The Out

Chapter 8

Stacy held Carrie. Carrie had woken up in the middle of the night crying, so Stacy had snuggled her back into safety. She was a beautiful toddler, and just holding her against her chest made Stacy's breasts remember the milk they once held. This toddler was a part of her, so young, so perfect. How could anything so perfect come from a mother so flawed? Stacy didn't know, but Carrie had.

She sat with the information she had just learned after David's work. So he was sleeping around. What should she do with this info? What could she do with it? In a way, it wasn't surprising. As Stacy spun around with the info in her head, she could only feel a dull pain. Was she jealous of this Lulu woman? For what? It wasn't like Lulu had taken something that Stacy was using in the first place. Did Stacy wish she was Lulu? Maybe. Other people's homes had always held an attraction for Stacy, when she assumed they were happier and better than her own, because it seemed that most were. They were cleaner, more sorted. If the physical world reflected the inner world, she need only look around to see the chaos of her own mind.

Stacy wondered if there were other women. She wondered if it mattered. She tried to imagine David with them, but she couldn't get it through her head, because it was so unlike the tired man who came home to her every night, quiet at the dinner table and making a beeline for the bed to sleep in. What was he like with Lulu? Perhaps Stacy envied that. Had she ever had that version of David? Once, years ago, before Carrie. Before the pregnancy, even? It had been brief then. Maybe it wasn't even real or fated to last.

Carrie stirred again and Stacy rocked her. The house was dark, so that Stacy could not see the clutter that filled the shelves and sometimes the floor. The mess was invisible. It was quiet and peaceful. Sometimes it was easier to be awake in the dead hours than the live ones. The live ones had so many obligations, missed opportunities, the sight of people who actually moved on with their lives and made something of themselves. But now that was all dormant. If she went outside, most of her neighbors would be asleep. If she went to the strip mall, all the stores would be closed. If she got in the car, she'd only meet truck drivers and minimum-wage workers doing overtime at the rare fast food restaurant or convenience store. No one more successful than herself or David, just blue collar workers making the best living available to them.

The grocery store was closed; no opportunity to replenish the produce in the fridge, so frozen food would have to do for another night. Every place that might stress or strain her, was closed. Stacy could relax. No reason to feel bad about neglecting the art museum when it wouldn't open for another five hours. Late night cable television was all the entertainment she needed. Sometimes she'd pop in a VHS tape, but she rather liked the movies on late night. They were older, but everything in recent years had gone to crap anyway, so she nostalgically enjoyed the movies of her youth. Maybe she'd have another drink; it wasn't daytime drinking if it was in the middle of the night. Maybe it would even help her sleep.

What drink tonight? She'd gone through all the wine, and not replenished the whiskey. Ah, some vodka left. Just as well, her waistline was getting big again and she needed to watch that. Vodka mixed with seltzer, that would be a nice buzz.

Would Carrie care if she got drunk? No, she was back asleep in her bed, and would probably stay that way the whole night. Crisis averted. Motherhood performed.

Stacy felt the vodka slide down her chest, its warmth almost as good as when Carrie slept against her. In a little while, Lulu wouldn't matter. David would be just another person who happened to be sleeping in her bed. But she didn't need the bed. This couch, for all its toddler stains, was comfortable enough to fall asleep on. There was a good movie on TV, she'd caught it halfway through but had seen it before so whatever. In a few minutes, the buzz would hit her brain and she'd stop analyzing every plot hole. She would watch the movie as if childlike. Everything would make sense. She would disengage with the world just enough to better engage with the entertainment. She would turn off the parts of her mind that troubled her. And, if only for a few hours, she would be free.