Mother Faker

“Hunnys, I’m home,” I shout as I open the door to our brownstone. I’m still shaking my head at the sight that greets me every time I make my way up the front walk. An Easter Bunny, a reindeer, and a few overgrown plants decorate the lawn. Christmas lights surround the front window, and the sign in the window wishes all who pass a Happy Valen Day. The tine’s has fallen off, and none of us has bothered to tape it back up. The place is a bit of a disaster, but it’s home.

I toe off my shoes and peek past the dark foyer. It’s eerily silent. “Dylan?” I sing, nerves fluttering in my belly.

Dylan doesn’t know how to be quiet, so clearly, something is wrong. Did the kids tie her up? Is she gagged and bound somewhere? I wouldn’t put it past the twins.

Since we moved in together two months ago, Dylan has taken over after-school care for all the children and full-time care for Adeline and Finn. She’s been a godsend since my ex-husband moved on from the nanny. Kendall, although having a propensity to sleep with Drake, was really good with children. Now that the affair is over, though, she’s no longer around to help with the kids.

While on vacation a few months ago, I admitted to my best friends that my life wasn’t nearly as perfect as I led everyone to believe, and Shayla and Delia responded by admitting that they were also drowning. Dylan came to the rescue with a genius idea. She suggested we move into the brownstone Delia’s great aunt had left to her and raise our kids together Fuller House–style. There are seven kids between us, so it’s been quite the learning curve.

As I pad across the raw plywood floor down the hall toward the kitchen, where I usually find Dylan this time of day, I have to duck a little to dodge the particles falling from the ceiling. The house is settling, Delia tells us almost nightly. Yeah, settling right into our soup bowls.

She downplayed just how much work the brownstone would require. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful to be living with my besties, but this house has significant issues, and I’m not sure any of us has the funds to deal with it properly.

That’s a problem for another day, though. Right now, I need to find my kids.

And Dylan.

Where the hell is she?

“Dylan? Finn? Winnie?” I shout.

My youngest daughter’s faint babbling drifts downstairs. Is she just waking up from a nap? I check the clock on the ancient white stove. It’s so old, it actually flips over to show the time, and it makes a ticking noise that some would find aggravating. At this point, we’re all used to it.

It’s 6:05 p.m. Adeline is in her crib, and everyone else is missing. What the hell is going on in here?

Heaving out a breath, I trudge up the narrow staircase, being sure to step on the far left side of the second to last step. If hit just right, the loose board will tip up and smack your ankle. Hurts like hell, but apparently, not enough for Delia to agree to temporarily replacing it with a piece of plywood.

We need to preserve the house’s character and integrity, she says.

Deep breath in, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four.

It’ll all be fine.

After successfully avoiding the step, I reach the landing and hustle to the end of the hall. Since Adeline sleeps in my room, the girls insisted I take the master. Attached to one side of my room is a second, smaller room. It’s a bit of a disaster, but eventually, I intend to turn it into a nursery.

One day.

If I ever have time.

The only access point to the nursey is through the closet, unfortunately, but it does have a pretty circular window that lets in the perfect amount of light.

Finn and Winnie each have their own rooms near mine. Though Finn idolizes Dylan’s fifteen-year-old son, Liam, and begged to bunk with him, his room is two floors below mine, so that was a no. I’d prefer to keep my four-year-old close, despite what a big boy he claims to be.

Pretty sure Liam approved that decision. He shows little interest in anyone in the house, which is why I’m surprised when I peek into my room and find him leaning over the railing of her crib.

“And then he told me if I didn’t give him the five bucks, he’d beat the⁠—”

I clear my throat loudly, thankfully cutting him off before his story gets too mature for my toddler.

Liam spins, his face turning red. I’m not sure if it’s because I caught him about to say a bad word to my two-year-old or because I caught him talking to her, period.

“Hi, Aunt Liv,” he says quietly, his attention darting everywhere but at me.

Smiling at my baby girl, I shuffle into the room. At the sight of me, she holds her arms up, scrunching her hands open and closed. She’s getting so big. Despite the exhaustion I feel in every inch of my body, I can’t help but scoop her into my arms and take a second to soak in her goodness. One hit can hold me over for hours most days.

That’s all we really get as mothers. Moments. We spend the vast majority of our waking hours running or yelling or scrambling or failing. But these few seconds of quiet after work, when it’s just Adeline and me, make me feel like maybe I’m not doing such a terrible job after all.

Over Addie’s head, I stare down Liam, who’s backed up from the crib. “Where’s your mom?”

He gives me one of his devilish smirks, and immediately, I know my best friend is up to one of her crazy schemes.

“Phil didn’t see his shadow,” he says with a shrug.

“Phil who?”

“Come on, Liv, get with it. Punxsutawney Phil,” Liam goads.

Squinting, I clarify. “Punxsutawney Phil didn’t see his shadow almost two months ago, and somehow that means your mother is missing today?”

Liam’s goal in life these days is getting one over on us. I’m not 100 percent sure he doesn’t have Dylan and all the kids tied up in the basement right now.

Liam smirks again, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “She’s worried about the vegetables.”

“What vegetables?” I set Adeline on her feet and heave out a sigh. “We don’t even have vegetables.”

“Right. Because Phil didn’t see his shadow.” His tone is so serious. Like he thinks that explanation makes perfect sense.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I breathe in for four and out for four. When I look at Liam again, he’s studying me with that aloof expression he wears so often. Mouth pressed in a flat line, eyes dull and uninterested. I swear, the kid is constantly taunting all of us, and none of us are smart enough to keep up.

Still at a loss, I try again. “To be clear, the groundhog, who normally crawls out of a hole in Philadelphia in February, didn’t see his shadow? And because of that, almost two months later, your mother and my children are missing? Because she’s worried about vegetables?”

Liam shrugs. “Now you’ve got it.” He pets the top of Adeline’s head and winks at her. Then he saunters out of the room, pulling the headphones he constantly wears around his neck over his ears and tuning the rest of the world out.

“Guess he’s done with us,” I mutter to my daughter. “Come on, Addie. Let’s go see if we can find our family.” I hoist her up on my hip and continue my search.

With no luck in the rest of the house, I head to the backyard—if we can even call it that. Although this home sits on one of the largest lots in the neighborhood, this is Boston we’re talking about. The yard is nothing more than a patch of grass bordered by a wooden fence that’s missing more slats than it has.

Groaning—because our list of projects is at least a mile long, yet Delia has repeatedly rejected our suggestions for each and every one—I step through the back door. It creaks on its hinges as I step over the threshold, sending a shudder working through me at the sound. Once I’m outside, I finally spot several tiny bodies crowded in a circle. Each child is kneeling with their head down, swaying back and forth.

What in the hell?

Dylan’s auburn hair falls in a curtain around her face, blocking my view of her expression. But she, too, is swaying. She’s also chanting words I can’t quite decipher. She rolls her body as if she’s coming up from child’s pose, and her green eyes lock on mine. A bright smile crosses her face, and she jumps up and dusts off her jeans. The action does little good, because the mess coating the fabric isn’t dirt. It’s mud. And she’s covered in it.

Frowning, I look from her to the ground, then back again. “What are you guys doing?”

Dylan dips her chin, looking at the kids, who are all still swaying and humming, then slumps a bit. “The universe is mad at us.”

“The universe is what?”

I don’t know why I’m even asking the question. Dylan has a thing about the universe. She’s been going on about it since she got knocked up in college. Most people would blame a lack of contraceptives for her predicament, but not Dylan. She said the universe sent Liam to her, and she barely batted an eye at the dramatic change in her life.

Okay, I’m probably rewriting history a bit. The first year or two after Liam was born were a challenge for her, to say the least, but in general, Dylan doesn’t let much bother her.

I envy that ability more than I’d ever put into words.

Dylan wanders over, tickling Adeline when she reaches us. “The universe is mad.”

“Probably because of all the meat we’re eating,” Shayla calls as the door creaks open again. She’s dressed in workout gear, which means she probably just finished up a session with a client. Shayla is a physical therapist and as fit as they come. Where Dylan is naturally thin, Shayla is toned and drop-dead gorgeous.

What I’d do to have her body.

As long as it didn’t include giving up Diet Coke or working out for hours a day. I suppose that means that, in reality, I wouldn’t do a whole heck of a lot to have her body.

Dylan shakes her head and tugs her rose quartz pendant back and forth along its chain. “No, that’s not it.”

Shayla beelines it for her son, Kai, ignoring us completely. “What are you doing outside without a coat? You’ll catch a cold.”

“The fresh air is good for him, Shay,” Dylan says softly.

We try not to step on each other’s toes, and obviously, we all have different parenting styles, but Shayla lives with a heightened sense of anxiety. Though it’s not without good reason. She lost her husband to cancer a few years ago, and Kai is all she has left. I can’t imagine the thoughts that must run through her head at night. I’d never sleep.

Shayla turns to Dylan with a frown, probably preparing to lecture her about why Kai needs a jacket, but she lets her shoulders sag and blows out a breath instead when she takes in Dylan’s soft expression.

“I suppose you’re right.” She turns to her son. “Let’s go in, though. It’s getting dark now, so the chill really is going to hit you soon.”

Kai shoots Dylan an appreciative nod and takes off for the back door.

“And don’t run!” Shayla shouts after him.

I squeeze her arm as she approaches, and she leans her head against my shoulder. Still propped on my hip, Adeline pats Shayla’s dark hair with her pudgy hand. In response, Shayla leans in subtly and inhales that baby scent.

I’m telling ya, it’s like a drug.

“Oh my gosh, I’m starving. Please tell me dinner will be ready soon,” Delia says, peeking into the backyard without batting an eye at the scene before her. She’s wearing a suit, and her blond hair is done up in her signature ponytail. She looks like a runway model for office wear.

“If you mean will dinner be delivered soon, then yes, dinner is soon,” Dylan says with a smile.

Pretty sure Dylan will tell us that this is also the universe’s doing. Apparently, the universe wants us to eat pizza at least once a week.

“Perfect,” Delia says as she pulls the tie from her hair and shakes her head. “Book club after dinner?”

I try to hide my groan, but it slips out. Delia doesn’t notice, but Shayla and Dylan shoot me commiserating smiles. This week’s book was an autobiography. Though last week’s wasn’t fiction either, at least it was about how to be one with our bad-ass selves. Not that I had time to read either of them.

Shayla loops her arm around me and leads me inside the house. “Life may not be perfect, but at least we’re all together.”