My Life as a Doormat (in Three Acts) Read Free

mothering—things like discipline and social instruction—aren’t relevant today, she claims. But in my view Danny, Cedric, and little Amelia are the reason more and more parents are deciding to homeschool their children.
    My apartment door opened as I hid my last piece of valuable decor. Elisabeth never, ever knocked. I greeted her with a hug, looking behind her. No trailing children. “Where are the kids?”
    â€œAt my neighbor’s,” she said, throwing her bag on my couch and looking around. “Leah, your place is so dull. It wouldn’t kill you to have a nice crystal vase sitting around, you know. And I’m not a knickknack person, but in your case, I’d go for it.”
    I laughed. I didn’t want to, but it was one of those crazy, instant reactions, like gagging or swatting at a fly around your face. “Have a seat,” I said.
    â€œThanks.” She sat on the end of the couch and looked at me. “You look good. Vibrant. Life is treating you well?”
    â€œIt is.” I took a seat in my oversized leather chair, just catty-corner to Elisabeth, pushing the ottoman to the side.
    Four weeks had passed since I’d talked to Elisabeth. I never could quite understand what it was that still drew me to her after all these years, but I’d finally decided it must be the familiarity of the older days. I hadn’t seen those days in a long while, but they were vivid in my memory, and maybe I always hoped they would be back.
    â€œHow are the kids?”
    I expected the usual answer, which consisted of detailed descriptions of each of their latest and greatest accomplishments, such as wiping their own bottoms or graduating from bottle to sippy cup. I waited, but then I realized she wasn’t answering. She was staring. At my carpet. Then I expected a quip about how I should add more color to the living room and get rid of the grays. But she was still staring. I stared too. Was there a stain? A crumb? A faux pas of some other sort?
    â€œWe’re all fine.” Dullness filled her voice, a tone that suggested exhaustion. And as I studied her, I found other signs. Dark circles that hadn’t seen the light of day since her last child was a newborn. The top of her hair pulled back unevenly with a rubber band. Top-lip fuzz that could’ve used some bleaching cream. Though her children usually looked like extras in the cast of Annie, Elisabeth had always taken pride in appearing polished.
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œI read a review of your last play.”
    I cringed.
    â€œIt wasn’t bad.”
    â€œIt couldn’t have been good.”
    â€œCritics. What do they know?”
    â€œThe best way to make a playwright suicidal.”
    â€œShe actually said something good about it.”
    I looked up. “Really?”
    â€œShe said had the dialogue been any more predictable, she might’ve signed up to be a psychic.”
    I blinked. “That’s not a compliment.”
    â€œIt’s not?”
    â€œDialogue is not supposed to be predictable.”
    Elisabeth frowned, staring at the carpet again. But then she raised a finger. “Wait. I know she said something good about it, because she used a word like clinched . It was clinching dialogue. That’s good, right?”
    â€œAre you sure she didn’t say clichéd?”
    Elisabeth looked blank.
    â€œWas there an accent over the e ?”
    â€œYes, but I thought she was just trying to be fancy. I could’ve sworn I saw an n in that word.”
    Maybe the critic did say clinched, describing the way her jaw was set while she was watching it. I didn’t ask, but I knew the woman was probably Dora Mendez, other-wise known around the theater community as Dora the Exploder. She had a tendency to take out her frustrations with her personal life on anything that came with a playbill.
    â€œSo what are you working on now?” Elisabeth asked. That was unusual.