Things We Didn't Say - By Kristina Riggle Page 0,81

psycho and screamed that he couldn’t take my kids away.

Then, after I wound down, I gave it some thought.

I imagined Dr. Turner hiring the best lawyer in town, and hauling out every bad thing I’d ever done. I imagined them going through the wine bottles in the recycle bin, visiting the liquor store to see how often I went. Michael would be testifying about how much I drank in a week, how I’d slur my words when he came home.

I could sit there all day protesting that I waited until the kids were in school, and anyway, if they thought I was bad with some drinks in my system, they should see me without any, that I’d probably climb a clock tower and take out half the neighborhood.

All they’d see is a substance abuser with big tits and a spotty record of attending parent-teacher nights, versus the esteemed Dr. Henry Turner’s son, Clark-fucking-Kent who never takes a wrong step.

I’d still probably win if it stopped there, because mothers don’t lose their kids much, but then there would be the day of the accident. Driving under the influence with my daughter in the car. Unseatbelted, though Jewel was old enough to do it herself and should have remembered.

Hell, if I heard that story on the news I’d hate that awful woman, too.

So I started to think again.

I started to think of my lost twenties, spent raising babies and cleaning house, my carefree days over and done.

I could have my freedom back. I could see my kids, and we’d spend our time together doing fun stuff, like going to the zoo and getting ice cream. Let Clark-fucking-Kent manage the homework and buy new shoes and see if he can get all the permission slips straight all the time. He can get up with Jewel when she has midnight tummyaches. Let him deal with Angel’s sassy mouth.

Meanwhile, I’d get my own place, decorate it any way I want. I could date again, guys who didn’t make me feel like I was the worst vermin to crawl the planet because I’m not perfect. I could go out at night and not get grilled the next morning about where I was and what time I came home and how many I’d had before I got in the car.

And so I caved, though when the day came to actually move out I cried so hard I threw up in the bushes by the front porch. Like most things, it was better in theory than real life.

Turned out that making a living was pretty hard. I’d lost my license after the accident. And since I didn’t have custody, I didn’t get child support. The alimony check Michael sends me is a joke, really, included in the settlement, I suspect, to soothe his guilty conscience.

And then the bosses and coworkers every place I did work harassed me constantly, or screwed with my hours, or promoted other people ahead of me. I’m not going to stand for being treated like that, not for some T. J. Maxx fitting room gig. Hell to the no.

So I found some boyfriends, and usually they help me make rent, or I borrow from my sister if I’m desperate, but she’s such a snoot about it, nose so high she can’t smell her own farts.

And the visitations don’t exactly go like I’d hoped. The kids complain about sleeping all in the same room, or in my room, but I’ve only got two bedrooms in my place. Dylan always wants to practice his sax, but that’s not allowed in an apartment. They argue about what kind of ice cream on our “happy” excursions, then sass me back as if I’m not their mother anymore. Angel even said that to me once, “You don’t even live with us; you can’t tell me what to do,” and I slapped her so hard she staggered back three steps.

I had to beg her not to tell her father. I thought that time I’d lose the kids totally.

And sometimes I’d have bad weekends I wouldn’t be up to taking them, bad brain days, filled with those climb-on-the-clocktower feelings. I can’t take them like that, not with no help and backup like I would have had when we were all together and I could go in my room and let Michael deal. And I can’t very well pour a drink first because Michael watches me like the fucking CIA and he’d run to Friend of the Court saying I was parenting