I stumbled out the back slider in my bathrobe and bare feet to find Fern, her face painted into a cat, hair teased into small ears. She sat in the backyard, cross-legged in her kiddie lawn chair, wearing striped pajamas, and eating cereal from a bowl.
“The neighbor lady paint your face?”
She nodded, crunching her cereal.
“And make your breakfast?”
“Me.” She answered the flamingo I had stuck in the ground, so we’d have more than weeds to look at.
“How long before you can make your own lunch?”
“Why aren’t you like other moms?”
“Good question.” I looked down at toes that needed polish. “You throw my cigarettes away again?”
“Grandma says you should use that money for my college.”
I tried quitting three hundred times but never knew what to do with my hands. I held them up, older-looking than they should be. “You seem to have this under control, so I’m going back to bed.”
“No,” she cried out, spoon clanking against the bowl. “You have to drive me to Shelly’s Halloween birthday party. I’m a cat.”
“It’s June.”
“There are no rules for Halloween.”
“I see that.” The sun was almost directly overhead, and the outside world was brighter than it needed to be. It should have a dimmer switch. ”Can’t the neighbor lady take you?”
“Grandma said to tell you her tires are flat.”
“Are they?”
She shook her head.
“Fine. Go get dressed.”
I dropped Fern off, waved at Shelly’s mother from the car so she wouldn’t see my bathrobe, swung by Mike’s Mitey Brite laundromat and slotted quarters in the cigarette machine. I liked the feel of the coins and the sound they made when they landed in the coin box. Probably the only machine left of its kind, but nothing ever changed at Mike’s. It looked exactly as it had when I was a child, and everyone at the laundromat was used to seeing me in my bathrobe. I liked to sit in the parking lot and smoke because it gave me time to think, and no one there nagged me to stop smoking. After I finished my cigarette, I drove home, with the gas gauge on E, to find the neighbor lady drinking coffee in my kitchen.
“You could at least clean if you’re going to drink my coffee.”
“You reek of smoke.” She waved her hand around in my direction. Her hands looked younger than mine. “This is how you present yourself around town? A new low for you.”
“Not really,” I said. “I wore this last week at the bank and to drop off recycling.”
“We should talk about what you’re doing with your life.”
“I’m going back to bed.”
“I moved myself into your room because I have a squirrel infestation and moved you into Fern’s room. I thought you’d prefer that to the couch.”
“Why didn’t you move yourself into her room?”
“A girl should be with her mother.”
“Oh, that’s good coming from you.”
“We can all learn from our mistakes. She might even let you have the top bunk.”
“She’ll never let me smoke in there.” I headed down the hall toward Fern’s room. “You have to pick her up at Shelly’s house at four o’clock. I have no gas in the car.”
“She’s your daughter.”
“You owe me.”
“Is there ever going to be an expiration date on that?”
I shut the bedroom door.
Fern arrived home with new Peppa Pig toys to add to her collection. She brought them all out to the kitchen table, stuffed Peppa and family into a plastic car as if the pig family had someplace to go. “They do,” she said. “They go to the market and the movies and for pizza. They’re a real family.”
“We’re real,” I said, opening a microwave lasagna box.
“Not like Shelly. She has a father.”
“You have a father.”
“Where is he?”
“Somewhere not here.”
“What did you do to make him leave?”
“Did the neighbor lady put you up to this?”
I woke in the middle of the night craving something I couldn’t define. I figured I’d sit on the front step and smoke a cigarette. Light glowed from the kitchen.
Fern was clinging to the inside of the open refrigerator door, its cold spreading out. She wore a short white tutu over Peppa Pig pajamas. “I’m pretending to be a tuna sandwich.”
“Let me know when you’re done. I’m going outside to smoke.”
“I’m done.” She jumped down and closed the refrigerator, leaving us both in the dark. The microwave blinked 2:05.
“Why are you awake?”
“Why are you awake?”
“You know you’re only four, right?”
“Almost five.”
I opened the front door and Fern followed me outside. “I thought you were going to bed.”
“I’ll keep you company if you promise not to smoke.”
“How about you go to bed and I promise not to smoke.”
She tipped her head and said, “OK,” then thrust out her open hand.
“What’s that for?”
“Grandma calls them cancer sticks.”
I stared down at the shortest boss I ever had. “Fine, but I want them back in the morning.”
She walked down the hall toward her room.
“Who’s the mother here?”
“We’ll see,” she said, shutting the door.
I sat on the step, leaned against the porch pillar. Rested my hands on my lap, then one knee, then pulled my hair back, then back to my lap. I made a mental note to watch what nonsmokers did with their hands.
The night was a nice cool. A dog barked a few houses down, and the moon looked over the street, houses all shut and dark and asleep. Trash cans waited at the curb for morning pickup. From the outside, our house looked like the others. Small cottages that looked more tired than cute.
It was the kind of night I used to drive Fern around to get her to sleep when she was a baby. I was afraid she’d wake if I turned off the engine, so I often kept driving until I found myself in her father’s neighborhood, locked tight inside his house with wife and kids. I imagined what it would be like to stop the car, ring the doorbell, and introduce him to his daughter, but I never did. When we were still together, I used to tell him I felt like an empty house when I wasn’t with him.
The next day, Fern and I stopped at the hardware store to find a solution to the neighbor lady’s squirrels. I spoke with the clerk, a boy surely not old enough to drive, and he said I could rent a Havahart trap. After running through all the choices—one-door models versus two, type of bait to use, best places to set the trap, how often to check it, and what to do once I caught one, Fern slapped a paint color strip on the counter, pointed to Tickled Pink, and said to the boy, “This one please.”
He looked at me. “How much paint will you need?”
I raised my eyebrows and gestured in that I-have-no-idea-what-she’s-thinking way, and Fern said, “A gallon of flat will do.”
The boy asked, “What are you painting?”
“My dressing room.”
I said, “You don’t have a dressing room.”
“I will once we paint it.”
We walked the street of shops and Fern stopped at each plate-glass window to make faces at her reflection. She wanted to go inside the drugstore to test lipsticks as we often did, layering pinks over nudes until she found a shade she liked. I always told her she looked nice without the lipstick, and she always said, “I know.”
“Not today. We need to get home.”
We passed the pet store that had just set up with shelter dogs for adoption out front. Fern ran up to the largest, goofiest dog, a yellow lab. “This one please.”
“We don’t need a dog.”
“Grandma and I need a dog. The kind who gives kisses.”
“Then she can get a kissing dog for her house once the squirrels move out.”
“Real families have dogs.”
“Where do you get these ideas? Like I have time to feed a dog.”
“We both know I’ll feed him.”
He was about seven years old. His owner, an elderly man, had recently died, and although I worried the dog’s eventual death would be traumatic for Fern, he was eligible for the senior discount program, meaning his adoption fee was waived and the rescue organization covered all his wellness visits. I dropped them both off at the house, along with food, bowls, dog bed the size of a small couch, and chew toys. I told the neighbor lady this was all her fault, then drove to Mike’s Mitey Brite for cigarettes.
Fern’s father smoked. When Fern learned to walk, I learned to smoke. It was a way to keep him with me.
I smoked one in the car staring at the laundromat’s outside wall with its large painted letters—Laundry Today or Naked Tomorrow, and picture of clothes hanging on a line, which made no sense. A laundromat should have pictures of dryers or folded towels, shirts on hangers, and matched socks. I imagined cigarettes clothespinned to the line. I stubbed out my cigarette and wondered if Fern’s father quit smoking when he quit me.
I set up the squirrel trap in the neighbor lady’s attic, using peanut butter as bait. I didn’t see signs of animals. No noises. No chewed wires. No scampering. No droppings. No strange smells. No visible holes. No water damage from urine. No tracks on the floor. I wasn’t a rodent expert, but I was an expert on my mother, and I was fairly certain she didn’t have squirrels. I sat on an old rocking chair and smoked another cigarette.
When I was growing up, my mother used to tell me if I didn’t behave, she’d lock me in the attic where my dead sister, Mary, lived. I never had a sister, but I still believed it possible. Whenever we heard a noise from upstairs, she’d say, “There goes your dead sister, Mary, wandering around the attic, probably looking for you.” At eight years old, I finally climbed the attic stairs to confront the ghost and discovered nothing but dust.
I smoked my cigarette down to the nub and left the rest of the pack and the lighter on the chair before leaving.
That night, I tucked Fern into the bottom bunk so Pickle could sleep on his dog bed next to her.
“You smell like cigarettes.”
“You smell like toothpaste.”
“You promised.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You should.”
“I should do a lot of things.”
I later found Fern and Pickle spooning on her bed with no place for me to fit my foot to climb up to the top bunk, so I slept on the couch.
The next morning, I woke to Pickle licking my lips and Fern crunching cereal watching Peppa cartoons. I smelled coffee, so I made my way to the kitchen to find the neighbor lady reading my newspaper at the table with two mugs in front of her.
“Is one of those mine?”
She said, “I drank your cup a half hour ago.”
“Maybe you’d like to make another pot while I go next door to collect a squirrel from the trap. Unless you want to come with me.”
“I’ll make coffee.”
“You do that.”
“There’s no rush. Squirrels move about in the day, so they probably haven’t seen the peanut butter yet.”
“You want me to say hi to Mary while I’m there?”
“Why are you you?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
The attic was as I had left it. Quiet, clean. The trap was empty. Peanut butter still on the plate. I could play along for a while. The attic was peaceful. No kids, dog, mother. No expectations. I lit a cigarette and wondered if my mother would have been a better mother if my father hadn’t died so early, but there was no answer to that.
Smoke curled in the light through the dormers, and I imagined it curling the same way in my lungs. I held it in waiting for the release, that feeling of calm it brought. I used to feel that way with Fern’s father. He made it so I could breathe. No thinking or worrying. No one wanting or expecting. Just the moment.
By the time I got back to my house, Fern had Pickle decked out in hat and dress. He didn’t care. Followed Fern around the house, out of the house, back into the house. They were about the same height. She put her face close up to his face, and I imagined him eating her whole head. She opened her mouth and stuck her tongue out, and Pickle opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out, and she laughed and laughed, and he curled his upper lip and burped, which sent her into hysterics.
The neighbor lady handed me a cup of coffee, said, “You smell like cigarettes.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“I thought you were quitting.”
“Do you and Fern work out your routines together?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No sign of squirrels.”
“Go figure.” She busied herself sponging the kitchen counter. “Should I make you some eggs?”
“You don’t know how to cook.”
“I get by.”
I packed sandwiches, and Fern and Pickle and I headed to the town pond for a picnic. I thought it might be something real families did. There were other families and ducklings and puffy clouds. Picnic perfection. Pickle and Fern ran around and splashed about in the water while I set out the blanket and shook lemonade powder into a water jug.
I imagined what I’d say if we ran into Fern’s father someplace like this. It would depend on whether he was alone or with his family. Sometimes I thought it would be good for him to know about Fern. Good for him and her. But then it could be bad for his wife and family, and bad for me. What if he pretended he didn’t know me, or worse, what if he wanted custody? Even worse, what if he didn’t want anything to do with Fern? I needed a cigarette, but I didn’t have one with me.
Fern and Pickle ran up from the pond and dripped on the blanket, waiting for their sandwiches. I gave peanut butter and jelly to Fern, and a sandwich of microwave meatloaf to Pickle. They both seemed pleased. Three ducklings had followed them up the bank, stood on the blanket, so I offered them some watermelon. From a distance, I was certain we looked like a real family, except for the ducklings.
Fern and Pickle and the ducklings played in the water for a while and then we packed up for home. The ducklings followed Pickle to the car. I looked around for a mother duck but didn’t see one. He picked up each duckling in his mouth and set them one-by-one on the back seat. Then he jumped up and stretched out on the seat, ducklings snuggled up close, and he licked them dry.
Fern said, “Pickle is their mother now.”
“Just what we need.”
We stopped at the hardware store on the way home to get duck supplies. Pickle followed Fern. Ducklings followed Pickle.
The boy clerk greeted us with a nod. “How’s the squirrel trapping going?”
“Looks like I’ll need the trap for another day.”
“Should’ve caught one by now. You sure you have squirrels?”
“I’m certain we don’t.”
He misunderstood my answer and suggested flouring cardboard and setting it on the attic floor so we could identify the animals’ tracks. “If it’s some other animal, you may need different bait.”
“I’ll give that some thought.”
Fern pointed to a stack of small plastic kiddie pools, blue with colored fish circling inside. “This one please.”
I looked at the boy clerk and nodded.
Fern said, “And duck food.”
“You people have a lot going on at your house. I wish I lived with you growing up.”
Back at home, I found the neighbor lady rolling Tickled Pink on Fern’s walls, but it looked like she got more on herself than the walls. Fern clapped her hands together and danced around, admiring the room, and asked if she could paint her hair pink too. I dragged the kiddie pool to the backyard, next to the flamingo, and unspooled the hose. While the water started filling, I went to the kitchen to unpack the picnic, dice cucumber, and check the freezer for dinner ideas.
“Fern, come take this cucumber to your ducks.”
She arrived wearing pink shorts, pink shirt, pink tutu.
“And turn off the hose when the pool is full.”
As Fern left, the neighbor lady carried in the paint can and brush. “There’s a little paint left, in case you need to make something pink.” Her hair was frosted Tickled Pink. She dropped the brush in the kitchen sink, washed it out with dishwashing liquid. I watched her and remembered how I used to bathe Fern in that sink the way my mother said she used to bathe me in the kitchen sink next door. Goes around. Comes around.
I opened the freezer and reviewed our selections as the neighbor lady hammered the lid back on the paint can. “I’ve been thinking you should go on one of those dating sites.”
I pulled my head out of the freezer. “Pizza bacon bites?”
“No, I said you should sign up for a dating site. We could make up something to make you look like you have a life.”
“You’ve been breathing paint fumes.”
“You’ll have to quit smoking. No man wants a wife who smells like an ashtray.”
I grabbed a box of frozen mac and cheese, closed the freezer. “I don’t want a man. That’s how I got into all this.”
“No, you made a bad choice.” She waved the hammer around for emphasis. I think she forgot she still had it in her hand.
“Why are you never on my side?”
“Why do you always see sides?”
“You flunked mother school, didn’t you?”
“You’re right there with me.”
“Fern is fine.”
We both looked at each other unblinking, a moment in which neither of us knew what to say. I struggled to open the mac and cheese, and she motioned to put it on the counter. Once I did, she hammered the corner until it burst open.
Fern yelled in from the backyard, “Pickle. Pool is ready.”
Pickle walked through the kitchen and out to the pool, a rubber duck from the bathroom in his mouth, his toenails clicking on the floor. The ducklings followed close behind. The neighbor lady and I watched the parade until they were all outside.
The neighbor lady carried the paint can and hammer toward the garage. “You really should clip his nails.”
I stuck the mac and cheese on a sheet pan and shoved it into the oven with as much clatter as I could make.
“I’m going to check on the squirrels.”
“There’s no need to keep running over there,” she said, but I was already out the door.
The trap was untouched, of course. I smoked a cigarette, watching out the attic dormer at the chaos in my backyard. I wondered if my life would have looked the same if Fern’s father had chosen to stay with us. Ducklings diving for cucumber in the pool water, Pickle standing in the pool lapping up water from the hose Fern was holding. She had found a pair of my old sunglasses and wore them with her pink tutu outfit. I opened the window to hear the splashing, but by then Aretha Franklin’s “Respect” played from somewhere in my house, and Fern sang along, using the hose as a microphone, working it like a diva, and I didn’t know where she even learned of Aretha and I felt lost, like I missed something in her life, or maybe mine. I envied her sense of being, of knowing she had a right to be who she wanted to be.
Fern’s room smelled of paint, so we camped in the living room. Pickle stretched out on the couch, and Fern curled up in the empty space in front of him, unwilling to move him. She scrunched herself under his paws, and it looked as if he was hugging her. The ducklings slept near Pickle on the top of the couch, all in a row. I slept on the recliner.
I woke in the dark of early morning, listened for Fern’s tiny breaths between Pickle’s snoring. When she was younger, I would sit in her room when she napped to make sure she kept breathing.
I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I snuck outside. I had taken a cigarette from the attic earlier. I rolled it in my fingers, breathed in the tobacco scent, but didn’t light it. Holding it was enough. It gave my hands something to do. Sat on my front steps to feel the summer breeze on my skin. The street was quiet, most houses dark. Real families sleeping inside on beds, not couches. And without ducklings.
I hoped Fern would ask again to make her hair pink, because I would help her do it. I’d tell her to do it all right now, whatever you want, because someday you’ll age out and people will start to expect things of you. Her hair would look lovely with tiny pink strands, but I wouldn’t tell her so. I wouldn’t want her to think how she looked mattered. I wanted to take the bathroom mirror off the wall and paint You Look Fine.
A police car, flashing its lights but not the siren, creeped up the street, and stopped in front of my walk. The policeman let the neighbor lady out and walked her to my porch, stood at the bottom of the steps, and said, “Hello, ma’am. I understand you know this woman?”
“Depends on what she’s done.”
“Picked her up on misdemeanor vandalism.”
“Meaning?”
“She painted Fuck Your Cigarettes on the wall of Mike’s Mitey Brite. In pink.”
“You keep her.”
“If it’s all right with you, ma’am, I’d appreciate it if you’d take her. I understand she’s your mother.”
“Not for as long as I can remember.”
She glared at me, her eyes shining like a stray cat in the flashing lights, “Why do you always go there?” Then she looked at the police officer and said, “Thank you for bringing me home.”
The officer hurried to his car as if he thought I’d make him take her. He turned off the flashing lights, and the street settled into dark again as he drove away.
“An old woman who climbs ladders in support hose and sensible shoes to paint obscenities on other people’s buildings. No wonder I’m who I am.”
“I have nothing to explain.”
“I didn’t even know you were gone. Aren’t you a little old to be sneaking out like a teenager?”
“Didn’t know I had to run everything by you.”
“All my life you’ve done exactly what you’ve wanted without any thought to me. When do I get that chance?”
“This from the woman running around town in her bathrobe? What do you think Fern will have to say about that in a few years? And don’t you smoke every chance you get? Fern already has a lot to say about that now.”
She sat next to me on the step. “What kind of mother would I be if I let you smoke? Would you let Fern smoke?”
I shook my head.
We sat quiet for a bit, and I said, “Why did you lie about the squirrels?”
“How long have you known?”
“Pretty much from the beginning. Why didn’t you just tell me?”
“You never would have let me move in. It’s lonely to live alone. That’s why I want you to find someone.”
“Life isn’t that simple.”
“It should be.”
“Go to bed. I’ll go down to Mike’s tomorrow and see what we can do to fix your artwork. I’ll come inside in a few minutes.”
When Fern’s father left, he said he needed to focus on his family. He meant his real family, and he meant I wasn’t part of that. I knew if I ever ran into him on the street or in the park, I would tell him he’s part of my family because Fern is my family and she is part of him. I would tell him she waves to airplanes when they fly overhead. She dresses herself because she knows best how to do it. She says the ace of spades is significant, but has trouble saying the word significant. She collects animals without families. Has no fear of being herself.
When Fern’s father left, he told me, “People you love become ghosts inside you.” I didn’t say anything at the time, but if I ever saw him again, I would tell him I’m a regular haunted house.
The next morning, Pickle licked my lips to wake me, and I began to think that would be my fate every morning. I found Fern outside in her pajamas sitting in the kiddie lawn chair, her hair braided with pink ribbons. She stirred chocolate syrup into her milk. Dangled her feet in the pool. Ducklings floated. Pickle ran out and belly-flopped in the water, nearly tipping the pool, causing the ducklings to quack and flap their wings. Fern laughed, wearing a clown smile of chocolate milk.