Dissolution

The air was heavy and thick, like inhaling mud; lungs stopped expanding after half a breath. A sticky sweat was pasted onto her skin and seeped into her clothes, even her cotton panties could be wrung out. She stood on the threshold and watched the leaves on the trees dance about in the wind, but it wasn’t strong enough to push through the screen covering the aluminum frame of the storm door. Part of her, the nagging voice that wouldn’t give up, wanted to take iced tea to the porch, sit on the weathered steps, and enjoy the moment when the earth finally spun past the blistering sun. Instead, she struggled to keep her eyelids from drooping shut, and when she heard the shriek of her children, it took all her remaining strength not to scream: shut up, shut up, shut up!

“It’s bedtime.” She hissed and grabbed the wrist of the first child, who flew past her in a frenzy.

“It’s not even nine, and the sun’s still up!” Her oldest dosed back with an equal amount of sass. How did they turn out this way? She wondered. The constant arguing and talking back, if she had spoken to her parents in such a tone, a crack across the face would have remedied it. Was she doing them, herself, and the world any favors by holding back?

“Now.” She had intended for it to sound firm, but it came out as a deflated sigh. All her drive seemed reserved for battling the chemical typhoon that raged through her head. After her second son, the doctor called it postpartum depression. By the time they took the training wheels off the baby’s bike, her husband had begun to disappear, fading into his work and a life she was no longer privy to. She begged him for help. He suggested that she try harder.

“Up.” She pointed toward the landing of the second floor.

As the kids stomped up the stairs, she noticed the bottoms of their feet were black from the dust and sweat that had mixed in the soles of their shoes.

“Shit,” she muttered under her breath, realizing she lacked the energy to bathe them. “Brush your teeth,” she commanded as she filled the bottom of the tub with an inch of water.

She watched as they ran a toothbrush across their tiny, pearl teeth, then crumpled on the edge of the fiberglass; she stared into the mirror above their heads. Snarled hair in a loose ponytail and grey shadowed eyes reflected back. Just beyond the glass, in the not-so-secret hideaway, she thought of the army it housed, lined up in ranks, small orange bodies with white caps and labels with false promises of help on their bellies; they mocked her. When the first toothbrush hit the counter, she scooped up the kid, swished his feet in the puddle, and grabbed the nearest hand towel to streak with dirt. Good enough, she thought, but in reality, nothing was good, not even close.

She marched them to their shared bedroom, lightly wrapping her hands around the backs of their necks. She smiled as they parted so they could clamber into their respective beds. The oldest flopped while the little one snuggled in.

“Goodnight,” she said, pressing her lips against their foreheads. She lingered for a moment, trying to feel the connection and joy she had once felt.

With the false freedom, she padded down the basement staircase to scan the ceiling-high racks. Reds and whites had once filled the walls, but in the past couple of months, these had dwindled to the one bottle they’d saved from their wedding. They had intended to drink it on their 10th anniversary. Plucking it from the cubby, she stroked the smooth, cool glass and allowed its simple presence to relieve some of the crushing sadness.

She went back up to the kitchen to keep an ear out for her boys, ignoring the guilt flitting through her chest. She knew soon it would be drowned in Pinot Gris. She dug past stainless steel for a corkscrew. She meant to get a flute and be civilized, but a hollowness spread from the center of her stomach, and a Novocain numbness took over her body within seconds. She could only feel her own hands planted against the cool granite countertops. Only one thing could bring her back to life: lady-like sips eluded her, gulping, chipmunk-cheeked mouthfuls straight from the neck.

She surveyed her surroundings with a critical eye. A kitchen she had remodeled herself to be a dream. Back when she enjoyed cooking and escaped into baking. A $200 mixer stood against the wall, in the corner. She rubbed her hands against the cool metal. She made the boys a special cake for every birthday, whatever they requested. She thought back to the times she found joy in it, and it was before all the pressure, before the remodel, before the fancy appliances. She loved it when she and her husband would do it together, when it was a Betty Crocker mix in a plastic bowl. When she had a partner by her side, him dissolving sugar into the pitcher of Kool-Aid before the backyard party.

With half the bottle gone, she enjoyed the pressure being lifted and the ability to breathe again. A thought slithered from her brain and coiled itself around her heart, sinking venom into her soul—I don’t want to do this anymore.

Her spirit burst forth with the tickle of freedom. She paced the kitchen, pulling containers from cabinets and old mixing bowls from shelves. Her inner dialogue bubbled: I hate him. I’m screwing a man I hate. I hate myself. I hate my life. What if I hate my kids?

She felt resentment that he was always at work as she scooped sugar. I don’t have to be trapped, she thought while beating the eggs. He’ll have to have the kids half the time, the voice chanted amid leveling flour. I can’t live the rest of my life like this, thumped through her conscience over the whipped butter.

A fresh film of sweat glistened on her forehead from the flourish of activity. The dishwasher hummed beside her; the same tune of peace surged through her veins. She licked the melted buttercream from her fingers and grinned at the icing words scrolling across the top of the cake: I want a divorce.