Give, a novel

by Erica Carpenter Witsell

She said it to be conciliatory, Laurel thought, to head off her daughter’s tantrum, and surely more for Laurel’s sake than for her own. But oh, how it grated on her. Sarah always got to be the nice one, taking them to the park or the library, fixing Jessie’s lunch, while she . . . She just got nagged at and shat on.

  “You called her ‘Dessie,’” Laurel observed coolly.

  Sarah laughed. “Oh, well. That’s what she calls herself. I guess I picked it up. But I don’t have to if . . .” She paused, uncertain.

  “It’s fine. Her dad calls her that, too.”

  Sarah smiled. “Yeah? Well, it’s cute.”

  As soon as Sarah left, Laurel regretted having let the bottle-feeding go. Her breasts were painfully full, like two aching rocks beneath her shirt. Emma slept on and on where Sarah had left her in the bassinet. Laurel put Jessie down for a nap in her bedroom, then steeled herself against her screams.

  “No nap! No Dessie seep!”

  Laurel stretched out on the couch in the living room and picked up a book, but it was impossible to concentrate.

  Just stop, she willed her daughter. Just be quiet.

  And then, suddenly, she was. Laurel sighed, closing her eyes in relief. The kitchen table needed clearing, she thought. And surely it would be okay if she took the laundry down, quickly, while the girls were asleep? But she couldn’t muster the energy to do any of it. She lay there with the book on her stomach, her breasts aching, breathing deeply as if her lungs craved, not oxygen, but silence.

  Jessie woke first, banging at the nursery door. “Mama!”

  Laurel, waking suddenly, felt disoriented and groggy. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. She swung her legs off the couch, sitting up. The sudden pull of gravity on her breasts made her cry out. Gingerly, she probed them with the tips of her fingers. They felt as hard as kneecaps, the skin stretched taut.

  Jessie, as always, was tearful after her nap. She wouldn’t play by herself, but clung to Laurel’s leg, whining.

  Laurel tried to read to her, but after one book she couldn’t stand the pressure in her breasts. Every time Jessie tried to cuddle up to her, pain shot through her chest. Desperate, she woke up Emma, who looked around with startled eyes. When Laurel brought the baby to her breast, the pent-up milk shot out at her. Her breast was so swollen that Emma struggled to latch on. But at last she managed, and soon the pressure began to ease. Laurel’s other breast was leaking freely now, soaking her shirt. After a few minutes, Laurel slid her finger into Emma’s mouth, breaking her hold on her nipple. The baby protested with an angry little cry. Quickly, Laurel shifted her to the other side.

  Afterwards, there were the diapers to change, and the kitchen to clean up. Laurel watched the clock, the minutes creeping forward. We should have gone to the park, Laurel thought, chiding herself.

  At last it was four o’clock. With a sigh of relief, Laurel turned on the television.

  “Grover!” Jessie said gleefully, plopping herself down on the rug. Laurel sang along with the theme song, suddenly cheerful. She would have an hour now without Jessie asking her for one single thing.

  But within minutes Emma began to fuss. Laurel looked around for the bouncy seat in which to put the baby, then remembered how she had dismantled it that morning. She tried to lay Emma down on a dish towel on the floor, but Emma howled as if she were being tortured.

  “Oh, come on,” Laurel said, exasperated. At last she fetched the sling from the closet, fastened it around her neck, and positioned the baby inside. She opened the refrigerator awkwardly, standing sideways so that the door would not hit Emma in the sling, then stood staring at the nearly empty shelves inside. Laurel let out a groan; she suddenly remembered that she had promised she would go to the store today.

  But how could she, now? To tear Jessie away from Sesame Street would mean another tantrum, another fight. Laurel didn’t have the heart for it. She found half a box of spaghetti in the cabinet. There was no sauce, but they had butter, didn’t they? In the bottom of the freezer was a bag of frozen peas, icy with freezer burn. When she was pregnant, Len had insisted that each meal have a protein, but now, it hardly mattered. He can fry himself an egg if he wants protein, Laurel thought. She was sick to death of eggs.

  Inside the sling, Emma wriggled and whimpered unhappily. Just one more minute, Laurel told her silently. She glanced at the clock, then filled a glass with ice and unstoppered the vodka. There was only half an inch of tonic in the bottom of the bottle; she emptied it into her drink.

  Emma was red-faced and sweaty when Laurel pulled her out of the sling at last and settled her at her breast. As the baby latched onto her sore nipple, Laurel raised the glass to her lips.

  “What’s all this?” Len said when he opened the door. He held the bag of dirty laundry in his hand. Laurel had forgotten it on the stoop.

  “Hello to you, too,” she said dryly. Then, “Jessie wet the bed. And Emma pooped all up her back and all over the bouncy seat. And me.”

  Len smiled.

  “It wasn’t funny.”

  Laurel saw Len look to the kitchen counter and followed his gaze. There was the empty canister of frozen orange juice, its ruffled white band lying beside it in a puddle of melted concentrate.

  “I made juice,” Laurel said. “There’s no milk.”

  Len glanced at Laurel’s glass, then at the empty tonic water bottle peeking its incriminating head out of the garbage.

  “No tonic, you mean.” He took the sponge from the sink and began to scrub at the mess.

  “I was going to clean it up. But I had to put Emma down for a nap. She wouldn’t settle.”

  Len said nothing.

  “I didn’t make it to the store. But there’s some spaghetti—”

  “We’ll need milk for the morning.”

  “We can drink juice.”

  “On cereal? I’ll go to the store after dinner.”

  “And leave me with these kids again? No, I’ll go. I was going to. I was just waiting for you to get home.”

  Len looked again at Laurel’s glass. He put the sponge down deliberately. “You shouldn’t be driving.”

  Laurel scoffed. “I’m fine. I’ve just had two.” But in truth she felt giddy-headed, and when she stood up her chair scraped the floor a little too loudly.

  “You’ve got to stop this, Laurel. You’re drinking too much.”

  Laurel laughed shrilly. “Oh, that’s just fine for you to say. Do you know the kind of day I’ve had? You sashay in the door with your recriminations—”

  “What recriminations? I didn’t say any—”

  “What’s this laundry? The kitchen’s a mess. You didn’t go to the grocery store. You’re drinking too much.” Laurel’s voice was sour with mimicry. “You have no idea what it’s like. All day I’ve been pooped and peed on, fussed at, whined at . . . And then you get on my case about having a drink or two? You have no idea—”

  “Mama!” Jessie called from the living room. “Grover bye-bye?”

  Laurel glanced at the clock. Oh, God, was it over already? She felt her chin begin to quiver and looked quickly away; she knew how Len hated it when she cried. But the tears came anyway, and what a relief they were. She gave herself over to them, sinking heavily into the chair and lowering her face into her arms.

  She heard Len’s steps on the orange linoleum, felt him standing over her, silent. At last, she felt his hand on her back, the gentle pressure of his palm and each long finger. She felt the weight of his hand pushing down on her heavily, as if to ground her. She shifted on the table and let out a deep breath, half sob, half sigh. And then she didn’t move, but concentrated on the imprint of his hand on her back, as if her neurons could push their way out of her skin and wrap their frilled tendrils around each finger like a plant clinging to its trellis.

  But in another moment Len took his hand away, and Laurel felt the warmth of it dissipate almost at once, leaving a hand-shaped imprint of chill against her skin.

  “I’m going to take the girls to the st
ore. Give you a chance to pull yourself together. Will Emma be okay? Has she nursed at all recently?”

  Laurel, not raising her head from her arms, nodded slightly.

  Laurel heard him shut the kitchen door behind him. She heard him speaking with Jessie in the next room, heard their voices fade as they went to the nursery to get Emma. Laurel listened to her faint cries as Len changed her diaper. In a minute their voices were back in the living room. Laurel could make out the sound of Jessie’s two-word chirp and the deep tones of Len’s answer. The front door creaked open and then closed, the latch clicking into place. And then—silence.

  Laurel knew she should luxuriate in it. That was what Len had intended, wasn’t it? These were his tiny, measured gifts to her. First, the momentary pressure of his hand. Then, this. Forty-five minutes, an hour perhaps, of silence. Of solitude. But this silence didn’t feel luxurious. It felt sad, recriminatory. She remembered the heavy click of the door, and how abruptly it had cut off their voices. It was like they had abandoned her. And the thought—even though she knew how melodramatic it sounded, knew, ultimately, how untrue it was—made her begin to cry again. Oh, she would never be a part of their cheerful little crew. She was . . . She was just different.

  With a sob she rose from the table. She saw that Len had returned the vodka to its place on top of the kitchen cabinets, out of Jessie’s reach. Laurel climbed up on the counter and got it down, then mixed in some of the watery orange juice. She took a deep sip, not tasting the alcohol now but feeling it seeping through her. She felt her heart lift a little, her cells hum.

  She drank again, then, with an effort, made herself put the glass down on the counter. She had to do something, she thought. She couldn’t let them come home and find her just as Len had left her, glass in hand.

  She went into the living room and looked around for the garbage bag of soiled laundry. She could run it down to the laundry now; it would be easy, without the kids. But she didn’t see it there, nor was it on the stoop.

  Len must have taken it with him, she realized, her heart sinking. Of course he would take it. He always had to prove just how easy it was.

  She went back to the kitchen to get her drink, and then began to tidy up the living room, tossing toys into the plastic bin they kept at the end of the couch. When that was done, she returned to the kitchen. They’d still need to eat, wouldn’t they? She put two pans of water on the stove, one for the peas, a larger one for spaghetti. The table was damp where she had been crying. She wiped it down and set out the butter, the green canister of Parmesan, and two forks. When would they be home? Was it too early to turn on the water? She felt that time was crawling again; it was impossible to judge how long they had been gone.

  Restless, she went into the girls’ bedroom. The rubber sheet on Jessie’s mattress glistened in the overhead light. She fetched sheets and made the bed, then arranged Jessie’s stuffed animals on top of it, imagining her daughter’s delight to find them all sitting together like that, as if for a party. The bed looked cozy, and suddenly Laurel’s weariness returned. She set her empty glass on the bookshelf and stretched out on her daughter’s bed.

  She woke to their voices in the kitchen. She went in and found Jessie on her booster seat, her face covered in spaghetti sauce.

  “Mama!” she said, and Laurel felt her heart give a lurch.

  Len looked up from his plate.

  “Want some spaghetti?”

  “I was going to make it . . .” Laurel began. “Where’s the baby?”

  Len nodded to the floor. “Right there.”

  He had spread out a blanket in the corner, and Emma lay on top of it, kicking and content.

  Laurel hesitated, feeling superfluous, like she had interrupted them somehow. How happy they all seemed.

  “Come on,” Len said good-naturedly, pulling back a chair with one hand. “Sit down. I’ll get you a plate. We were just missing you.”

  But afterwards, once the girls were both asleep, his mood sobered. He came into the bedroom where Laurel lay stretched out on the quilt, reading. She lowered the book.

  “Thanks for shopping tonight.”

  He nodded, then sat down next to her. She felt the mattress tip beneath his weight. She moved her legs so he would have more room.

  “What is it?”

  “Laurel, I can’t go on like this.”

  Her heart missed a beat. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I can’t keep coming home and finding you like this.”

  “Like what?” she said, indignant. “I told you, it was a rough day.”

  “But it’s not just today. It’s practically every day. Either you’re half-drunk or you’re in tears. Or both. I think—” Len hesitated.

  “What? Go ahead. Say it.”

  “I think you’re depressed.”

  Laurel let out a little snort of laughter. “Really?”

  “Yes. You just mope around all the time.”

  “It’s not moping! I just feel so . . . so . . . overwhelmed all the time. You don’t understand what it’s like.”

  “So you tell me. So, why don’t you . . . Why don’t we find someone? Someone you could talk to?”

  “You mean like a shrink?” She let out another dry laugh. “I don’t need a shrink.”

  “Someone, then. Don’t you have any friends you could talk to?”

  Laurel thought of Alice then, how they used to talk and talk, the hours in the lab skipping by. Len was right. It had made a difference.

  “Len, it’s not a math problem. You can’t just solve it.”

  She saw his expression shift, saw the concern change into something else, something harder.

  “Well, you have to do something. If not for yourself, for the family. It’s intolerable.”

  Laurel wanted to cry again then, at the coolness of his tone, the hardness in him. She tried to summon the tears, so he would know how cruel he was being, but for once they wouldn’t come. She said nothing, staring at the wall.

  “Look,” he said, at last. “Isn’t there anyone you could talk to? Maybe have some fun with?”

  At that, Laurel snorted. “You think I have time for fun?”

  “We could make time.”

  “When? You’re gone all day.”

  “There’s the weekend. I’ll take care of the girls. What about—” Here, Len hesitated, and Laurel knew he was thinking of Alice, too. “What about your cousin? What’s her name again? She doesn’t live far, does she?”

  Laurel sighed. “Rosie?”

  “Yeah, Rosie.” He said her name with just the slightest note of triumph.

  Laurel rolled her eyes. “We have nothing in common.”

  “She has kids.”

  “Yes. But they’re older.”

  “So? Surely, she’d be happy to—”

  “What?” Laurel interrupted. “Just call her out of the blue?” She raised her fingers to her ear, a mock phone. “‘Hi Rosie. This is Laurel. My husband thinks I’m depressed, that I need to talk to someone, have some fun. And since I don’t have any friends, I thought I’d just call—’”

  “Laurel,” Len said sternly. “I’m telling you, it’s a problem. I’m just trying to find a solution.”

  She sighed. “But how could I—?”

  “Just call her. She’s your cousin.” He stood up from the bed so suddenly the mattress bounced beneath her.

  “Where are you going?” she called after him.

  “To get your address book.”

  “But it’s late.”

  “It’s eight-thirty.”

  When he returned, he had her worn address book in hand, already opened to the page with Rosie’s number. He carried the phone in the other hand, his long fingers holding the receiver in place, the phone cord trailing behind him, as if marking his way out of a labyrinth.

  “Here,” he said, handing Laurel the mouthpiece but keeping the base of the phone on his lap. He dialed the number quickly, leaving his index finger in each hole as it unwound, hurry
ing it along. She didn’t protest. She listened to the distant ring, heard the clatter of the receiver as someone fumbled it. And then Rosie answered.

  “Hi, Rosie. This is your cousin, Laurel,” she said. Len grinned at her. She rolled her eyes at him and shooed him away with her hand.

  CHAPTER 8

  Laurel

  Later, but before everything fell apart, Laurel thought she had Len to thank for that call, and thus for everything that followed it. Rosie had been surprised to hear from her, of course, but she had masked it well, for which Laurel had felt a surge of gratitude. But when, as the conversation wound down, Laurel had to say—had to, she felt, because otherwise Len would not let her be—that it would be great to get together soon, to really catch up, Rosie sounded doubtful.

  “I don’t have much free time,” she said. “With the kids and all.” “Oh, I know,” Laurel began, feeling the first wisps of relief. She could already imagine her report to Len. Yes, she had suggested something, but Rosie just didn’t have the time.

  “Unless—”

  Laurel sighed. “Unless what?”

  “Well, unless you’d like to come with us on Saturday. With Ryan and me, I mean. Ryan’s a senior this year and he needs all those hours, you know? So on Saturdays he volunteers at the food bank in Eureka. And I have to drive him over there anyway, so I just decided, well, why not help out, too, you know? I mean, I’m there already.”

  Laurel’s head spun. Every sentence out of Rosie’s mouth was like a question Laurel was supposed to know the answer to. No, I don’t know, she wanted to scream. But she took a deep breath and steadied herself.

  “I’m sorry. What do you do there?”

  “Oh, different things. Sort food, mostly. You know, for people who need it.”

  “But . . . why?”

  “Well, because they’re poor, I guess.”

  “No, I mean—”

  “Oh! You mean, why is he volunteering there? It’s not just him. There’s a bunch of teenagers, actually. They all need hours to graduate.”

  “Hours?”

  “You know, community service hours.”