Bad Influencer by Kenzie Reed

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Jillian

My plan was to check into the hotel in Portland Friday evening, so I could be up bright and early for the influencer summit Saturday. I’m halfway into the three-hour drive when I realize I’m not going to be able to pull it off. I’ve been alternating between randomly bursting into tears and resisting the urge to throw things across the room. Well, I’ve thrown a few things. Including a vase. And a few coffee mugs. Blinky’s avoiding me, snuggling up to Bronwyn and watching me skeptically.

I’m going to be miserable and angry until… well, until I’m not. It’s just something I’m going to have to go through, and then I’ll pick up the pieces and… and I don’t know. But this weekend I’m going to be like a dark cloud raining misery on everyone, so there’s no point in my going. I call the symposium organizer and regretfully cancel, telling them I’m sick. I’m heart-sick, so that’s not entirely a lie.

I also message the companies whose products I represent and let them know that due to a personal emergency, I won’t be able to meet up with them. They’re disappointed but understanding.

I exit I-5, turn around, and head back home. All I want to do this weekend is lie around in bed with the covers pulled over my head, and sulk. Peace and quiet. I can’t wait.

But as I’m pulling into the driveway, I see a red Land Rover Discovery that looks suspiciously like my mother’s.

“Come on, universe,” I plead as I grab my suitcase from the back of the car. “Throw me a bone here. Please don’t let it be my mother. Let it be a bounty hunter. An assassin bent on revenge who’s been tracking me down for years. Anything but my mother.”

The universe is apparently in a mood today.

My mother is sitting in the living room petting Blinky. She’s petting a dog. And she’s wearing a yellow sundress that I’ve never seen on her before. It’s so summery and relaxed. Completely unlike her.

“There she is!” my mother trills, slurring slightly. “And here I am!” She leaps up and spins around, her dress swirling around her thighs.

“Are you… drunk?” I am astonished.

When it comes to alcohol, my mother partakes very lightly. She’s a sipper. She can nurse one damn cocktail all night long. It drives me insane.

“I am not drunk. I am just very happy right now,” she says haughtily. I look at the coffee table. There is a bottle of wine that she’s apparently helped herself to from our kitchen. It’s three-quarters empty.

“How did you even get in?”

“Your roommates let me in. Bronwyn was home from work at lunchtime to feed your pets.” She frowns, swaying slightly. “I’m a little confused. At that barbecue you told me her name was Susie, but her name is really Bronwyn? And she’s dating Steve now? But he changed his name to Ari? That seems a little shady. I told her that. Also, are they brother and sister, or not? Because if they are, I have personally witnessed them violating a number of laws of God and nature.”

“They’re not! I just pretended Ari was my boyfriend so that you guys wouldn’t try to fix me up with anyone.”

I pull my phone out of my purse and see that Bronwyn texted me. I was driving, so I missed it. I shove my phone back in my purse.

“It’s Friday evening!” I protest. “Shouldn’t you be hosting a party or something?”

“I’m here to have fun. That’s what you do for a living, right? You go to parties? And something about whales?”

If you’re screaming on the inside, does it still count as a scream?

My mother staggers back and falls onto the couch. Then she leaps to her feet and points her finger at me. “You’re going to teach me how to have fun.”

And she starts doing the cha-cha.

There’s nothing like having your drunk maternal unit dancing around your living room to take your mind off your own troubles.

“Mother,” I say. “Stop it. You’re scaring Blinky, and there’s too much furniture in this room. You’re going to break something.” As I say it, she slams into a side table and a vase on it wobbles violently. “Mother!” I yell. I grab her arm. “This is a no-dancing zone!”

“Then I’ll dance in the street!”

“Oh, right,” I scoff. I don’t care how upset she is. My mother’s sense of decorum will only let her go so far.

Except apparently, her decorum’s packed up and gone on vacation. Wish it had taken me along for the ride.

Because my mother yanks her arm from my grasp and heads for the door. I try to catch her, but she’s too quick for me.

“Mom! You get back here right now!” I yell as she skips down the stairs. She… is… skipping.

She twirls on the sidewalk in front of our house. A couple pushing a stroller towards us pause, then cross the street. A man stops watering his lawn to stare.

“Cut it out! You’re embarrassing me!” I hiss. I realize how it sounds, Jillian Fletcher lecturing Athena Fletcher on propriety, and it would be funny if it were happening to anybody else. But it’s happening to me, so there’s nothing funny about it.

“Dance with me!” she cries.

“I will not.” I point at our front door. “You are being ridiculous. Get back inside that house!” Oh my God. I’m in a bizarre alternate universe where I’ve turned into my mother.

“Not until you dance with me!”

“Argggh!” I cry. “Fiiine.” And I waltz in the street with my mother as she hums out of tune.

I haven’t been this physically close to my mother since… I can’t remember when. I see the deepened frown lines on her forehead. The slightly smeared pink lipstick. The glimpse of gray roots; she’s usually so fanatical about her coiffure. And I feel a twang of sympathy. She seems a little more human right now. More approachable. I always looked at my mother with awe, and maybe a little resentment, because she made being perfect look so effortless.

But maybe it wasn’t so effortless. Maybe she was working harder than I ever knew.

After a couple of minutes, during which I can see people staring at us through windows and coming out on their doorsteps to watch, I drag her back inside. I make her a cup of coffee and set out to figure out why the hell she showed up on my doorstep.

She leans against the wall, refusing to sit down, and sips her coffee.

“Now tell me what this is all about,” I order her.

“I don’t feel like it,” she grumbles. ”What does it even matter, anyway? I just want to have a good time.”

“Since when?” I demand.

She promptly bursts into tears.

Oh, great. Now I’m the monster who made my mother cry.

Mascara streams down her cheeks, and she blinks at me with the eyes of a wounded raccoon. “I’ve done everything right. Haven’t I?”

“Of course you have,” I say soothingly. “Annoyingly so.”

“I did my job as a wife and mother and career woman. It was like having three full-time jobs, and I never complained. Did I?” Her jaw juts out belligerently. “Did I ever complain?”

Well, yes, but now’s not the time to get into that.

“You did a great job at everything you set out to do,” I say in what I hope is a comforting tone. And that’s the truth. My mother is terrifyingly efficient at everything. “So what’s the problem?”

The door swings open. Bronwyn and Ari hurry in. I glance at my watch. Over the summer they both work at a vegan restaurant, and apparently they’ve finished their shifts.

“I tried to message you about your mother showing up. Is everything all right?” Bronwyn asks, looking at my mother in confusion. My mother’s hair is disheveled, her mascara is smeared, and she’s sticking her lower lip out in a pout. “Is that the same mother I met at your party, or is it her much more interesting twin?”

“What’s the point of all my hard work?” my mother demands. “Your father just canceled our anniversary trip. Without even asking me. We’ve been planning on that trip since we first got married, and because he got confirmed earlier than we expected, he just assumes that it’s fine to put off our trip. Our trip that I’ve been looking forward to for decades. Decades!”

She looks at me challengingly. “Haven’t I been looking forward to it for decades?”

“Yes, you absolutely have.” Whoa. For a brilliant man, my father must have had a serious attack of the stupids to think this would be okay.

“We were going to spend a whole month relaxing and visiting museums and historical sites, and also relaxing. Did I say that one already? Anyway. After he told me, he said it’s going to be at least a couple of years before he’ll feel comfortable going on vacation, and he appreciates my understanding. And he walked right off, taking me for granted like he always does.” She lets out a bitter chuckle. ”I went right to my room and started packing.”

“That motherfucker! That sonofabitching bastard!” Bronwyn yells. Then she flashes me a look of concern. “Oops, sorry. Too far? Is this a family-only insult-fest?”

“No, please, join in. I like you! You’re fun!” My mother flops back on the couch. “And you’re right. My husband is a sonofabitching bastard.”

Ari raises his hand.

“Speak!” Bronwyn cries out.

“Hello, ladies. I support you with all my heart. However, I feel like this is going to be a ‘men are bastards’ sesh that I would very much not like to be a part of. Also, we need more oat milk. I’m out,” Ari says, and walks back out the front door.

Ari, of course, does not really go to the grocery store. He messages us from a bar a little while later, saying he’ll come home when they run out of alcohol. Bronwyn and I spend the rest of the evening making sympathetic noises while my mother rants and raves. My father calls several times, sounding confused and exasperated, and I tell him in severe tones that it would be a very, very bad idea for him to come over right now.

My mother wakes up in the morning with a splitting headache. After coffee, a shower, aspirin and a vitamin packet, she reassembles herself to look vaguely human.

“All right, so where’s our first party?” she asks me over the breakfast table. Except it’s brunch because it’s 11 a.m.

“There is no party. You want to live my life? Bronwyn and Ari are going to an animal rights protest at 1 p.m. today., and since I canceled my weekend appointments and I feel like yelling at people, I’m going to go with them.” I hold up my pocketbook. “We are going to hold up signs. You can help us, but you’re going to have to wear a costume so nobody recognizes you, because I’m not having Dad lose his brand-new judgeship and then blame it on me.”

She snorts in a very unladylike fashion. “Your father’s judgeship can kiss my posterior.”

“Nevertheless. You’re putting on a mink costume. Suck it up.”

Ari, Bronwyn, my mother and I all change into mink costumes – made from faux fur, of course. I drive us to a department store which still carries fur coats. And the fur is acquired from hideous facilities which torture the animals in unimaginable ways.

We all wave signs with graphic pictures showing what the fur industry does to animals, and it is horrifying and heartbreaking.

Bronwyn takes pictures of me, and we post them on my social media account with hashtags like #fauxfur, #nofur, and #stopanimaltorture

My mother stumbles over to me several times. She’s still hungover and complaining continuously.

“This costume is hot!” “This sign is heavy!”

We’re there for two solid hours. Traffic streams by and drivers honk supportively. I’m interviewed by newspaper, TV, radio and online media outlets.

Several of them try to bring up Elliott, and I brush it off firmly. “My personal life has nothing to do with my cause.”

Finally, we all pile into my car.

“Now we’re going to a party?” my mother says hopefully. “Or a nightclub? I’ve never been to a nightclub.”

“It’s two in the afternoon, mother. And we’re going to an animal shelter.”

We head to the Death Row Doggies shelter, owned by Duncan and Cora, with whom I’ve become fast friends. It’s in the suburbs, and they pull dogs from high-kill animal shelters.

We change out of our costumes in the back of the facility, and I hug Duncan and Cora, a middle-aged couple in their fifties, and introduce them to my mother.

“I had no idea you were doing this kind of thing with your time,” my mother says after they’ve left to attend to the kennels. “It’s very admirable.”

Emotion wells up inside me. “Th-thank you.” I choke on the words. “It really means a lot to me that you think that.”

Her face falls. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m doing anything meaningful any more.”

“Mom, you raised two awesome kids, if I do say so myself. And you built up and then sold a publishing company, kept your house looking gorgeous, and supported Dad’s career. You have the right to relax a little now. Having fun’s meaningful too, you know? You also have the right to be mad at Dad for being clueless.”

“I do, don’t I? That sonofabitching bastard,” she sniffles. Tears bead on her lashes. “Well, look at us. Bonding and all that.”

I nod vigorously. “We are bonding. We can do lots more bonding. Bonding is lovely. We do have some actual work to do here, though.”

Ari, Bronwyn and my mother alternate between scooping poop, cleaning water bowls, and walking dogs, and I take more pictures and post them on my social media accounts. I always promote dogs who are older or have disabilities. Everyone wants the cute little puppies, so they don’t even need any promo.

“That’s amazing,” my mother says to me during a brief break. “What you’re doing is so incredible. Can I please stop scooping poop now? I thought we agreed this was the part of my life where I get to relax and have fun?”

“Don’t worry, only two more hours,” I say.

“You’re mean.” She pouts and stomps off.

Oh my God. Turning into my own mother is so annoying, and also, I’m starting to feel some sympathy for what I probably put her through when I was in my teens.

After I’ve cleaned out some cages, I go to the small, cluttered back office to do some paperwork. Bronwyn and Ari are done with their cages too, so they come in to join me.

My mother walks in a few minutes later, looking puzzled and holding something that looks like a large ball of lint but is probably a dog.

“Duncan and Cora here are talking as if you own the place. Do you?” Her brow furrows in puzzlement.

I shrug. “I’m a silent partner. Death Row Doggies used to be a very small shelter with room for about a dozen dogs. That’s where I did my community service after I got busted for breaking into Green Hills.”

“You did this every week?” Her eyes widen.

I shrug. “Whatevs. Anyway, I’d been setting aside the money that you and Dad sent me, donating some of it to charity, but mostly waiting for a situation like this one. They’d saved up some money too, so together we had enough money for a down payment on this property. That’s where I’ve been putting all of the checks you send me.”

Her brow furrows a little in puzzlement. She must be about due for a Botox treatment. “But you needed that money for food and rent.”

I frown at her. “I told you a million times that I didn’t.”

“Oh. You really meant it. We thought you were just saying that out of stubbornness and pride.” Her forehead creases as she absentmindedly strokes the big ball of lint, which quivers with joy. Urfing noises come from deep within the lint-ball. “Should we stop sending it, then?” She brightens. “I know! We can send it directly to the shelter.”

I nod. “That would be much more efficient. Also, just so you know, the dog is shedding on you, and I know how much you hate that.”

My mother flips her hand up dismissively. “Oh, this is Georgia and she’s coming home with us.”

“She… You…” I shake my head in bafflement. I point at her sleeve. “Dog hair!”

My mother scowls at me. “Don’t be so heartless, dear. She needs a home. You said it on your MyFace feed. Hashtag olddogsneedlove2. She’s mine, and you can’t tell me no.”

“Dogs are a huge responsibility! They’re little people in fur coats! You can’t just give them back if you get tired of them!”

“I am well aware. Children were a huge responsibility too, and yet I managed to keep both of you alive.”

And she marches out of the room.

I glance at Bronwyn. “I have an irresistible urge to tell her she’s grounded, she’s not getting her allowance, she can’t have a dog because she’s not responsible enough, and furthermore I don’t like her attitude. What is happening to me? Can you please shoot me now?”

Bronwyn shrugs. “Sorry. Pacifist, remember?”

I give her a narrow-eyed look of skepticism.

“Okay, ninety-five percent of the time. I really would have kicked Elliott’s ass the other day, though. Still might.”

* * *

Elliott.

I was starting to feel good again, but just the mention of his name squeezes my heart painfully.

“You probably shouldn’t,” I say, although if I were a better person I’d have said it with more conviction.

I have to wait for my mother to fill out all the paperwork to adopt Georgia. And I have a good ol’ sit-down with her first, to make absolutely, positively sure that she means it.

And apparently she does. We drive home with Georgia cradled in my mother’s arms.

We’re in the process of introducing Georgia to Blinky and Pussy Galore when there’s a knock on the front door. Ari goes to answer it, and a minute later, Pansy walks in.

She’s carrying a suitcase.

“No!” I groan. “This isn’t happening.” I elbow Ari. “Tell me this isn’t happening. Tell me I’m hallucinating.”

“Friends don’t let friends live in denial. I’m here for moral support, though. Shall I go set up the air mattress in the guest room?”

“No, you shall not!” I huff indignantly. “I appreciate the offer, but hell no.” I hurry over to Pansy.

My mother shuffles up behind me. “Pansy. What are you doing here?” she asks.

“Your son,” Pansy says accusingly. “It’s all his fault. Both our children will be in school this Fall, and I tell Theo that I want to get a part-time job because otherwise I’ll be climbing the walls with boredom, and you know what he says? He says, ‘Oh, you’re afraid of getting bored? Don’t worry, I’ve got this! You don’t need to get a job! We’ll just have more kids!’”

She bursts into tears. “How do I say I don’t want more kids? That makes me sound like a monster! So I told him I’m taking a two-week vacation. And here I am.”

My mother collapses into a chair next to her, shaking her head. ”That sonofabitching bastard.”