Distraught

Grace pulled into the driveway of their Queen Anne house. It was only 5:30 in the evening, but the sky was already dark and the air cold. Well, cold for Louisiana at least. She sat in her Subaru, exhausted from her 14-hour shift at the hospital. She hoped Mitch would at least have dinner ready. He had been in a tough place lately. After losing his job of five years, albeit with a decent severance package, he had become withdrawn and sullen. She assumed it was just him finding his new path forward, but it had become all too common to come home and find him half-drunk while watching Teddy. They had decided to let the nanny go when Mitch lost his job to save money, and Mitch was a good dad to Teddy. But the downward spiral into his borderline depressive state and penchant for self-medication made Grace uneasy every time she left for the hospital. She turned off the engine and sat in the silent car, her breathing the only thing disturbing the silence. It was her last moment of peace and quiet before their nighttime ritual of dinner, house cleaning, and getting Teddy ready for bed. She was already looking forward to curling up in bed with the latest Rebecca Yarros novel while Mitch drunkenly snored beside her. The small things in life are what appealed to her most lately. She stepped out of the car, bundling her coat close to her to warm herself against the night air.

The steps to their home gently sighed as she climbed them. She loved the house they bought in the esteemed Garden District of New Orleans. They had moved to the area about five years ago, way before Teddy had been born and she had begun her career in nursing. An oil platform engineer, Mitch was headhunted to work for Techron Oil. It was good work, two weeks out on the rig and two weeks home. That was when Trump was in office, so the oil business was booming. However, once the new regime made it an outright goal to demonize fossil fuel, the oil companies circled the wagons and took every measure to maintain profitability. That included massive layoffs. Mitch survived the first round, and they both felt optimistic about his chances, but when the phone call came, it didn’t come as much of a shock to either of them. Luckily, Grace had a good position at the hospital, and with Mitch’s severance, they were doing okay. Mitch, at first, was excited. He could finally be a stay-at-home dad and full-time handyman around the nearly 100-year-old house. The creaky steps and peeling paint on the porch were a good indicator that the handyman portion of his plan had gone by the wayside. And the empty beer cans and whiskey bottles indicated that the stay-at-home dad portion was on its way to being an afterthought.

She unlocked the front door, a beautiful antique stained glass behemoth that Mitch had redone in their early days of owning the house. She loved this thing, and Mitch’s attention to detail on the renovation was beautiful, with the delicate carving of the wood and the crisp inlays of the stained glass showing that he loved it too. He was happy then. Two weeks home at a time, the two of them enjoying a bottle of wine in the evening and working on the house. Then he’d be off for two weeks, and Grace would throw herself into her job as a nurse. The news of her pregnancy last year overjoyed both of them. Teddy was born between Christmas and New Year's of last year, and Mitch received his pink slip in January. At first, Mitch embraced the change, but he began to slip up just like he had in Michigan. He had a tendency to get into mental ruts, becoming anti-social and turning to booze during his downtimes. Grace had suggested he seek some professional help during the first of these episodes. It occurred a few years after their marriage. Grace had been focused on her education in pursuit of nursing and Mitch was a salesman for a propane company based out of Traverse City. At night, she was always on the computer studying, and he began to stay for hours in the garage, listening to music and drinking. He would always get right up for work on time in the morning, so Grace didn’t think much of this nightly routine. Until the night she caught him attempting to hang himself from one of the beams in the garage. He claimed at the time he was screwing around with ideas for Halloween decorations, but Grace knew what a noose was, and brainstorming Halloween ideas at 2 am in June was a bullshit excuse. She begged him to seek therapy and even threatened to call the police. That following morning, he convinced her it was simply a cry for help, and he just needed a change of scenery. Shortly after, the job at Techron opened up, and they left that ominous chapter of their life in Michigan.

As she pushed the door open, she was greeted with the sweet and savory smell of dinner cooking. At least he was motivated enough to cook dinner tonight. The house was quiet, with no TV on, no music (Mitch’s favorite thing to do was blare music when Grace wasn’t home), and no Teddy crying. And oddly enough, only the light to the entryway was on. “Mitch,” Grace called out. “I’m home. Dinner smells amazing!” She dropped her bag and coat at the entryway and made her way into the house, flipping lights on she went. “You already get Teddy down?” she asked the empty room. Still nothing. They must be napping, she thought to herself. She went to the kitchen and flipped the light on. The crockpot was on the counter, bubbling with whatever delicious concoction Mitch had come up with tonight. Say what you would about Mitch, but the man could cook. She turned to the dining room and that’s when she saw Mitch sitting at the dining room table in the dark. “What are you doing?” she asked, startled. He didn’t reply. She turned the light on. Mitch looked like shit. He eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, his hair disheveled. He wore a black t-shirt that made his sullen face look ghastly pale. He stared blankly, his lips moving without saying a word. “Mitch! What’s wrong with you?” she said, her voice shrill. He made no reply, simply remained in his catatonic state, silently mumbling. The crockpot lid rattled as steam escaped, the only sound in the house. “Mitch, where is Teddy?” He didn’t reply. She went to Teddy’s room. Empty. She ran back to the dining room. “Mitch, Teddy is gone! Where is Teddy?” This time, he winced, and silent tears fell down his face. “Oh my God, Mitch! Where is Teddy? We need to call the police!” He slowly turned his eyes to her. They sat for a second, staring at each other. “MITCH, WHERE IS THE BABY?”

“I’m sorry,” Mitch whispered. The crockpot lid burped as the steam escaped.