by L. G. McCary
He calms Rylie’s tears while I try to get ahold of my own. The cold pack helps a little. I wipe my eyes as I stand at the kitchen sink and notice a purple stain on the windowpane.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I growl at the chunks of blueberry dotting the wall, the window, and the corner of the curtain.
“Whoa, what is that?” David asks.
“Blueberry smoothie. She asked for it and then she threw it.” I rub the dried purple mess furiously with a sponge while I hold the cold pack to my jaw with the other.
“Naughty girl,” David says, frowning at Rylie. She huffs and hides behind her lifted elbow.
“And then she threw a tantrum in the grocery store over a toy pony.”
“She did? Rylie, were you being hard on Mama today?”
“No!” she shouts and wiggles to get away.
He lets her down on the floor, and she runs to the living room and hides behind the couch.
“I’m sorry, honey.”
“And then she wouldn’t eat her lunch when we got home.” I slosh soapy water on the windowsill to scrub yet another purple dot gone unnoticed. “She fought her nap forever. I barely got the laundry in the dryer, and then she woke up so I couldn’t fold anything.”
“Hey, do you need this?” David says. He picks up a white recipe card from the floor, and my chest tightens.
“I forgot the chicken.” I sit on the floor, put my head in my hands, and cry. It’s dumb, but I can’t stop myself. “I forgot the chicken.”
David is saying something about needing to calm down, but I can’t. I don’t have what I need to make our dinner, and now that I’m on the floor I see more smoothie spots on the woodwork below the cabinet. I feel so stupid crying over chicken, but I can’t help it. A cold shudder goes over me, and I lean my head against the cabinet door.
David tries to help me up, but I don’t want to get up.
“The one thing I actually needed I forgot because there was this old lady who said I should give Rylie a spanking. I just wanted to get out of there.”
“I’ll get us some pizza.”
“I don’t want pizza. I want teriyaki chicken.”
“Pizza!” Rylie hollers. She comes bounding into the room from her hiding place behind the couch but stops when she sees me on the floor.
“I can get takeout then.”
“But the budget. We’re trying to be more careful.”
“Charlie, it’s okay. We can get something.” He kneels next to me and wraps his arms around me, holding me gently, like I’m about to shatter into a million pieces. Maybe I am. “It was a bad day, but it’s okay.”
I cry into his shoulder.
“Mama, pizza!” Rylie hollers in my ear.
“Rylie, go get your shoes,” he says, patting her head.
“No!”
“You and I are going to get Mama something to eat.”
“Eat?”
“Yes, go get your shoes so you can help Daddy.”
I hear her little feet slapping against the cold tile as she runs across the kitchen for her shoes.
“It was a really bad day,” I whisper to David.
“Good grief, there’s more smoothie down here!”
“It was on the ceiling, too.”
“We need more secure sippy cups,” he says. “You’d think someone would have invented one.”
“That one was supposed to be unspillable,” I snort.
“I should have gone into children’s cups instead of aerospace engineering,” he says. “I’d make a truly unspillable sippy.”
“It would have to be pink with bears,” I say. “That’s the only acceptable design in the whole universe.”
“Her Royal Highness the Empress of Madsenia has issued a decree?”
“She has. Most vehemently.”
“Rylie! Bring me your shoes, little girl!” he yells to the other room.
Her tiny feet slap on the tile as she runs into the kitchen.
“Mama, pizza!” she hollers. She dumps a plate of play pizza on my lap and sits on the floor.
“Thank you, Empress of Madsenia,” I say.
“Mama eat!” She picks up the plastic pizza slice and holds it under my nose expectantly.
I wipe my eyes and pretend to take a bite.
“All done!” She throws the slice back onto the plate and throws her hands in the air.
“Rylie, shoes. Go get your shoes,” David reminds her gently.
“I wuv you, Mama!” She says, patting my cheek. “I wuv you.”
“I love you, too, baby. Go get your shoes.” My breath is uneven from crying, but I manage to smile and kiss her hand. She runs around the corner to the shoe basket in the laundry room. David picks up the pizza slice.
“I think she’s sorry, Mama,” he says. “How about I get us teriyaki from the Chinese place on Seventh? We haven’t gone there in a long time.”
“That’s too spicy for Rylie.”
“I’ll get her something else. Why don’t you go wash your face while I take her with me to get the food?”
He kisses my forehead and waves me away to our bedroom to clean up as he carries Rylie out to the car.
I slowly walk to our room. Nothing makes sense today. When I think about it, nothing truly terrible happened. Why am I so upset over small things? Maybe it’s “death by a million paper cuts,” like Morgan says. All these little things piling up until I lose it.
I wet a washcloth and listen to the bathroom clock tick as I dab my swollen face. My eyes are red from crying, and my jaw has an ugly welt. I notice a purple spot on the elbow of my shirt. More smoothie. I went to the grocery store with smoothie stains on my elbow. Renee would think that’s hilarious, but I don’t think I’ll tell her.
I hang the washcloth on the shower door to dry and walk into our bedroom. There’s so much to do. If I fold the laundry first, I might have time to vacuum the living room before David gets home, but the blueberry smoothie stains are gnawing at the back of my mind. I can almost feel them seeping into the woodwork until they’re permanent.
The water doesn’t want to warm up and sends chills down my arm as I soak the sponge. Outside, the sky is growing darker, and the wind has picked up. I flick on the overhead light, and it glows a sickly green. The smoothie spots make a purple trail from the underside of the counter next to the sink and down the side of the cabinet where the door meets the frame, pooling under the bottom of the cabinet.
The dried magenta mess reminds me of alien blood in some terrible science fiction movie. I end up on my side, cheek nearly against the tile floor as I try to get the best angle. My nose is running from all the crying, and I sniff.
Feet.
I see someone’s stocking feet on the floor next to my hand. I scream and jerk away, kicking. I blindly run to the living room, gripping the sponge and screaming.
“Go away!”
I’m afraid to look back at the intruder. My stomach lurches as I wait for them to respond, but I hear nothing but the blood rushing in my ears.
I peek into the kitchen. It’s empty and silent. My feet are heavy as lead, but I force myself to walk back into the room, past the kitchen table, to the other side of the counter.
The pantry is empty. The garage door is closed and locked. I steady myself against the counter and try to get my heartbeat under control.
Rylie’s play pizza. Two of the pieces are wedged against the cabinet at an odd angle. I kneel down next to them and put my head close to them and laugh out loud. I must be losing my mind because they don’t look anything like a pair of feet.
Pizza feet. Dull giggles spill out of me.
“I’m such an idiot,” I mutter to my daughter’s toys.
I toss the plastic pizza over my shoulder into the living room and scrub the purple spots furiously. At least David wasn’t home to see me act like a psycho.
Crash!
Lightning rips across the sky, and the thunder rattles the windows. I watch the dark boiling clouds outside th
e kitchen window from my spot on the floor, and my fingers ache as I scrub harder.
Another flash lights up the sky, and suddenly the overhead light goes off. I hear the electricity click and blink out.
“Stupid house!” I groan. Why does the power always go out when it storms?
I finish scrubbing the smoothie stains by the light of a flashlight and go to the front room to refold the clothes. So much for vacuuming. The power is off for who knows how long. I call David to warn him he won’t be able to open the garage door. Rylie is screaming in the background. Good. At least she’s being terrible for Daddy, too. I don’t care if that’s a terrible thing to think.
I sit on the window seat and finish the towels, Rylie’s clothes, and half of ours as the rain pours. The wind whistles in the chimney and makes the windows creak. The thick wet air is suffocating, and every flash of lightning makes me jump.
I grope the walls as I walk down the dark hall toward our bedroom with the basket of towels. My familiar house is shrouded in alien shadows. I’m being silly. This is ridiculous. Why am I afraid to go into my own bedroom?
Lightning slices across the room from the backyard window. The stark shadows look like someone sitting on my side of the bed.
I swallow a scream and run to the living room, abandoning the basket in the hallway as thunder shakes the roof. I curl up on the couch with Rylie’s blanket, still shaking. The storm rages outside, and I put my fingers in my ears. I’m sick to my stomach. Every flash of lightning hurts my eyes.
“Charlie, are you there?”
David shakes my shoulder. I jerk away from him and grip the back of the couch.
“I…I don’t...”
Rylie is throwing a fit on the hallway floor behind him. I put my fingers in my ears again to block out her screaming. David gives me a look.
“Why didn’t you open the door when I knocked?”
“I didn’t hear you,” I say.
“You didn’t hear me?”
“No.”
“Were you asleep or something?” he demands.
“No.”
He looks angry, and I realize his hair is wet. He hands me the take-out bag and goes to the hallway to grab a screaming Rylie.
“What happened?”
“We got soaked waiting for you to open the door,” he says over Rylie’s tantrum. I hear a clicking noise, and the lights blink back on.
“I’ll get a towel,” I say. “I’m sorry, David. I didn’t hear you at all.”
“How? You were right there.”
“I just didn’t.”
I retreat to the hallway, flipping on lights as I go, and grab a clean towel from the basket in the hallway. Our room is silent and empty through the open door. I walk back to the front room, gather Rylie up in the towel, and carry her to her room to get dry.
After a struggle, I walk out with a very grumpy Rylie in dry pajamas to find David has set up the table with our dinner.
“I think you need to talk to Darren,” he says.
“What?”
“From church. You know, the counselor?” he says, buckling Rylie into her toddler chair. “I think you need to talk to him. Or maybe a doctor.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re shaking like...” he stabs a piece of chicken with his fork and rolls his eyes in frustration, “Like my cousin’s chihuahua that’s scared of everything on the planet.”
“I am not.”
“Look at your hands.”
“I’m tired,” I say, balling my hands into fists.
“Did you drink one of my energy drinks or something?”
“No! Those things are gross.”
“I’m worried about you,” David says. “I come in to find you cowering on the couch—” I give him a sharp look, and he raises both hands. “Fine. Sitting on the couch under a blanket. With your fingers in your ears. You were freaking out, Charlie. Don’t try to tell me you weren’t.”
I want to contradict him, but I remember the pizza feet in the kitchen. I hand Rylie her chicken nuggets instead.
“And this isn’t new. You are on edge all the time. You can’t focus. Even when Rylie’s sleeping, you never sleep.”
“If I don’t do chores while she naps, they never get done.”
“Who cares about the chores! I don’t!” David says a little too loudly. He bites his lip and shakes his head. “You need to talk to someone. You were up the whole night last night, weren’t you?”
I keep my eyes fixed on my teriyaki chicken. “I’ll be okay,” I say, my eyes on Rylie’s curious face, watching the two of us.
“You need to talk to someone or at least get something to help you sleep.”
“I don’t want to.” All those pills have a million side effects, and I feel yucky enough already. Every time I shut my eyes, I wonder what horrible thing will happen while I’m sleeping. When I do fall asleep, I wake up in a panic like I did this morning, looking for Rylie. David squeezes my hand.
“You need to,” David says, his eyes on Rylie. “Darren’s number is on the church website.”
“I know.”
“Charlotte, what is it? Please tell me.”
I don’t want to remember, but I do. It was so blurry in the hospital, but once we came home, the memory crawled back and took me prisoner. That awful moment when I felt myself bleeding out on that hospital bed. I fix my eyes on the floor and bite my tongue hard. I have cried enough today.
But once I think about it, I can’t stop replaying it. The agonizing pain in my stomach and the spinning colors like fireworks going off in my skull. I remember David’s terrified eyes being the only thing I could recognize. And then Rylie being taken away by the nurse. Her soft cry as she disappeared out the door, and the hospital room door shut behind her. I can’t handle this memory anymore.
“Charlie, please,” he whispers. “I want you back.”
“I’m right here,” I say angrily.
I want to eat my teriyaki chicken. Rylie is still watching us as she eats her nuggets. I don’t like the way she’s looking at me. Like she’s afraid for me. Or maybe afraid of me.
“Please call Darren.”
“Okay. Tomorrow,” I say, hoping it’s enough to make him leave me alone. I don’t want to scare Rylie any more than I already have. I’ll probably forget. Or maybe I’ll actually call. Maybe he can help me without me having to talk much. Maybe we can talk about the Bible or whatever and leave seeing things because I’m sleep-deprived out of it.
Eight
My skirt won’t lie flat no matter how much I smooth it. I’m early, but I wish I’d sat in the car for a few more minutes. The lobby chair is stiff against my back. I wish Darren didn’t have a secretary. I still feel naked sitting in this office, as if all my life were spread out in front of her.
My phone vibrates. My mother-in-law has sent me a picture of Rylie playing in our back yard. Rylie is showing the camera a large dandelion. I should get out there and weed next week. Another photo pops up of Rylie grinning from ear to ear, running toward the camera. I’m so glad Nana Tanya wasn’t busy this afternoon. I wouldn’t want to leave Rylie with a stranger, and she loves her grandma.
“She has my schedule. I think next Wednesday or Thursday?” I hear Darren’s voice from the hallway.
A woman’s voice says something unintelligible. It’s familiar. I strain to recognize the voice even though I know I shouldn’t.
It is Tori Butler. She comes around the corner into the lobby. Her eyes are a little red, and she startles when she sees me. I can’t believe Tori is here. She teaches preschool Sunday school and helps with the children’s choirs. I wonder what she could be talking to Darren about. I wave while wishing a hole in the earth would open up and swallow me. What if she tells people she saw me?
“Hi, Charlotte,” she says, brushing her blonde waves behind her ears. She smiles, but she looks drained. I know from the decorative mirror on the wall behind the secretary that I’m wearing the same anemic smile.
“Hi.” What else can we say? I can’t ask her what is wrong. She can’t ask me.
The last time I talked to her was at my front door when Rylie was born. She was the first person to show up with a casserole. I wonder if she remembers how I cried. I’ve been embarrassed to talk to her ever since.
“Rylie is getting so big,” Tori says.
“Yes, she is!” I answer a little too enthusiastically, but I’m grateful she’s given us both something to say. “She’s so talkative now.”
“I love playing with her when I work in the nursery.”
I can’t say it out loud, but I hate putting Rylie in the nursery. I’ve been keeping her with us in service most of the time because it feels safer. Is that normal? The thought makes my stomach curdle. Maybe David is right. I busy myself with my purse to keep myself from crying.
“I need to go,” she says gently.
Maybe she has seen my tears. Maybe not. Either way, she is leaving. I try to work up a smile to say goodbye. But she stops and turns back to me. She looks me straight in the eye and nods to herself.
“You should come to the women’s Bible study on Tuesdays with me, Charlotte,” she says. “Grace is a great teacher.”
“Oh, I didn’t know she taught.” How did I miss that my Sunday school teacher’s wife is teaching the women’s Bible study? I’m a bigger mess than I thought.
“You can sit with me,” she says.
“Isn’t the sign-up closed?”
“I’m in charge of the list, so I can add you when I get home,” she says. “We always order extra materials, too.”
“When does it start?”
“Two weeks from Sunday. Renee is coming now that she’s not teaching. And Miss Georgina runs the child care.”
That’s Rylie’s favorite Sunday school teacher, and I think Tori knows it. It makes me feel terrible that she seems to care so much about me and my daughter when I know so little about her. I should be more consistent. I’ve been making so many excuses to stay home. She must think I’m an unorganized mess, but she seems genuinely excited that I might join her. I’ve been so lonely that I swallow and nod.
“That would be great.”
“Awesome! I’ll tell Grace. Do you have my number? Never mind, just tell me yours. I’ll put it in right now and text you all the details.” She hunts in her purse for her phone. I’d protest, but she looks so happy I can’t argue. She taps in my number as I recite it. “Gotcha! I’ll see you on Sunday. I’m not working in the nursery this week.”
