Page 17 of Nineteen Seventy-Six

“Bad parents think they’re amazing parents and don’t have self-awareness or introspection to assess themselves any different than their delusions tell them to. Good parents stress constantly about being bad parents, so much so that their kids probably wish they were bad parents so they could go have a sleepover from time to time, or kiss a boy.”

Maureen played with the knit on her shawl. “I see. You’re an expert, then.”

Chelsea knelt to draw another sip from her boot flask. When she stood, she asked, “Why are you so concerned, anyway? You’d stop the world for Livvy. You’re a great mom.”

“Thank you,” Maureen said, flushing. “It’s not me, so much, that I’m worried about.”

Chelsea slipped her arm through Maureen’s, hooking elbows, and aimed her toward a copse of trees. “Go on.”

“I don’t know if I should. Mama always taught us you should keep your laundry in your own hamper.”

“Irish Colleen has a saying for everything, but that doesn’t mean half of what she says makes any damn sense.”

Maureen chuckled. She’d often thought the same thing about her long-suffering, superstitious mother. “It’s only… well, it’s my husband.”

“Ebenezer Scrooge.”

“Chelsea!”

“Am I wrong?”

“Are you going to listen, or just run your mouth and say mean things?”

Chelsea threw her free hand up.

“Anyway,” Maureen went on. “He and I aren’t… well, we aren’t close, if you know where I’m going with this.”

“You don’t fuck?”

“Chelsea!”

“Fine, fine. He’s not exercising his God-given right for conjugal visitation with his legal wife.”

Maureen rolled her eyes. “His right to me isn’t God-given, thank you, but no, he’s not exercising his… whatever you just said. I don’t want to get into it, but you’ll remember some of what I told you back when I was his secretary.”

“Let’s just say if I was a writer, that story would be ingrained in Americana by now.” Chelsea navigated them through the maze of cypress, nudging Maureen when they nearly tripped over a knobby kneed root. “I get your point about Edouard. But what does that have to do with Olivia?”

“Only that…” Maureen had trouble saying the words. “I grew up mostly without a father, and look how I turned out.”

“The woman walking next to me is a dedicated mother who runs her own household, and she’s not even twenty. What am I missing?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Daddy issues,” Chelsea said, nodding. “But you sell yourself short, Maureen. You’re assuming you’re not giving Olivia enough as her mother, which isn’t true. Forgive me for saying this, but you’re way more nurturing than Irish Colleen. It’s a fact.”

Maureen took no offense to the statement, because she, too, recognized her mother’s greatest accomplishments as their parent were keeping them fed and alive. “It’s more than Olivia. It’s me.”

“Women have needs,” Chelsea agreed. “Men aren’t the only ones. They like us to worship at the altar of dick, and then when we want some, too, they’re confused? Sorry, but that’s bullshit.”

“I told him as much recently… but not in those words.” Maureen wrinkled her nose. “I definitely didn’t refer to the altar of dick.”

“Should’ve. Sometimes they like it when we talk like them.”

Maureen shook her head. “No, not Edouard. He’s not like any man I’ve ever known.”

“So what did he say? About your needs?”

“He told me to get a lover.”

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