Seven Days in June by Tia Williams
Chapter 2
Single-Mom Superhero
“JACKIE! WHERE’S AUDRE?”
Breathless, Eva stood in the doorway of her apartment. She took a cursory sweep of the bright, eclectic space. Her Indonesian (via HomeGoods) throw pillows and rugs were in their rightful place. Not a book was askew in the wall-to-wall library behind the purple armoire she’d bought when Prince died. Her Pinterest-inspired Park Slope home was exactly how she’d left it.
Park Slope was a hippie-dippie Brooklyn hood, thoroughly gentrified with wealthy liberal families. Most of the parents had kids when they were in their late thirties, after having conquered careers in new media, advertising, publishing, or in one celebrated case, Frozen songwriting. Mostly white, the hood felt diverse because of its sprinkling of same-sex parents and biracial kids (in predominantly Asian-Jewish, Black-Jewish, or Asian-Black combos).
Eva and Audre stood out because (a) Eva was a decade younger than the other moms; (b) she was single; and (c) Audre had a Black mom and a Black father, as opposed to her dad being Jewish or Vietnamese. Or a woman.
“Oh, hey.” Jackie, the babysitter, was chilling on the couch with her feet propped on a boho ottoman.
“Jackie, I was working! I ran here from Times Square!”
“On foot?” Jackie, a divinity student at Columbia, was very literal.
Eva stared at her.
“Audre’s in her room with the kids. On Snapchat.”
Eva squeezed her eyes shut and fisted her hands. “Audre Zora Toni Mercy-Moore!”
She heard murmurs bubbling from Audre’s bedroom, down the short hallway. Then a crash. Giggles. Finally, Audre cracked the door and slipped out, grinning guiltily.
At twelve, Audre was Eva’s height, with her dimples, curls, and rich hazelnut complexion. But she took her style cues from Willow Smith and Yara Shahidi, hence the two space buns atop her head, tie-dye crop top, cutoffs, and Filas. With her mile-long lashes and gawky frame, she looked like Bambi at her first Coachella.
Audre galloped over to her mother, giving her a hearty hug.
“Mommy! Are those my jeans? You look so cuuute.” Pronounced kyuuu, no t.
Eva disentangled herself from Audre’s grasp. “Did I say you could bring the entire debate team home?”
“But…we’re just…”
“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” Eva lowered her voice. “Did you charge them?”
Audre sputtered.
“Did. You. Charge. Them.”
“IT’S AN EXCHANGE OF GOODS, MOM! I provide counseling services and they pay me! Everyone at Cheshire Prep is addicted to my Snapchat therapy sessions. The one when I cured Delilah’s fear of flying coach? I’m a legend.”
“You’re a child. When you’re sleepy, you still pronounce ‘breakfast’ breckfix.”
Audre groaned. “Look, when I’m a celebrity therapist making several mil a year, we’ll giggle about this over bubble tea.”
“I told you to stop this therapy business,” hissed Eva. “I don’t send you to that fancy private school to hustle white children out of their lunch money.”
“Reparations,” said Jackie from the couch.
Eva jumped, forgetting that the babysitter was still there. Sensing her dismissal, Jackie scurried out the door while Audre murdered her with her eyeballs.
She whipped her head around to her mother and said, “I’m too old for a babysitter! And Jackie is the entire worst, with her judgmental eyes and Crocs with socks.”
“Audre,” started Eva, rubbing a temple. “What do I always say?”
“Resist, persist, insist,” she recited.
“What else?”
“I’ve never been sleepier than I am at this moment.”
“WHAT ELSE?”
Audre sighed, defeated. “I trust you, you trust me.”
“Right. When you break my rules, I can’t trust you. You’re grounded. No devices for two weeks.”
Audre shrieked. The noise reverberated in Eva’s head for thirty seconds.
“NO PHONE? What am I gonna do?”
“Who knows? Read Goosebumps and write poems to Usher, like I did at your age.”
Eva stormed down the hall and entered Audre’s room. Twenty girls were crammed on the bunk beds and floor, a blur of spring-break-tanned skin and crop tops.
“Hi, girls! You know you’re always welcome here if Audre asks my permission. But she didn’t, so…time to go.” Eva beamed, careful not to disrupt her standing as “cool mom,” which wasn’t supposed to matter but did.
“We’ll host a sleepover soon,” promised Eva. “It’ll be lit!”
“Tell me you didn’t just say ‘lit,’” wailed Audre from the living room.
One by one, the girls filed out of the bedroom. Audre stood slumped next to the front door, a droopy weeping willow of misery. She pulled a wad of cash out of her back pocket, and as the girls left, Audre handed each one her rightful twenty dollars. A few of the girls hugged her. It was like a funeral procession.
“Whoa!” Eva noticed a blond boy attempting to sneak out with the crowd. He rose to his full height—a full three heads taller than Eva.
“Who are you?”
“Omigod, Mom. That’s Coco-Jean’s stepbrother.”
“You’re Coco-Jean’s stepbrother? Why are you so tall?”
“I’m sixteen.”
“You’re in high school?” Eva glared at Audre, who sprinted down the hall and flung herself on her bottom bunk.
“Yeah, but I’m chill. I’m in the honors program at Dalton.”
“Oh, I’m bathed in relief. Why are you hanging out with twelve-year-olds?”
“Audre’s, like, a really gifted mental health specialist. She’s helping me manage the anxiety I feel due to my gluten allergy.”
“Quick question. Did my daughter diagnose this gluten allergy?”
“He breaks out whenever he eats focaccia or crostini!” Audre yelled from her bedroom. “What would you call that?”
“Listen, you seem like a nice”—gullible—“kid, but you being here in my home without my knowledge is a hard no.”
“I can’t believe I missed my hip-hop violin lesson for this,” he grumbled, storming out.
Eva leaned against the door for a moment, trying to decide how deeply she was going to freak out. In these moments, she wished she had the kind of mom she could call for advice.
She had an ex-husband, but she couldn’t call him for advice, either. Troy Moore, a Pixar animator, had two settings: cheerful and really cheerful. Complicated emotions upset his worldview. It was why Eva had fallen for him. He’d been a ray of light, back when everything in Eva’s world had been dark.
She had literally tripped over him in the lobby of Mount Sinai Hospital. Troy had been a volunteer, sketching portraits for patients. She’d realized she liked him when she scrambled to hide the IV bruises on her arms (as a result of her weeklong stay upstairs). After six weeks of rom-com-cute dates, they wed in city hall. Audre was born seven months later. But by then, they’d unraveled. The girl Troy had fallen for, the one who could sustain bubbly spontaneity on dates and lusty sleepovers, was different at home. Dazed from pain and pills. And soon her illness overwhelmed Troy’s life—killing patience, choking love.
Troy belonged to the Church of Just Think Good Thoughts. Despite watching Eva suffer—the nights she’d repeatedly smash her forehead against the headboard in her sleep, or the time she fainted into a 2 Fast, 2 Furious display at Blockbuster—he believed the real issue was her outlook. Couldn’t she meditate it away? Send positive energy into the universe? (This always baffled Eva. The universe where? Could he provide cross streets? Would someone greet the positive energy when it landed, and would the greeter be Lena Horne’s Glinda in The Wiz like she imagined?)
Once, after a late night at Pixar, Troy climbed into bed next to his fetal-positioned wife. She’d just given herself a Toradol injection in the thigh, and a little blood had leaked through her Band-Aid onto their dove-gray sheets. Moving was excruciating, so Eva just lay in it. Through slitted eyes, she saw revulsion, and just beneath it, martyrdom.
She was gross. Cute girls weren’t supposed to be gross. Quietly, Troy snuck out and slept on the couch—and never returned to their bed. In their one couples’-counseling session, he admitted the truth.
“I wanted a wife,” he wept. “Not a patient.”
Troy was too polite to end it. So Eva liberated him. Audre was nineteen months old; she was twenty-two.
Troy went on to be blissfully happy with his second wife, a yogi named Athena Marigold. They used words like “paleo” and “artisanal” and lived in Santa Monica, where Audre spent her summers. Next Sunday, she was flying out to “Dadifornia” (the name Audre gave her West Coast trips), where Troy excelled as a carefree summertime dad.
But tricky stuff? An almost man sneaking into his baby’s room? Not his territory.
Eva staggered to her couch. She’d never been able to think clearly with jeans on, so she wriggled out of them. Sitting there in Wonder Woman panties, she googled TWEEN DISCIPLINE TIPS on her phone. The top article suggested a “behavior contract.” She had neither the legal prowess nor the energy to draw up a contract! Huffing, she tossed her phone aside and clicked on the Apple TV. When life got too challenging, she watched Insecure.
“Mommy?”
She looked up, and there was Audre, framed by a 120-year-old arched entryway. Her face was puffy and tear streaked. She’d added a black shawl and oversized Ray-Bans to her outfit.
Eva tried to look stern. Tough work without pants.
“Audre, what are you wearing?”
“This is my Upscale Sadness outfit.”
“Nailed it,” Eva admitted.
Audre cleared her throat. “Therapy is my calling. But I should’ve closed my practice when you told me to. I’m sorry for that and for having Coco-Jean’s brother over. Though it’s heterotypical of you to assume that just ’cause he’s a boy we’re being…weird.”
Heterotypical.Brooklyn private schools produced ultra-progressive students. They protested abortion bans and marched for gun control. Last month, Audre’s seventh-grade class carried buckets of water two miles across Prospect Park to empathize with the plight of sub-Saharan women.
The upside? A top-notch liberal education. The downside? Kids who struggled to divide decimals or name a state capital.
“Honey, can you give me a sec?” Eva sighed, shutting her eyes. “I just need to think.”
Audre knew that “think” meant “rest her head,” and she sulked back into her room. Watching her through one open eye, Eva felt a wistful pang. Audre had been the dreamiest, most delightful kid. Now she was an eye roll shaped like a human. Thirteen was coming, and who knew what horrors it’d bring? She’d sneak out, or learn to lie, or discover weed. Not Eva’s, though, which was well hidden in her dildo drawer.
Just then, her phone buzzed. It was Cece Sinclair, Eva’s best friend and Parker + Rowe Publishing’s most celebrated book editor.
Eva answered with a tortured “Whaaaaat?”
“You’re alive!”
“According to my Fitbit, I’ve been deceased for weeks.”
“You’re in there. I hear Issa Rae through the phone. I’m outside—I’ll let myself in.”
Cece swept through the door seconds later. She was overwhelming in every way—six feet tall, creamy cocoa skin, bleached-blond coils. A product of Spelman, Vineyard summers, and white-gloved cotillions with Talented Tenth debs, she dressed exclusively in vintage Halston and always appeared to have leapt off a 1978 Vogue cover. Or at least to be someone who knew Pat Cleveland.
She did, actually. Cece knew everyone. At forty-five, she’d long been one of the industry’s most notorious editors, but her unofficial title was Social Queen of Black Literati. She collected authors, nurtured them, and whispered plot advice over cocktails—and her membership-only book/art/film-world parties were legendary. Eva had quickly discovered all of this after she’d won the short-story contest and Cece had become her editor.
During their introductory lunch on the Princeton campus, Cece took one look at the teen’s “haunted doe eyes and chaotic coffee-shop-poetess curls” (a description she oft repeated), and her soul screamed, Project!
Before Eva knew it, she had a doting big sister. Cece helped her move to Brooklyn, quit her vices, and learn the art of curl maintenance—and introduced her to a social circle of happening young writers.
Cece was bossy as hell, but she’d earned it. There’d be no Eva without her.
Humming, the glamazon disappeared into the kitchen, emerging seconds later with a glass of pinot grigio and the ice pack Eva kept in the freezer. Sitting beside her, Cece slipped the frosty pack atop Eva’s head with a flourish, as if it were a crown.
Cece was one of the few people who really knew about Eva’s condition, and she helped out however she could.
“I’m here,” she announced grandly, “to discuss the State of the Black Author panel.”
“The Brooklyn Museum event you’re moderating tomorrow night? Belinda’s a panelist, right?” Celebrated poet Belinda Love was their close friend.
“Auntie Cece!” Audre appeared again, wearing her third costume change: a neon unicorn onesie.
“Audre-Bear! I’ve been meaning to text you for stress-management advice. My kitchen renovation is taking such a toll.”
Audre plopped down on Cece’s lap. “Try chocolate meditation. You stick a Hershey’s Kiss in your mouth and sit quietly, letting it melt. No chewing. It’s about mindfulness.”
“I’ve no doubt, doll, but is there a sugar-free option?”
“Cece, focus,” wailed Eva, smushing the ice pack against her temple. “The panel?”
“Oh. An author dropped out. She got salmonella from a food truck in British Columbia.”
Audre frowned. “Colombia has a British section?”
Brooklyn schools strike again, thought Eva. No concept of geography, but she’s mastered mindfulness.
“British Columbia’s in Canada, babe,” Eva said.
“Interesting. I could’ve looked it up if I had a phone.” Sulkily, Audre rose and disappeared back into her room.
“Long story short,” continued Cece, “I offered you as a replacement. You’re on the panel!” She shimmied her shoulders, pleased with her sorcery. “Every relevant media outlet is invited. It’ll be livestreamed. This is the career boost you need.”
The blood drained from Eva’s face. “Me? No. I can’t…I’m not qualified to pontificate on race in America. You know how intense it’ll get. Every Black book event since the election has turned into a woke-off.”
“You named your child after a noted civil rights warrior. Are you not woke?”
“I’m woke recreationally. Belinda and the other panelists are woke professionally. They have NAACP Awards and are on the talk-show circuit! Who was the panelist with food poisoning?”
Cece paused. “Zadie Smith.”
With a defeated grimace, Eva slid the ice pack over her eyes. “Cece, this is a New York Times–sponsored panel at the Brooklyn Museum. I’m not a serious author. I’m a last-minute airport purchase.”
Cece’s brow furrowed. “Let’s be absolutely real. You tried for ages to get a film deal. You’ve finally got a producer, and now quality directors aren’t biting, because Cursed is too genre. Show Hollywood your power! This’ll be PR gold. Well, this plus the 2019 Black Literary Excellence Award you’ll win on Sunday.”
“You think I’ll win?”
“There’s a vampire-witch-mermaid threesome scene in Cursed Fourteen,” noted Cece. “You’ll win for the audacity alone.”
Eva groaned into a throw pillow. “I’m not up to this.”
“You’re nervous about sharing a stage with Belinda? The daughter of a hairdresser?”
Eva glared at her. “Beyoncé’s the daughter of a hairdresser.”
“Fine. Go explain to Audre why you’re scared to try new things.”
She threw up her hands. Of course Cece got her with the Audre stuff. Every time Eva made a move, she considered how it’d look to her daughter.
Eva’s parenting wasn’t mommy-blog approved. They often had pizza for dinner and fell asleep watching Succession, and since childcare was a luxury, Audre attended too many grown-up events. Plus, on bad head days, Eva allowed Audre unlimited TikTok time after homework so she could crash for a bit.
But Eva let herself off the hook for those things. When it came to mothering, what mattered to her was setting a powerful example. When Audre audited her memories, Eva wanted her to remember a ballsy woman who invented her life from scratch. No man, no help, no problem.
The Single-Mom Superhero myth, thought Eva, and it’s a trap.
Eva dug the heels of her hands into her eye sockets. “What am I gonna wear?”
Cece grinned.
“I already have a Gucci number on hold for you. You’re adorable, but you dress like you host a hip-hop podcast,” she said with a sigh. “It’ll be an adventure! Writers need stimulation. The thrill of your day can’t be memorizing your positive Amazon reviews.”
“I don’t do that anymore,” Eva grumbled.
“Speaking of stimulation, will you please revisit Tinder? When’s the last time you met someone you didn’t ghost after three dates?”
“I’m doing them a favor by ghosting.” Eva pointed to her Wonder Woman panties. “Would you wanna fuck this?”
“There’s a fetish for everything,” said Cece generously.
Eva chuckled. “When I feel lonely, I scroll through Tinder and remind myself what I’m missing. Which is dudes with coconut-oiled beards all posing next to the same graffitied wall in Dumbo with profiles written entirely in emojis. And I remember that I’m not lonely. I’m alone. When I’m comatose from writing and mothering, when I’m hurting too badly to cook, talk, or smile, I curl up with ‘alone’ like a security blanket. Alone doesn’t care that I don’t shave my legs in the winter. Alone never gets disappointed by me.” Eva sighed. “It’s the best relationship I’ve ever been in.”
“Are you speaking metaphorically,” asked Cece, “or are you dating a man named Alone?”
“You can’t be serious.”
“My doorman is a SoundCloud rapper named Sincere. One never knows.”
“I like being single,” Eva continued quietly. “I don’t want anyone to have to really see me.”
They sat in silence, Eva idly snapping the rubber band on her wrist.
“I’m scared,” she admitted finally.
“Good.” Cece kissed her cheek. “I’ve seen what you come up with when you’re scared.”