Page 102 of Mr. Picture Perfect
I realize at this point that I’ve probably gotten as much as I can squeeze out of Coleandmy mother regarding our past—and the mothers’ friendship. Cole doesn’t know the full story. My mom isn’t helpful, shutting down or freaking out when I pry even the littlest bit. Yet every time I mention Cole, she won’t stop asking about his mother and how she’s doing.
Considering how seldom Cole brings me here to his house—as in: never—I don’t know when I’ll get another opportunity.
Somehow, I sense Mrs. Harding will have less walls up.
Even in just a few minutes, I’ve gotten the notion that she’s a verywhat-you-see-is-what-you-getkind of person.
I find it surprisingly comforting.
“What happened that last time?” I ask her.
Her eyebrows lift. “Your mom didn’t tell you?”
“N-No, ma’am.”
“Really? Not a peep?” She shakes her head. “Guess it’s just as well. She’d rather pretend it didn’t happen at all. Typical Deidra.” She makes a scoffing noise, then sighs. “Sorry. I don’t mean to talk about your mom like that. That’s so … childish of me.”
It barely fazes me. “She won’t tell me anything. I … I asked. A few times. I know you two used to be friends.”
“Feels likelifetimesago.” She shrugs. “Also feels like yesterday. I guess time’s like that. Are you really okay drinking that water?” she asks, half-cringing. “It must taste like chlorine and ass.”
“It tastes fine, ma’am,” I assure her. “Thank you.”
“No, I’m sure it doesn’t. Here.” She gets up from the table and takes my glass straight out of my hand, startling me, then goes to the sink and tosses it right out. She opens the refrigerator and pulls out a pitcher of water along with a small flat container. It contains thinly-cubed honeydew melon, two pieces of which she drops into a new glass pulled from the cabinet, then fills it with the fruit-infused water, along with two ice cubes she plucks out of the freezer via a pair of hot pink tongs. “Your mom got me these,” she says with a playful little click in the air, like they’re castanets. “God knows why I still have them, but I do.” She brings me the fresh glass of honeydew-infused water, then returns to her chair.
I thank her with a nod and take a tiny sip. I’m stunned by the clean, crisp, refreshing taste that a tiny bit of fruit and maybe some filtering lends the water, then go for another big sip—which turns into a gulp. “Wow, this is really good.”
“I know.” She crosses her arms on the table and leans forward slightly. “Now you can be my new drinking buddy. Except there’s no alcohol in yours.” She takes a sip from her own glass, then sets it down. After a moment, she smiles and tilts her head, studying me. “Mmm … you even have her nose and mouth.”
I’m not sure how to take that, so I just smile and nod back at her as I go for another sip.
Really, this water is addictive.
I realize after a while she’s still looking at me, inspecting my face like she’s trying to discover more parts of my mother in it.
Something about her gives me courage. “Why aren’t you and my mom friends anymore?” I ask rather boldly.
Her expression doesn’t change. The question hovers in the air between us for quite some time as she appears to maintain a blank and emotionless expression. Then, as if unable to bear it anymore, her eyes flick downward to her glass. Her jaw tightens. “There are a few different answers to that question, sweetheart. I suppose the one you’re looking for is … I think your mom is an irresponsible child … and she thinks I’m a slut.”
I choke on my water.
Mrs. Harding, unaffected entirely by my reaction, lets out a little sigh. “Of course, years have gone by. I’m sure she’s given it a lot of thought. So have I. She hopefully realized I had zero interest in stealing her husband from her. Really, such a ridiculous notion, that I would even go after my best friend’s husband. Your father.” She lets out a sudden halfhearted laugh, then drops her sad eyes to the table. “But I don’t think Deidra believed it herself. It was just a jab at me. She likes tojabwhen she’s cornered. Y’know what I think? I think she was just plain guilty about what happened the last time you kids were left in the yard to play by yourselves. She felt guilty and needed a reason to blame me, too. That way, it … it could be both our faults … and not just hers.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t, sweetheart. It’s alright. You just said you don’t remember. Neither does Cole.” She lets out a single breathy chuckle as she picks up her glass. “There was so much blood all over the place, my poor baby blocked the whole thing out.”
I stare at her across the table.
Blood…?
“It was quite a gash,” she goes on, as calm as the surface of the water in her glass—assuming it’s water. “Cole walked straight into the house, dazed and blinking, with blood running down his face. Deidra was at the counter with a cookie cutter—I even remember the shape, it was a moon, a tiny moon-shaped cookie cutter—and the second her eyes fell on my son, she screamed. Then little Cole turned, saw his reflection in a floor-to-ceiling mirror Iusedto have right there,” she says, pointing at a nearby wall, “brought with me after the move ‘til I couldn’t stand the sight of it anymore … then he fainted. I grabbed my child and drove him straight to the clinic. And as Dr. Emory stitched him up, Deidra and I … had a … a heated discussion in the lobby … a veryloudand veryheateddiscussion. A lot of things were shouted, things in the heat of the moment … well, I suppose you can fill in the rest. You’re old enough.” She picks her glass up to sip from it, then stops, staring off, the moonlight making her face appear as pale as milk. “Now Cole can’t see a drop of blood without passing out. I guess like most trauma, some part of us will always remember … even if we forget.”
Then she downs the rest of her glass.
I’ve suddenly lost my thirst.
She lets out a bitter, breathy chuckle, then shuts her eyes. “I guess Deidra will have her own side of the story. I can’t even say how much of it you witnessed as a child, if any of it at all. The two of you, I swear, sometimes you’d spend the day on opposite sides of the yard doing your own things. ‘Parallel play’ my silly therapist called it. Deidra and I used to laugh, thinking we were torturing the two of you by forcing you poor boys to spend time together just so your mom and I could drink and be silly. Sometimes Cole’s grandma would join us, too. Nancy. Have you met Nancy?”
