The Nursery

Trinity opened the drawer and touched the folds of cotton and terrycloth. The yellows, pale greens, and whites lined up in neat little stripes. She pulled one of the white stripes out of its line in the drawer.. Her fingers traced the shape of a yellow duck stitched with care on the front of the handmade bib. She breathed in a faint wet paint smell. The yellow paint cans were still stacked in the corner near the door. 

She clutched the bib in one hand like a crumpled tissue and clung to the empty crib with the other. Her body swayed left and then right. Her knees gave way and she fell onto the floor like a loose anchor to the bottom of the ocean. Teardrops dangled on the edge of her eyelids, blurring the unopened boxes of diapers and the new carseat into colorful squares like giant versions of the alphabet blocks lined up on the top of the child-size dresser.

The phone rang, she didn’t answer. A chime sounded somewhere in the distance, a text message. Davis will be home late. “Work again, sorry love.” 

It rang again. From where she dropped it on the floor, she saw the screen light up with the word “Mom.” She still didn’t answer. There was a moment of silence, no more than a heartbeat, and then another ring. She tapped the green dot on the screen. She let the silence linger.

She put the phone on speaker and left it on the floor, “Trinny?” a voice crackled.

“Mom.”

“Oh, Trinny, why haven’t you been answering your phone?”

Trinity sighed, “busy.”

“Too busy to talk to your mother? Have you gone back to work? I thought Davis said you were taking some time.”

Trinity rolled her eyes and turned away from the phone.

“No, not back yet.”

“Well, you’re just going to have to pick yourself back up, dear. Can’t just sulk around the house. Isn’t good for you or for Davis.”

Trinity waited, hoping there would be more to it than that, but there wasn’t.

“Or is it that it isn’t good for you?”

“Well, there’s no call for that tone. I’m just trying to think of what’s best for you, dear. I just want you to be happy.”

Trinity gripped the leg of the crib tightly. She squeezed the life out of the wood. Her knuckles were white. Her jaw was clenched.

“Did you need something?” She asked through gritted teeth.

“I just wanted to see how you were doing. Can’t a mother check on her child? Is that so wrong? I mean, maybe if a daughter would just answer the phone every once in a while, a mother wouldn’t have to worry.”

“How do you think I’m doing, Mom?”

There was silence on the other end. Trinity was almost elated at the thought that the call was disconnected. It wasn’t.

“Well, how’s Davis?”

Trinity slumped even further.

“Why don’t you ask him yourself? He’s been working, we hardly talk.”

“On, that’s no good, dear. You can’t let this setback get the best of your relationship. You need to try again, the both of you.”

Trinity flattened the bib in her hand and held it up to her face. A silent scream escaped from her mouth into the terrycloth.

“Trinny? Still there?”

“Here, Mom.”

“Are you in the middle of something? Do you need to call me back?”

“Yeah, I’ll call you back when I’m done.”

“Remember what I said. You can’t just grieve. Get out of the house, get some—”

Trinity ended the call. Her tears had dried. The sadness that had overwhelmed her to the point of collapse turned into a boiling rage. The terrycloth bib dropped to the floor and the silent scream turned into a banshee’s wail. She yanked on the crib’s leg until it clattered to the ground. Splinters of white painted wood scattered like a game of pick-up-sticks. She grabbed at the box of diapers and tore it open, flinging the white plastic packets across the room. She spun towards the dresser and grabbed at the neat stripes of cotton and terrycloth. She mixed them together like paint on an artist’s pallet and flung them across the room, her canvas.

She heard the front door open and the stairs creak.

“Trinny?” It was Davis. 

She started to panic and the hint of a sob gripped her throat as she looked around at the mess she’d made. She grabbed at the diapers and the white painted wood splinters.

“Trinny?” He was quieter this time.

He stood in the doorway, a dark shadow agains the bright yellow of the walls, a grey kitten in his hands.

Trinity stopped sobbing and a look of confusion spread across her face. She dropped what she had managed to grab.

“Why in the world?” she said.

“Why in the world yourself.”

“A kitten?”

“Yes, a kitten. Found it on the side of the road. Supposed to just leave it there, was I?”

She blinked. “No, of course not, but—“

“Want to tell me what happened here?”

“I couldn’t look at it anymore,” she said.

He nodded and joined her on the floor. He handed her the grey kitten. It mewed and purred a low rumble in her hands. She brought it up to her face and rubbed the fur against her tearstained cheek. The kitten didn’t seem to mind.

Davis watched her while he picked at the white wood splinters on the floor. 

“You know, I miss her too. I know we never got to meet her, but I miss her.”

Trinity touched his knee with the hand that wasn’t holding the kitten. She was afraid to let it go, even as it wriggled, ready to explore the abstract expressionist painting that the room had become.

“I didn’t know that,” she said.

“I’m just so full of anger.” His face grew pink and tears danced at the edge of his eyelid. 

Trinity shrank from him. He grabbed her hand and squeezed.

“Not at you,” he said,”never at you. Just, at the world, at God maybe. I just don’t understand why.”

Trinity’s shoulders relaxed, “I’m sorry. I thought you blamed me.”

“Never,” he said.

He took the kitten out of her hands and placed it down on the only clean part of the carpet that was left. He grabbed her face in both of his hands.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you, too.”