She went to the kitchen, chopped the carrot sticks, and mixed the Kool-Aid.
“Oh my, what is this,” she heard Elena say. Her hands started to tremble when she noticed there was no sugar. She looked from side to side. She went into the hall.
“Melissa,” she whispered. She waved Melissa over. “Hey, Melissa, is there any sugar?”
“Hmmm. I know someone was at the store.”
“That was me. I forgot to get the sugar.”
“I think there are some packets under the coffeemaker.”
“Great.”
Jillian found a box of Splenda under the coffeemaker. No one will see me, she thought. No one will see me. She tried to turn “No one will see me” into a protective mantra, then she took the box over to the punch bowl and started dumping the packets into it.
Rip dump, rip dump, rip dump, frantically rip-dumping until the punch was a little too sweet, then she mixed it and brought it out to the main room and set it next to the plate of homemade (and wasn’t that better?) carrot sticks.
“Can we get this dip put into bowls?” said Elena.
“Oh, yeah, are there bowls in the kitchen?” asked Jillian.
“I really don’t have time to check.”
“Okay. Hey, do you want me to start cutting up those sweatshirts?”
“Yeah, I called Sandy and she said she has some costume things she can bring. We probably won’t need those sweatshirts.”
“Oh, okay,” said Jillian.
Everyone in the basement was laughing and taping up streamers and blowing up balloons.
“I think I need you to go on a sandwich run,” said Elena.
“Okay,” said Jillian. “But I need you to give me some money.”
Elena stared at her. “Can’t I just write you a check?”
“No, because I don’t have a checking account, so if you wrote me a check I’d have to pay ten percent to get it cashed. I need cash or a money order.”
“Okay, here’s thirty for lunch, that should be enough for some Subway.”
“Okay, great,” said Jillian.
When she got back with the sandwiches, Elena was mad that the dip hadn’t been put into bowls. The party was almost starting.
As Jillian filled the bowls with the dip (she could wait a second to eat her sandwich) Susie from the kids’ room came up to her.
“Hey, we have a little problem.”
“What?”
“Well, Adam is in the ladies’ room and he won’t come out.”
“Oh, are you kidding?” asked Jillian.
“Nope,” said Susie.
The party went until 9:00. At 9:00, Jillian said, “I’m going to run now.”
“What, you’re not staying for takedown?” said Elena.
During the walk home, Adam looked like he was sleepwalking. Maybe he was.
She opened the door. Crispy had strewn the dirty clothes from the hamper all over the floor and was slowly sucking on the crotch of a pair of Jillian’s underwear.
• • •
Saturday was no breeze for Megan, either. She woke up and immediately felt embarrassed. That nasty, awful, hollow, endless embarrassment that was becoming her life. Randy was still asleep. She lay there, wishing she could be unconscious again. If she got up and out of bed, what would there be to do? She could shower and weep and see if that freshened her up. Maybe she could weep while making pancakes and then, with her gelatinous face, walk into the bedroom and say, “I made breakfast, honey, do you want some?” She could make coffee in the French press and imagine every step as the symbolic destruction of her soul. Grind the beans, boil the water (she could open her mouth for a silent scream when the teapot whistled—possibly that would be satisfying), and then wrap her fist around the plunger and push those fucking grounds down there where they belonged.
She decided this was a good enough idea. As soon as she was under the water, she started bawling. She sat in the bottom of the tub, cried, and washed her feet.
When she got out of the shower, Randy was making coffee in the Mr. Coffee. She didn’t want to interact with him until she was dressed, so she walked right past him. Her hair was wet. Her skin felt brittle. Maybe she would be able to go to sleep again.
Randy sighed.
7
On Monday, the phone rang. “Good afternoon, doctors’ office,” said Megan. “Sure, hold on one second.” She put the phone down. “It’s for you.”
“Who is it?” said Jillian.
Megan shrugged and handed her the cordless.
“Good afternoon, this is Jillian.”
“Good afternoon, Ms. Bradley, this is Mike Johnson calling from the county clerk’s office, how are you today?”
“I’m doing good, and yourself?”
“I’m well. Ms. Bradley, I’m calling you to tell you that your court date is a week from this Tuesday, on the thirty-first, at eleven a.m. Can you confirm that for me?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson, but I’m at work right now, and I’m unable to make that confirmation,” said Jillian.
“Ms. Bradley, I’m aware that you are at work, but we have been leaving messages on your personal line and we have not gotten a response. If you had called us back, we would have been able to work with you to choose a date, but since you did not return our calls, your date has been scheduled for you. If you do not appear in court on your court date, a warrant for your arrest will be issued and your fine will be doubled. If you are unwilling to pay your fine, which I see here is three years standing, we will have no other option but to take you into custody, and you will have to serve time. I am required by my offices to get confirmation from you for this date.”
Jillian had been married once. It didn’t work out. She was married when she was twenty-two—seems so young now! It lasted a year and then, after the breakup, Jillian found the lord and everything felt glorious. Really, really glorious, like the way you read about. But then there was, you know, she
