, but there’s no deceiving a deceiver.

If I’m doing this, I want to do it right.

Hiring a professional will pretty much decimate my savings, but I consulted with a few Realtors who assured me it’ll be well worth it.

No risk, no reward. The satisfaction of leaving this place unrecognizable will be so sweet, the scent of it wafting toward me like a pie left to cool on a windowsill.

“Thank you for coming by. I’ll be in touch. Appreciate your time, hon ,” I say, closing the door on contractor number one.

I tell the second I will call him by the end of the week. I know I’m going to hire him, but I don’t want him to think me too eager.

After the contractor appointments are done, I change out of my Oxford dress and into my paint clothes. My suitcase is on Leda’s bed, zipped shut because I have zero confidence this house is rodent-free. It’s definitely not bug-free either. Every day I’m here, I discover at least one dead fly.

I open it up and unzip the inner compartment, where Mom’s book is.

I take it out carefully. I empathize with the binding of this fifteen-year-old paperback, in how it’s struggling to keep it all together.

There’s a tear in the front cover that I don’t remember being there before. It must have happened in transit. I run my finger over it, tracing the damage.

A thought. A conspiracy.

Did Daphne find the book? Did she go through my things when she was at my apartment? Is that how the cover got torn? Is that why Leda asked me about it?

I kneel on the floor, chew on my thumb for a minute. I wouldn’t put it past Leda, but I’d be surprised if Daphne invaded my privacy in that way. The three of us never crossed those lines, read each other’s diaries, anything like that.

I flip the book over and over in my hands, then open it up to the last chapter—of what I have, anyway.

I still haven’t found the back half of the book anywhere in the house, and I still haven’t been able to bring myself to track down another copy.

I’m afraid of the empty margins, the blank spaces without my mother’s notes to me.

Afraid of her absence on the page. I’m afraid of what I don’t remember.

Afraid of the truth. Afraid of the fiction.

I’ve read this part already. More than once.

But I read it again.

At Father Bernard’s insistence, I began taking the girls to church. I prayed with them at night. They were reluctant. Confused. Dee was openly angry. Elle was more measured in her disapproval. She wrote me an essay arguing against the Catholic Church, which she slipped under my door one morning.

Cici was unbothered. She seemed to genuinely enjoy mass. When I asked her why, she said, “It’s like a show. They wear costumes and sing.”

I was frustrated with my daughters, and they were frustrated with me.

They couldn’t see that I was trying to protect them. Nothing I did seemed to be working.

My sleep was plagued with bad dreams. I’d be running through the house, looking for my daughters, and they wouldn’t be there. I’d look around and there’d be blood on the walls, the floor, my hands. I’d scream for them until my throat was raw. I would wake up to that cruel, horrible laughter.

The house began to smell, to stink of rot. The girls complained. I burned candles. I burned sage.

Three weeks went by until the inevitable. Until my ex came to the door when he dropped off our daughters, red-faced. I could see every vein in his neck, and the angry one on his forehead was in danger of bursting.

“You’re taking them to church?” he said.

“They’re my daughters, too.” I’d been preparing, so why did I feel so unprepared? “I want them to learn about faith. About goodness. Have values.”

He balked. “They are good. They have values. I’ve taught them values. They don’t want to go. You’re forcing them.”

He would always do this. Twist my words. Of course you were good. That wasn’t what I meant, and he knew it.

“I’m their mother,” I said, because I had no other argument. Not one that I could remember in the moment, with him there in front of me, screaming. I was paralyzed by him, by his anger.

“You’re not even Catholic!” he said, throwing his hands up. “I don’t know what you’re playing at. Is this for the judge? To position yourself as some pious, God-fearing mother? You’re not doing this for the girls; you’re doing this for yourself. You’re so fucking selfish!”

Believe it or not, this depiction of your father is generous. This conversation was far worse than I portrayed it.

He took a moment to catch his breath. “No more church. No more forced prayers. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”

—

My stomach churning, I set the book aside, realizing I just used it to ruin my own day. What a thing, in retrospect, to watch the dominoes fall.

The house is quiet, and it occurs to me that I’m waiting for something to happen, some disturbance. I’m fine with being alone in the house, but I don’t want to wonder if I’m alone in the house.

I get up and go look for Austin’s note with his phone number. The note is where I left it, on the coffee table.

Beside it, my sketchpad is open to the drawing I did last night. My cosmic “Leave Me Alone.”

There’s a new addition. Small, in the bottom corner, in the center of a constellation, floating in the galaxy.

A response.

NO