Chapter 5
GEORGIA
Sometimes, I completely forget I’m in this prison I’ve made for myself.
Right now, as I peel the brittle paper on a bag of English breakfast tea and put the kettle on the stovetop, I forget and feel, just for a moment, like a normal, very lucky woman with a handsome, caring husband and the gift of a new baby.
I live in an enormous house and should be nothing but happy and completely untroubled.
But that only lasts for seconds, usually.
Or sometimes, when I wake up in the morning, I get to hang on to the wisps of a dream and stay suspended in that place between sleep and wakefulness, and I get to forget a little bit longer than I would if I were fully conscious.
I push the memories away and sit on a kitchen chair to take a deep, mindful breath and keep it together.
This is interrupted by my growl of frustration when I see the dirty-laundry basket sitting outside the door to the basement.
I planned to have it done now so Avery would have her favorite blanket clean, the one that she puked up on earlier. She won’t go down easily without it.
She smiles at me from her playpen set up in front of the TV, where a Teletubbies rerun plays a song that sounds like the moment in a horror movie before an evil doll comes to life and slaughters everyone.
I want to turn it off, but she squeals at it in delight and pumps her little chubby fists in the air, trying to dance along.
I tell her I’ll be right back and go to the laundry basket, hesitantly.
I fling open the door to the basement and peer down the steep staircase into the darkness.
I feel for the chain that turns on the overhead light and pull it.
These old houses are all renovated and pristine, from the open floor plans to the white quartz kitchen islands, but the basements are still dungeonesque.
I’m sure the only reason Lucas never bothered to move the laundry to the main floor the way every HGTV home-makeover show does is because he doesn’t actually do the laundry, so why would it be on his radar?
I tread carefully, the laundry basket bouncing on each step behind me as I inch my way down.
It’s just laundry. It’s just fucking laundry.
I’ll dump it in the washer, push Start, and go.
I pause at the bottom of the stairs. There are rickety wooden shelves on the wall to the right, probably original to the house, filled with rusted paint gallons and ancient oil cans, among other neglected clutter.
The washer and dryer are at the end of the cement room under an egress window that doesn’t contribute much light to the basement, as it’s masked by a huckleberry bush outside of it.
I eye the open washer, then look back up the staircase.
It’s not an irrational fear of ghosts or even rapists hiding in the shadows.
I’m not an unreasonable person. But when that sour-basement, dirty-mop-water smell hits me, I’m in that room again.
I am in that room, screaming. I’m pleading to get out. I...
There is something backed up in the utility sink near the dryer.
I can see the brown water, sitting stagnant.
Some has spilled over the sides, and the cement floor is damp where it streamed down the sloped floor to the metal drain in the middle of the room.
I gag. Then it comes, completely out of my control.
I can’t catch my breath. I’m gasping for air.
I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out.
Then, when the tears start without my permission, the sobs follow in uncontrollable hiccups at the top of each panicked hitch.
I run, almost crawling up the steep staircase.
I hear the teakettle squealing on the stovetop, which has made Avery cry, and I can only focus on catching my breath before I’m able to even stand up and go to her.
On my hands and knees at the top of the stairs, I try to stop the panic attack. I try to inhale.
Just then, Lucas opens the door from the attached garage and is met with the screeching sounds of the baby, the kettle, and me on the floor, gasping for air.
“Jesus!” He drops his things and rushes to me and puts his arm around me, helping me to sit.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he says. “Are you okay? Breathe. It’s okay, you’re okay.
” He stays with me a few moments until he sees I’m calming down.
Then he runs to turn off the screeching kettle and picks Avery up out of her playpen and comes back to sit on the floor next to me.
“See? It’s okay,” he says to her in a baby voice she likes. “Everything is just fine, right?” He bounces her on his knee, and she stops crying and grabs for his nose, smiling. “Yes, it is.” He gives her cheek a raspberry, and she giggles.
“What happened?” he asks. I can’t tell him what happened because nothing exactly did happen.
“I don’t know,” I say, getting to my feet and shakily going to sit on a dining-room chair. He is accustomed to this answer, and he knows there is nothing else he’ll get out of me. I open my arms for him to give Avery to me.
“It’s okay,” he says. “Maybe you should take a few minutes.” He puts her back in her playpen, and she is immediately engrossed in her show again.
“I’m fine now,” I add. He gives me a look. I know there is some football game tonight that he’s talked about a few times, so I try to distract him with that.
“Really. Grab your beer and watch your pregame whatever-it’s-called. I’m fine. I’ll start dinner in a little bit.”
“Why don’t you take a bath and relax for a little while first. That always helps,” he says. Except that it doesn’t, but I don’t say that. He’s already halfway upstairs to run the bath on his way to change out of his work clothes.
When I’ve bathed and changed into clean yoga pants and an oversize jumper, I make an Indian curry for dinner with jasmine rice and store-bought naan on the side.
We sit on the front porch because the evening is breezy and cool.
Lucas pulls Avery’s high chair outside and feeds her spoonfuls of carrot puree while I arrange the dishes on the small porch table.
We eat quietly. Even though he’s recording the game, he often walks over to the screen door and peers through to the TV a moment when he hears cheering or excited sportscaster voices.
I want to talk to him about Cora’s visit—her invitation to come over one afternoon with Avery—but I don’t, because it’s not possible.
Even though I fantasize about a life where, if I’m not able to go out into the world like a normal person, maybe I could at least create a small world for myself in the safety of the cul-de-sac and have some social interaction.
It’s close. It’s still safe, I think. But I am too tired for this conversation.
My face feels swollen from crying earlier, and it’s not a topic I can handle, not tonight.
After dinner I take Avery to the small park behind our house and push her on the baby swing.
After my state earlier, I know, without having to look over at the back of our house, that Lucas will peer out the window now and then to check on me.
But I wouldn’t put Avery in harm’s way for anything, so there is really no need.
I see some teenagers over by the small pond.
They’re doing tricks with their skateboards and drinking cans of something out of a paper bag.
Lucas has always said this has turned into a druggy park and to watch out, but I tell him I’ve never seen anything like that here.
I’m squinting my eyes against the low sun and straining to see what they’re up to when one of them heads over to me.
I instinctively glance toward the house to see if Lucas is there.
I stop Avery’s swing and take a step in front of her when the kid approaches.
He’s older than I thought: seventeen or eighteen, maybe.
His head is shaved on one side, with floppy bangs that hang down over his eye on the other.
“Hey, can I ask you something?” he says.
“No,” I say sternly, picking up Avery and putting her in her stroller.
“Whaa!” He does some kind of bro laugh. “Whoa, I can’t ask you something?”
“Are you selling something?” I ask.
“Do you want me to be?” he says, smirking.
“Because only people selling something ask a stranger Can I ask you something? Like the guy at a mall kiosk trying to sell sunglasses or the guy outside the grocery store asking who your phone carrier is. I’m not interested in buying the burned CD your band made, but thanks anyway.”
“Daaamn. Rich lady got some attitude, for real. Nah, I ain’t selling anything,” he says and pulls out a tiny bag of weed from his shorts, just enough for me to see what it is.
“What makes you think you can come over here—where there is a baby, mind you—and try to sell me pot? Are you insane?”
“Chicks like you are my best customers. Plus, it’s free for you.
This one time.” He looks around and then reaches out to hand it to me.
I stand there with a hand on one hip and the expression on his face grows impatient.
He’s careful, eyeing the surrounding area to make sure there are no cops or onlookers.
I want it. I need it. But what if Lucas is watching right now? How would I explain it? Especially with Avery right here. I couldn’t. I can’t take it.
“Shove it in my pocket,” I say quickly.
“What?” he says.
“Shove it in my goddamn pocket,” I snap.
He laughs and mumbles some joke about knowing how I like it, but he does as I ask.
When he does, I lift my hands up in protest and back away from him.
Just in case Lucas sees, I look like I’ve been forced, assaulted even.
I know it’s a little much, but I need it.
The kid gives another smirk and then a wink as he leaves, telling me he’ll see me again. I put the pot in my bra and walk quickly home, my heart beating hard in my chest.
This could change things. This could change everything.