It started with chicken breasts falling, chicken breasts falling off the over-stuffed shelf to the row below, an equally crammed expanse of grayish-pink poultry bodies. The slapping noise jolted her out of her moody thoughts and brought her back to reality: the grocery store, Monday, 3 pm.
The act of bending to pick up the fallen packages embarrassed her almost as much as the noise they'd made, that bare and open sound of flesh striking flesh, a noise that was so raw and primal she wanted to close her eyes for a minute, just a minute, while she got her bearings and was able to respond, with a quick, confident smile, to the gazes of the young couple and the dirty toddler beside her.
Just chicken breasts falling, she thought, but as the shelf continued to waver her unsteady hand made more of the packages fall like dominoes--like lemmings. It could have, it should have, been comical, but with that feeling coming on each slap felt like a warranted reproach, and all she really wanted to do was cry.
The toddler was grimy and scantily dressed for the chill of the meat aisle, and the mother had bad teeth, chipped and gaping, the teeth of a mouth she could hardly imagine kissing, let alone loving to the point of creating a baby, and she momentarily felt cynical, but then the absurdity of her own situation--the fact of the breasts falling, the fact of the breasts, the breasts that were not unlike her own breasts, the breasts she'd used to feed her child, the "time bombs," she'd heard, "waiting to happen"--hit her and she succumbed once more to the feeling, the feeling that made everything so strange and shaky in the first place.
It had been a difficult morning, preceded by a night of insomnia that left her shattered and groggy by six, when the alarm went off. The internal battle to shut off the snooze, drag herself out of the blankets, and propel herself out of the bedroom, down the hall, and into the kitchen was made more difficult by the fact that she'd drunk a bottle of wine the night before; the rebelliousness that pushed her to do that had mutated, by morning, into a simmering anxiety about her drinking, among other things--into worries, intensified by a stabbing headache and dry, dirty taste in her mouth, that were difficult to ignore.
She’d made it to the coffee maker and turned it on, her mood briefly brightening with the comforting sounds of the machine and the smell of the coffee; for a moment, she leaned against the counter and rested her head in her hands, resolving, once again, to approach the day with a new, dynamic, positive perspective.
The sound of the baby crying drew her out of the beginnings of a dream, the insomnia having finally given way to dark curtains falling mercifully around her, and she wrenched her head up and looked at the clock on the stove: 6:45. Late.
The coffee hadn't finished brewing but she grabbed the carafe and poured it into a cup, then, adding a hefty amount of creamer, stirred it hastily with a fork. The house was rarely tidy by morning—or nighttime, for that matter--and it wasn't unusual for the first hour of the day to play out like this--a mad scramble for spoons, razors, and matching socks, a kind of real-life board game with real-life penalties and setbacks that, for some reason, never sank in.
Lifting the cup to her mouth, she walked towards to the bedroom yelling "Hon! Hon! You're going to be late!" and then shook, with her free hand, the lumpy shape of her sleeping husband.
"Hon, get up!" she said again, then lurched towards the baby's room. The motion--the turning, especially--prompted a fresh series of piercing jabs, and she instinctively raised her hand to press it against her head. In her foggy state, however, she forgot, or neglected to consider, the cup in her hand and the contents it held; sloshing jerkily, the hot coffee spilled over the rim and down her nightgown, landing in a splotchy puddle around her feet.
"Dammit! Fuck!" she said. Her head spun from the hangover and sleepless night, and she sensed the approach of the strange agitation, the strange feeling that had been growing for the last few weeks, or was it months? Years? She couldn’t remember when it had started and she wasn’t sure what it meant, and anyway, maybe it didn’t matter--what did matter was getting the baby dressed and ready for day care, so, bracing herself against the wall, praying the spinning would fade, she opened the bedroom door. With that movement a surge of brackish floodwater rose from the reeds in a neglected part of her mind, taking the spinning to the level of a nightmare carnival ride, and as she gasped the smell of diarrhea registered. That was too much--everything was suddenly too much—and as she dropped to the floor, the floodwater rose. Relieved now, almost…happy, she opened her mouth and released a wave of wine and coffee all over the pink fluffy rug.
Hours had passed since then and now the episode seemed like a dream: her husband, taking pity on her, had gotten the baby cleaned up—a dinner of apple sauce was to blame for the diarrhea—and off to day care, effectively saving the day, or the morning at least. After dozing till early afternoon she’d mustered some energy, showered, and dragged the baby’s rug out the back door, to be dealt with at a later date; knowing apple sauce was not an acceptable dinner option and they were out of wine, she’d gotten into her beat-up Honda and driven to the store. On the way, she told herself it wasn’t for her she was buying more wine--that morning, like so many previous mornings, she’d resolved to go cold turkey—but it was possible a friend would come over, and they had to have something, didn’t they, to offer? The thought of a bottle of wine sitting cold in the fridge, waiting to be opened, with the jolly popping sound of the cork, and then poured, with a soft gurgle, into a sparkling crystal glass cheered her. They neither had friends nor wine glasses, and they definitely didn’t own anything made of crystal, but it was nice to imagine such a pleasant, normal scenario, and it wasn’t until she got to the grocery store that she was aware of a craving for a drink.
She made it past the beer and wine section and, though she thought the craving, triggered by the jangliness of the store--the fluorescent lights, paralyzing choices, and seemingly leering strangers—might fade, the sick thuds of the chicken breasts had made it stronger: she needed a beer, a glass of wine, anything to numb her senses and take away the conviction that the whole store was whispering “freak.” She was sure of it—the couple with the toddler had moved away, but they’d seen her, and there was a manager-looking man over near the sausages, pretending not to watch her but probably thinking she was drunk. If only she was drunk! she laughed to herself, knowing it wasn't very funny.
Avoiding the man’s eyes, she gripped the handle of the cart and pushed it—since when were shopping carts so heavy?—towards the baby aisle. They were always running out of diapers, and the thought of that, of the general shabbiness and disorganization of their lives, coincided with another thought, the one she’d been avoiding all morning. The strange agitation that had been lurking below the surface, that had flared up that morning and now again, with the falling chicken breasts, was not going away. She knew that suddenly. Maybe, she thought, she should think about it, try to figure out what it meant.
Absentmindedly fingering a set of plastic toddler cups, she tried to remember when it started. She'd become aware of a simmering anxiety sometime in the course of their changing life, since adulthood took over and all the changes took place. That life had changed over the years was undeniable: her husband had taken a stressful job with long hours, and she’d gone from “looking for work” to “stay-at-home mom”; the amount of time she spent on the couch watching TV was in glaring contrast to his ragged salesman schedule. Tension had grown between them, and in their ten years together they’d become different people: her once slim shape was replaced by dumpiness brought on by snacking and indolence, and he’d become a gaunt, greyer version of his younger self; emotionally, they seemed to have gone through a mutual clearing-out that left them unable to connect. Things were not great between them, she knew, but their story was not unlike that of many couples, and it didn’t seem that the restless anxiety, the feeling, was due to their marriage.
Was it the baby? Obviously, that had been a positive addition to their lives, but, like so many things, an unexpected set of problems had come along too that sometimes made her wonder if it was all worth it. That sort of thinking generally only happened in the middle of the night, during her worst bouts of insomnia, but when she allowed herself to consider all the terrible things that could happen—sickness, accidents, kidnappings—and thought about the fact that one day, inevitably, she would be separated from her child, the sadness was almost too much to bear. She was a good mother, for the most part: sometimes negligent, it was true, but mostly just in mild ways, like in not keeping the house clean or in giving the baby apple sauce for dinner. She tried, she really did, to play and to be a fun mother, so what difference did it make if the edges were a little rough? Things were chaotic a lot of the time, but there was love in their house.
She wandered slowly towards the dairy section. Was it her childhood? She’d always been prone to feeling like an outcast. School had been one long string of painful experiences that taught her not to trust certain types of people, and above all, to keep to herself; it was only after meeting her husband, who’d endured his own share of playground torture and developed a similar attitude of self-protection, that she’d been able to let her guard down. When they moved in together things had gotten easier—she’d been almost lighthearted for a while—but complacency had set in and her tendency to drink to loosen up became a habit; before they knew it, her consumption became a lead weight they both carried.
Well, she thought, gazing at a display of crackers, it could be her drinking then. She’d read enough to know that after time it altered your brain chemistry, making you anxious and depressed. Was that it--was she anxious and depressed? She stared at the image of a dancing cracker. Maybe, but…it was strange—whenever she thought of horses, which she’d loved since she was little, the feeling became really strong. It was so strong then, so clear and overwhelming, she thought that sometime, in some way, she might do something crazy. She wasn’t sure what, but when she imagined the beautiful horses from the posters of her youth and thought about the feeling of freedom she might have sitting on the back of a glorious, full-boned palomino, its silky mane brushing her face, her life at that moment totally complete and perfect—when she thought about that, the agitation came over her and she thought she understood why, sort of, some people did strange and unexpected things.
Besides horses, there was her writing, of course. She’d always loved to write, and had thought stories would bring her success, redeem her in the eyes of the world and free her from the constraints she felt so strongly, but soon after college that love turned into a hobby—a hobby!—and then drifted by the wayside. She wrote a little now and then, but with chores and her TV shows she found it difficult to make the time; like so many things, it was now mostly a source of depression she preferred not to think about.
It was cold in the store. She’d been pushing the cart aimlessly, nervously thinking about the agitation that was growing steadily--frighteningly quickly. She tightened her grip on the shopping cart and forced her features into a look of calm. Ha, she thought—calm!
Turning a corner, she saw the wine and beer section. The effort of trying to look normal was having the reverse effect, making her more distraught, and all she wanted then was a drink. Fuck it, she thought, I’ve been through enough today, and wheeled the cart towards the white wine. Reaching up for her usual—cheap, not too sweet, fairly drinkable—she grasped the bottle and, squeezing its neck with both hands, pressed it momentarily between her breasts. The glass felt solid and comforting, and the thought of the first sip, with its miraculous power to simultaneously brighten and conceal, brought her a rush of relief. She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them the store looked friendlier somehow--the lighting less harsh, the colors and displays almost pleasant. She felt a little lighter then--almost...capable--and, her worries about the strange feeling temporarily at bay, she walked to the register, paid, and went out to the parking lot.
When she got to the car, she threw the groceries in the trunk and, climbing into the front seat, rolled down the window. The air felt fresh and clean, and for a while she just sat there. Calmed by the presence of the wine, she started thinking again about her life and the strange feeling, now so clearly intertwined.
Outside, above the car, a gigantic flock of black birds was shifting and flapping in the trees. With eerie shrieks they called to each other, and the noise they made—wild, sad, and unearthly, the sound of lost creatures in a cold and lonely place—sounded strangely familiar. For some reason, she didn’t understand herself yet, but she felt like she understood, at least, what the birds were saying. That struck her as funny, and, turning on the car, looking over her shoulder to back up, she smiled.
