Free Small Mercies by Eddie Joyce Page A

climbed into her mouth.
    “About his mother. Like, ‘fuck your mother,’ something like that. Who the hell knows, Mom. He’s not making a ton of sense.”
    After Gail hung up with Peter, Tina heard her confession. She was responsible for Franky getting arrested. What she’d said to him at Thanksgiving had precipitated this incident. But it was more than that. She blamed herself for everything that was wrong with Franky. She’d failed him from the start, had never known how to be the mother he needed. She’d cut him too much slack except on the few occasions when he really needed it. She dismissed Tina’s protestations to the contrary.
    “I’m a horrible mother, Tina. Don’t ask my advice on raising kids anymore.”
    Tina didn’t listen. She came to the table again and again, seeking Gail’s counsel. When Alyssa was being teased at school, beyond the usual adolescent girl nonsense. When Bobby was having trouble reading. When Alyssa was driving her nuts with her moodiness, which was pretty much all the time. Nothing terrible, thank God. Just the everyday trials and tribulations of motherhood, complicated by the absence of a father. Gail’s advice was simple, reassuring.
    Be patient. This will pass. All kids go through an awkward phase. Bobby was a late bloomer too. Let them make their own mistakes. You’re doing a great job. You’re a great mother.
    It wasn’t always about the kids. One day, Tina was in a nasty mood, had even snapped at Gail a few times. When the kids were out of the way, Gail sat her down, asked her if something was wrong. Tina’s face tensed for a moment, but then she started to laugh.
    “How can I say this, Gail? I’m . . . frustrated.”
    “About what?”
    Tina raised an eyebrow, coughed suggestively.
    “It’s, uhh, it’s been a while.”
    The news of the world passes between women in kitchens.
    That’s what Maria said, one of the things she used to say anyway. She said other things too, mostly advice on how to raise kids, the advice that Gail passed along to Tina years later. Gail listened to every word, soaked in every suggestion. She’d gotten no guidance from her own mother. Constance had only ever said one thing on the subject.
    “Don’t have kids, Gail.”
    Inside a diner on Third Avenue. A lit cigarette in one hand and a spoon in the other, alternating sips of tomato soup with drags from the cigarette.
    “What?” Gail asked.
    “Don’t have children. They’ll bring you nothing but unhappiness.”
    Gail flinched. She searched her mother’s eyes for knowledge. Was this a sick joke? Did she already know somehow?
    No. Her face was earnest, the advice as sincere as it was impossible to follow. Gail was already pregnant and about to move to Staten Island and sitting there, miserable and nauseated, for the express purpose of telling her mother those two things. She’d told her about the move first, which was a mistake, because it prompted her mother’s remark. She didn’t know about the pregnancy; she was referring to the move. Of course she was. Everything that was done in the world was done for the purpose of hurting her mother.
    Gail bit her lip. She should tell her mother about the pregnancy. It would explain things. This was not abandonment. They were seeking a better life for their child, something so fundamental it could explain the history of human movements on the planet. Her mother should have understood that.
    But something held her back: fear. Not for herself, but for the child she carried. Her first maternal instinct. Protecting her unborn child from the words of its grandmother. Gail and her mother finished their meals in silence. When they stepped out of the diner together, Constance would not take her arm. A warm September night, the last gasp of summer. The streets of Bay Ridge were bustling, people out and about. The sun had slipped from sight, but the clouds above glowed an apocalyptic red. Men stood outside bars, hoping for a last glimpse of skin