Page 9 of Mean Moms
“Are you okay, sweetheart? Your face is bleeding. Maybe you should call an ambulance?” one of them asked. “Can we help you two up?” Frost hadn’t said anything yet, though she was quietly crying. Her hair had escaped the bun and she had dirt and scrapes on her hands and knees. Morgan, with the women’s assistance, pulled Frost to standing, careful not to touch her injured arm. Frost wobbled a bit but found her footing.
“Is it bad?” Frost asked. One of the women handed Frost a napkin, and she held it to her face, pulling it away to look at her own blood. The bleeding was minimal. It was mostly surface scratches, though it looked nasty.
“I think you’re okay, but you probably need an X-ray for your arm. Let’s get you to my house and call a doctor,” said Morgan.
“Did you see the guy on the scooter?” Frost asked. “Where did he go?”
Morgan shook her head. “Not really. He drove away before I could really get a good look at him or say anything. What an asshole.”
“I saw the whole thing,” one of the women interjected. “It looked like he headed directly for you. On purpose!”
“What a maniac,” said Morgan. “New York is filled with them.”
Feeling light-headed, Morgan closed her eyes. Fucking Wegovy. A blackness came over her, and then she was falling, falling, falling, back to the pavement.
“Dios mio, Morgan, are you awake?” she heard someone say into her ear a few seconds later, helping her up with a strong arm around her back.
“I fainted,” said Morgan. Her eyes readjusted to see Sofia standing next to Frost. The two older women had left, likely not wanting the curse to spread to them.
“Frost got hit by an e-scooter, which was totally out of control, and then I went down,” said Morgan. “It must have been the sight of all that blood.” Sofia patted Morgan’s arm sympathetically. She handed Frost another tissue to put on her face, and Frost dabbed her cheek, wincing in pain.
“Everyone’s crashing and bleeding and falling and getting spit on,” said Sofia, chuckling darkly. “Why are all these things happening? I hope I didn’t bring bad luck to you all.”
Sofia guided Morgan and Frost across the street, one arm locked in each of theirs.
“What are you doing here?” said Morgan. “I thought you lived in Tribeca and were going straight home.”
“I do,” said Sofia, “but I like to walk around after I have drinks. I find it helps take the edge off the alcohol and allows me to sleep better.” Morgan hadn’t had a drink in months, since she’d started on the weight-loss drugs. It was as if the chemicals had erased that desire entirely. She’d heard that they messed with the pleasure center of your brain, and in addition to alcohol, people who took them reported that they lost interest in sex, too. Luckily, Morgan had had no such side effect.
“You should definitely see a doctor,” said Sofia to Frost.
“Yeah, my arm is really starting to hurt,” said Frost, cringing.
“And you, too.” Sofia motioned to Morgan. “Morgan, have you eaten anything today? Maybe that’s why you fainted.” Morgan didn’t reply. They were nearing Morgan and Art’s place on Grove Street, between Bedford and Bleecker, a lovely block filled with leafy trees and historic town houses. Outside of their home was Art, climbing the steps to the door. He glanced back and saw them. His face registered confusion and then alarm, and he hurried down to meet the women. Morgan was struck, as she often was, by her husband’s handsomeness; he’d only gotten better-looking as they’d aged, his jawline cut with masculinity, his full head of dark hair reflecting the late summer light.
“What happened?” he said, breathless, taking in Frost’s face and arm and his wife’s disheveled state.
“Someone hit me with a scooter,” Frost said shyly, looking down. A single tear slid from her face onto the pavement.
“Who?” said Art, his voice full of rage. Frost shrugged.
“We didn’t see. He was in a mask. Then he just took off,” said Morgan. “And then I fainted.” Art scrunched up his mouth, the way he did when something wasn’t making sense.
“I texted Tim, he’ll be here in a minute,” said Frost. “He’ll take me to the hospital—we have a friend who’s a doctor at Mount Sinai, so I can cut the line at the ER there.”
Sofia cleared her throat.
“I’m sorry: Art, this is Sofia,” said Morgan. “We had drinks earlier, then she found us on the sidewalk and helped us home.”
A car pulled up and Tim jumped out, in ratty shorts and aJOHN’S OF BLEECKER STREETT-shirt. Tim was good-looking in a scruffy, artsy way, always in narrow jeans and a vintage T-shirt. Earlier in their lives, they would have referred to him as a “hipster,” but Morgan didn’t think that term existed anymore. “Holy shit,” Tim said, giving Frost a gentle hug, careful not to squeeze her injury. “Thanks for taking care of her.” He took Frost’s right hand to lead her to the car, and for a second Frost hesitated before following him.
“Thank you so much, Sofia,” said Morgan now, wanting to shoo her away without actually shooing her away. “I can’t wait to see you at the Thyme & Time opening party!”
“Same here,” said Sofia with a smile. “You get a good night’s rest and remember to eat something!”
Morgan waved goodbye as Sofia swished away. Morgan noticed she’d swapped out her heels for fashionable, flat gladiator sandals. It gave Morgan comfort that Sofia was too beautiful to possibly be very smart.
When they were inside, Art tried to interrogate Morgan about what had happened, but she waved him off, blaming nerves and trauma and the need for silence. Later that night, after Gertrudewas asleep, Morgan’s personal doctor, Dr. Bossidy, a kind man in his sixties, came and checked her out.
