Did you have to read Ulysses in English class? What did you think? I hated it.
Of course I hated Ulysses, but why are you asking me and who are you?
I glance up and down my street, as if I can sweep the block for the culprit. I see no one, so I figure it could just be some Upper West Side smarty-pants type who found this copy floating down the block and decided to offer his or her two cents. Someone who just had to weigh in on James Joyce.
But as I walk up the steps to my mom’s brownstone, I haven’t managed to fool myself. After all, Bailey called my mom the other day about a postcard. Now, she must have figured out the whole thing. I stop at the door, my hand hovering over the doorknob, as I weigh the scenarios, and the possibility of Bailey stirring things up. Since nobody knows for sure that I sent the letters, would it be such a bad thing if Bailey confronted my mom on her own? Wouldn’t it, in fact, be a very good thing? Isn’t this everything I’ve ever wanted? A sly smile creeps onto my face. The letters are returning; but they’re not coming back to me. They’re on track to hit the person who messed up all these lives.
Her.
Maybe by seeing her actions slam into her face, she’ll stop. This is what I have wanted all along.
As I walk inside she gets the first word in. “I went shopping for you today, darling.”
I’m taken aback, so I take off the gloves. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to get you some early birthday presents. Now, come sit down, so I can show you all these delicious purchases.”
She pats the couch and I take the spot next to her. My stomach rumbles. I didn’t eat much today. “Want me to make you something?”
“I’m fine.”
“I can make you a toasted peanut butter and honey sandwich if you want,” she says.
My favorite food of all time. I wish she was all bad.
I shake my head and gesture to the shopping bags at her feet. She rubs her hands together, then considers each bag. “Ah, let’s go through this one first,” she says. She dips her hand into a white shopping bag with the words “Les Bijoux” in curlicue script on the side. “First, I thought, wouldn’t it be nice for you to have something extra pretty for college, and I found this gorgeous piece.”
She extracts a silver necklace with a gleaming faux diamond pendant hanging in the middle.
“It’s beautiful,” I say.
“Put it on.” She unhooks the necklace, pushes my hair off my neck, and fastens it. The pendant falls above my charm necklace. I touch the silver strands of the new one.
“It’s perfect for your eyes.” She doesn’t suggest I take off my charms, even though her fancy jewelry would look better riding solo on my neck. For this, I’m glad. She doesn’t know where my charms came from, but she knows I wear them every day. She knows I don’t take off the charms. She knows me so well.
She digs into another bag and pulls out a handful of the soft faded tees I like. One is dusty pink with a green stylized dinosaur, another light blue with an upside-down monkey, still one more is black with a pair of cat’s-eyes in the upper right hand corner. From another bag she gives me new jeans—the size and style I like.
“You were always a good shopper,” I say. My mom can shop for anyone. I’ve never once had to return an item she bought for me, and I’ve never once faked liking something, like I do when I’m reading her scenes.
“It’s good to know if the writing thing doesn’t work out, I can always have a fallback career as a personal shopper.”
“Mom, I think the writing has already worked out,” I say, reassuring her.
She twists her own necklace absently, a double-stranded heavy gold braid. “I’m worried about the story arc for next season. They say you’re only as good as the next season and this one’s a mess, Kennedy. A total mess.”
“I’m sure it’s not a mess. You’re a great writer.”
Another twist on her necklace. “I just don’t know …”
“Mom, it’ll be fabulous! LGO will be thrilled. Your fans will love it,” I say, and I mean it with my whole heart.
My mom breathes out. “Thank you. You have no idea how much I rely on you. How much I trust you. You’re the only one who I know is telling me the truth.” A sad thought flickers through my mind—does my mom distrust everyone too? “Do you want to do something tonight? Go see a movie? Go out to dinner? Just us girls.”
“Sure. Let’s go out. Let’s go to Mr. Pickles,” I say quickly because she sounds so damn eager and hopeful. I don’t want to crush her.
She beams. “Your favorite sandwich shop.”
“How can you argue with a sandwich shop that offers not one, not two, not three, not four, not five, but six vegetarian sandwich options?”
“I can’t argue. Especially not when the roast beef with pesto mayo and corn spread on grilled sourdough is positively divine.” She stands up, reaches for her ruby-red purse, the size of a feedbag, and nods toward the door.
“Let me change first. I want to put on my new clothes.”
Her sweetness is almost enough to make me forget what I overheard the other day. It’s nearly enough to erase the accidental text message she sent me. But I have to stay strong. She has my best friend’s father in her crosshairs, and I am tired, I am so damn tired, of all the collateral damage from her affairs. I can’t let the clothes and the kindness and the way I am the only one wear me down once more.