“Have a good day at school,” she says, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Jackson does not turn around, his backpack shuffling with every step towards the bus. Her robe tickles her legs with the breeze. She watches him get on, the smell of exhaust swirling around her head. Mandy’s son runs past, hopping up the bus steps, Mandy herself not far behind, ten-month-old attached to her hip. As usual, Mandy has a smile pasted on her face. Mandy wore lipstick too. Red, bright red, and not a single bit of it ever smeared in her perfect white teeth. Her husband probably loved it, ate up that big beautiful smile with his own mouth, licking it, biting it–

​

“How’s Jackson? He get over that cold alright?” Mandy grins at her. The baby has the slightest brush of red on its forehead.

“Hardly lasted a day!”
“That’s good.”

She could see Jackson’s blonde hair pressed against the window. He does not

look at her. Why wouldn’t he look at her? Mandy’s son waves from two windows down, smushing his cheeks against the window and smiling that same little perfect smile. Their cheeks must hurt all the time. He had Mandy’s nose and probably had her cheekbones too, buried under a thick layer of baby face. Jackson hated getting his cheeks pinched. She used to do it when he was a little baby, rolling around on the floor. He was a fat baby. Such a happy baby. The bus rolls away with Jackson. His father thought it would be funny to name him that, the son of Jack, Jackson. She wanted to name him George, but Jack won.

​

She wishes he would look at her.

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​

​

​

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“Did you hear me hon?”
She looks at Mandy. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I asked if you maybe wanted to bring Jackson to Peter’s birthday today.” Her skin tingles. “What time is it?”
“Well, y’all live in the neighborhood so feel free to come over any time after school. And don’t worry about gifts, Peter’s spoiled enough as it is. You can just send Jackson over if you want, but I’ve been needing some girl time, after being home all day with this little guy!” Mandy bounces the baby on her hip a few times. It smiles a big, toothless grin. Just like the rest of its family. “I feel like I’m going crazy sometimes.”

​

She looks at a patch of dandelions erupting from the sidewalk. “I know what you mean.”

​

~~~~~~~~~~~

Die Forelle plays when the dryer is finished. The final note echoes in the hallway.

She sits on the floor of the laundry room, cutting tags off the pile of new clothes she got at Macy’s. They were for dates. She had heard on the radio that she should get back out there. Jerry told her so, words of wisdom sandwiched between upbeat songs from the eighties. Apparently his wife had left him for a younger man. Her scissors catch in the frayed end of her robe. Was it 3 o’clock yet? She gets up off the floor to check. A pink blouse lays crumpled by the door. Pink was such a bold color for her. Jack had said it brought out the color in her cheeks, he liked it, he liked her. He liked this little life they built. Pink trees dripping petals all over his car in the spring. Kisses out by the car in the morning. The damn car. They fought over that fucking car. He kept a picture of Jackson in the little mirror flap and it always fell out when she would check for crumbs in her teeth, because Jack would never tell her the truth. It's a beautiful smile to me, broccoli or not. Oh, Jack. She presses her hands to her face, pushing against her cheeks, pushing down the memories, clamping her hands down at the unraveling seam. Broccoli and cheddar cheese soup on Friday afternoons before Jackson got out of school. They never told him. Her cheeks feel like they’re sagging, loosened pieces of fabric. The laundry. She had to switch over the laundry, she had to fold the clothes. She had to wash that blouse by the door. Jackson would be out of school soon. She had to get ready for the party, the birthday party. Her hands shake as she reaches for the blouse. Was it 3 o’clock yet? Jack would be home soon. No. Jackson would. Jackson was coming home on the bus, the big yellow bus, the wheels went round and round.

​

She picks up the blouse. It isn’t very wrinkled, some kind of slick feeling material. Maybe she would wear it to the party, put red lipstick on with it.

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~~~~~~~~~~~

She sits in a chair angled away from the main house. There’s quite a few parents,

more than she was expecting, and their relaxed clothes made her blouse feel itchy. She scratches at the neck, looking for Jackson’s hair flopping around in the bounce house. There’s Mandy, a vision in blue.

​

Mandy walks over to her husband. She puts a hand on the small of his back, a move so intimate and familiar it hurts. They share a smile, her red lips pressing briefly to his.

​

The distance between her and Mandy seems to stretch, to condense. Her hand hovers at her lips. They’re bare, peeling. She forgot.

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She stands. There’s a thrum in her chest, a fluttering, translating into the tremor of her hands. She finds herself at the refreshment table, staring at a lovely fire-truck shaped cake.

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Red icing swirls in her vision, looking down at that sheet cake, that beautiful cake, the image of perfection, happy birthday written in white icing. She forgot to put on her lipstick. She reaches out a finger, swiping the smallest bit of red from a mound on top. Carefully, she wipes it across her lips, painting on a smile. It isn’t enough. She looks around. No one notices her. She digs her finger into the edge, her pale finger a wriggling worm digging into the sweet meat of an apple. Happy birthday, Peter. Happy Birthday! She swipes her finger through the B, through all those white letters, leaving just the happy. Happy! She stares at it with a blank expression. When was Jackson’s birthday? She smushes her hand into the center, watching the yellow cake squelch up between her fingers. Red icing bleeds onto her, burrowing underneath her fingernails. It wasn’t enough. She takes a chunk and smears it onto her lips. Crumbs rain down on the nice new blouse she bought at Mandy’s. That wasn’t right– Macy’s. Macy’s. Icing drips onto her shirt. Her Mandy’s blouse. Blood was so hard to get out. No. Did she do the laundry? This afternoon? She could have sworn she did. The image of herself multiplied and spun, dozens and dozens of clothes coming out of the washer, into the dryer, out of the dryer, into the hamper, in and out, in and out, the new blouse soapy and soggy and red on the tile. In and out it floats. She saw herself laying there on the floor in it. Jack used to float with his arms outstretched in the pool. He was so calm. Sometimes he would pretend to be dead. Play dead. Like a possum. Maybe he was just pretending again. If she could dig him up and open the coffin he would jump out and kiss her red lips and tell her it was all for pretend. She digs her other hand into the cake. She digs at the dirt. It smells sweet. Dirt got all over her shovel, her Mandy’s blouse, her face. Pink is brown and brown is pink and pink is dead. Dead dead dead. Why did daddy have to die? I’m sorry, I’m sorry Jackson, I’m so sorry, look at me, mommy is trying, mommy didn’t do the laundry, mommy forgot, mommy fucked up, I’ll fix it, I’ll fix it, let me fix it, let me see him I WANT TO SEE HIM! I WANT–

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“Helen.” There’s a hand on her back. Mandy gently takes her arm. “Helen, what’s wrong?”

​

People could see her. Her body shakes. They look at her, at the dirt all over her. They knew. The pity in their eyes, in Mandy’s eyes, stung her. Some of the children kept playing, running past her, not even bothering to look up.

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“Why don’t we get you cleaned up?” She lets Mandy guide her towards the house. Mandy opens the back door and helps her inside, going over to the sink to wet a rag. The kitchen is very blue and very neat. A little metal chicken looks down at her from its cabinet perch. Judging her. Mandy presses the rag into Helen’s palm, wiping the cake off, leaving behind red stains. A silence stretches between them. Mandy blots at her shirt, balling up the rag and grabbing another one. Helen takes a breath in.

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“If you wanted a slice, I would have cut you one,” Mandy smiles from her spot at the sink, wringing the new rag out.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice is small.

“Don’t be. Peter will be fine. We always have a real nice cake later at night anyways.”

“That’s, that’s good,” she says. Mandy walks over and gently wipes at her lips and cheeks.

“I know it’s hard,” she whispers, “my daddy passed away when I was small. I don’t know how my momma held it together.”

She nods.

​

“Why don’t we stay here together for a little while? Does that sound nice?” She sets the rag down and loops her arm through Helen’s. The muted sounds of laughter drift into the kitchen. Children kept playing, and adults kept talking, moving past her, past the cake, past Jack. Sunlight peeks through the blinds, painting the two women in stripes.

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Tears well up in her eyes, and this time, she lets them fall.

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