Chapter One

I was happy. Ecstatically happy. That kind of happy you get from just feeling satisfied with life. When you’re driving down the road and the trees look greener, and the scent that wafts in through the open windows smells of honeysuckles, fresh clean air, and all things good. The sky was cloudless and a brilliant shade of blue, reminding me of a clear, blue sea - sparkling, pure, immaculate. I peered at the rearview mirror and gazed at my beautiful daughter, Evie, who was now slumped over in the seat, mouth wide open, and asleep with that completely peaceful expression that only an innocent child can embody.

I don’t know why I felt so good. I mean, yeah, I’d had a nice lunch with one of my best friends at a recently renovated local restaurant appropriately named The Lunch Box, named so because, well, they were only open for lunch. I had lunch with my good friend Amy whose husband had acquired the rundown business months earlier when the previous owners had been forced into foreclosure. There had been a lot of that going around lately. Businesses, homes, and whatnot closing their doors. For sale signs fluently decorated the tiny streets of our little town. Amy of the Crazy Hair was my nickname for my old friend, due in fact to, well, her curly mane of brown hair that flayed wildly around her pale face. I should’ve called her crazy eyes too, because the woman had some crazy eyes. Not the kind that are crossed or staring off in opposite directions, but her eyes were this color, like a greenish brown – almost golden.

We hadn’t talked about much at lunch – just the upcoming school year, and Amy’s recent trip to the mountains. I talked to her about my husband, Peter, who was meeting with a literary agent this afternoon, Evie, my daughter, starting kindergarten, my parent’s upcoming anniversary, and my recent bankruptcy. Nothing uplifting. Nothing that would make me feel so alive. I wondered where this high was coming from. Not that I minded it. I certainly didn’t. It was a welcome change to my normally somber mood. It was just curious.

Maybe the waiter had slipped something in my coffee.

Maybe to him, I’d looked like I needed a little pick-me-up.

I hadn’t been sleeping well. My eyes wore constant bags of purple beneath them. Crazy dreams. I’d always had them, but of late, they’d become increasingly more violent. More vivid and disturbing. Last night I’d had one about Evie. I had never dreamt of Evie this way. She was dead, but alive. And not at all the angelic child I was looking at now, slumbering so sweetly in the backseat of the car. The dream had me so badly shaken that when I woke, despite the hour, I was unable to fall back asleep. So, I had stayed up most of the night, quietly skulking about the house, trying to do laundry, ironing, some mending, anything that would not create much of a din, respectful of the fact that everyone else in my house was still sleeping soundly. Anything to pass the time until everyone else was up, and I wasn’t left alone to try and distract myself from the remnants of the dream that still lingered all around me like a dark cloud.

And then there was the problem with my ears. This had always made having a good night’s sleep near impossible. I was diagnosed with Hyperacusis when I was a teenager. I had learned to manage it well. Better than most. Hyperacusis just means that I am highly sensitive to noises and sounds. Most of the time, I wear earplugs to drown out the noise. In the winter, I might throw on earmuffs, but it’s very difficult to sleep with the bulky muffs on. I’d learned over the years to consciously siphon out the insignificant drivel and focus in on the things that matter. An impossible feat for most with my ailment.

My doctors still puzzle at how I am able to do this. Beats me. I just do it.

I pulled into the driveway. Our house was somewhat large. Peter had inherited the two-story farmhouse from his parents. It was white with green shutters. We’d just had it painted a few years earlier, and the paint was peeling already. I cursed every time I took notice. Apparently, the painters had used the cheapest paint they could find. Chuck, Amy’s husband, who knew a lot more about repairs and handyman stuff, explained to me that the painter had also skimped by only putting on one coat of paint instead of two. I was so pissed off that I had written a letter to the paper and given them poor reviews online. I had hoped that after it was published that the lowlifes wouldn’t even be able to get jobs painting toenails.

The roof of the house was tin, and the upstairs attic windows jutted out flush with the roof of the porch, a ginormous porch that encompassed the entire length of the front of the house. We lived on the first level because the upstairs was unbearably hot in the summertime and like a meat locker in the winter, and I, being the sole breadwinner, simply did not have the money to have heat and air installed.

We lived in the little town of Foster, just on the southern outskirts of Athens, Georgia. It was a small town, but we had a post office, a grocery store (Quality Grub), several car repair shops, a couple of churches and gas stations, and thanks to the expansion of the growing city of Athens, a good many restaurants.

I noticed Peter hadn’t left yet as he’d planned, and my stomach lurched. I really don’t know why. I loved my husband. Deeply. But for some reason, at times, he made me nervous and uneasy. He’d never given me a reason to feel this way. Sometimes he could be distant, cold even, but nothing that should create this feeling of anxiety that I always felt when I was around him. But I was anxious. Always had been. When we’d met, I figured it was just me being awkward. I’d thought that as time passed, I’d loosen up, feel more comfortable around him. But that moment never came. I married him and assumed after spending day in and day out with this man, sharing the bed with him, lying together until the wee hours of the morning talking over coffee, bearing his child, that I wouldn’t feel like I was still married to a complete stranger. But I did. Every day was like meeting him for the first time. I knew everything about him, but still felt as though I knew nothing about him. But regardless of the lack of sleep and the pitch in my gut at seeing Peter, I still felt good. Really good.

I bounded out of the car. I was still brimming with the euphoria I had been feeling just moments prior to pulling in front of my home. The slam of the car door woke Evie. She stretched, sleepy-eyed, and wriggled out of the back seat, gently sliding out of the car and into my arms. She felt so good. So tiny and delicate. And her smell. I buried my face in her hair, kissing her crazily as I drank it in and basked in that indescribable scent that only babies and little children have.

Peter came racing from the house pulling on his thin gray jacket while juggling his briefcase, his keys, and a handful of files, letting the rickety screen door slam behind him as he did so. I watched him race by us as I continued to stand next to the Jeep holding tight to Evie, desperately holding onto the exhilaration I had been intensely feeling. Just seeing Peter, I could feel my buzz slowly slipping away from me. I just stared at him, wondering if he was even going to acknowledge us. 

Almost like an afterthought, he backtracked to where we were standing. Evie was still groggy from her mini-nap.

“Wow, you look…different.” Peter commented on my appearance as his lips pecked my cheek.

Not sure if that was a compliment or not. He leaned and gave Evie a quick kiss on the forehead and a quick nuzzle on the head as he walked toward his car. 

I turned and watched him as he sauntered across the drive, Evie cleaving to me. 

“You leaving now?” I asked half-heartedly because somewhere inside me I was hoping he’d say yes. 

“Yeah, I got a late start,” he yelled as he opened his car door with a free finger and flung up his

hand still grappling with the files they contained. “Love you guys. I’ll be home before you go to bed,” he added as he ducked into the open car door. And that was it. He disappeared into the car, cranked it, and pulled away.

It was a minute before I realized I’d been holding my breath. Why did he have this effect on me? I felt my muscles relax instantly when the rattling of his car had faded completely in the distance. Was that Rap he was listening to? I had heard it faintly when he started his car thanks to my hyper hearing. Since when did Peter listen to rap? 

“Mommy, I’m thirsty,” Evie’s melodic voice yanked me back to the moment.

“Yeah, ok?” I answered in a foggy tone, my thoughts still lingering on the thump of the bass I

heard coming from Peter’s car. Eh. I shrugged it off, sat Evie down on her feet, and slammed the car door shut that still stood open where I’d pulled her out of the Jeep. I reached down and grabbed her hand as we went into the house.

The moment we entered the house, the stench hit me immediately. I was no idiot. I knew these smells. In addition to having Hyperacusis, my other senses were elevated as well. I smelled everything. I was like a dog only I didn’t go around sniffing people’s privates. There it was…the lingering stink of cigarette smoke…no…it was cigars, there was wine or some sort of alcohol, and perfume…it was Pleasures, Estee Lauder’s Pleasures, and I did not wear Pleasures. And sex. I smelled sex.

Sex leaves a very distinct smell. That is why it always baffled me when someone surprisingly

announced their spouse was cheating on them right up under their nose. How could they not know? How could they not smell it on them? I could single out any of my colleagues who dared to venture a little morning sex or afternoon delight and then come to work wearing it. They would reek of it. My friend, Amy, hated me for this “talent” because the harlot was a fiend for the sex.

I let go of Evie’s hand.

“Mommy, what is that smell?” She pinched her nose tight with her fingers. Incredible. It stank so bad my baby could smell it.

“Ahhh who knows?” I tried to act casual. “Probably daddy tried to cook something.” I laughed and made a yucky face. She giggled. I wore my smile, but my heart was racing. I felt the anger welling up inside me, forcing all the blood in my body to my face. Well, there went my good mood.

“Why don’t you go into the living room and pick something for us to watch? I’ll go get you some juice.” I nudged her as she skipped off in the other room. I made a beeline for the bedroom. Of course, the bed was perfectly made. There were no ashtrays, no wine glasses or bottles, no indications that anything had occurred here although the fragrance in the air told a different story. I quickly jaunted to the bathroom and did a quick look over. The shower had just been used. It was still wet and there was a soaked towel lying across the top of the laundry basket.

I headed to the kitchen. I grabbed a cup, opened the refrigerator, and started pouring Evie’s juice when I saw it. The corkscrew. It was still lying on the counter. I walked over to the garbage can, but there was nothing in it. It had just been taken out. 

Was I desperate, angry, or upset enough to be that wife? The kind of wife who would go outside and plunder through the garbage? I carefully weighed this question as I carried Evie her juice.

“Look, Mommy,” she screamed as she danced to the songs they were singing on the television. I

clapped and tried desperately to give her my undivided attention, but it was as if the garbage can out back was calling me.

“Hang on a sec, Hon,” I patted and kissed her head  reassuringly, “I gotta go out back and check on something, but I’ll be right back.”

“Ok,” she barely spoke the word as she was already again enraptured by the music, twirling

about the living room.

I darted to the back door and like a mad woman started tearing into the garbage. And let me tell

you, going through trash…not a fun task. Through the mess of meat packages and used coffee filters and other unsanitary items I refuse to acknowledge that I touched, I found nothing. I dropped the garbage I held in my hand, gently closed the lid, and went to the kitchen sink to clean up. 

As I stood there letting the warm water run over my hands, I glanced over at the corkscrew and stared at it for a long minute. What did this mean? Who was I kidding? I knew exactly what this meant. 

The phone rang, and I jumped. My ears felt like they would bleed. Though I could control the

pain in my ears most of the time, when the noise was something unexpected, I had no way of protecting them. I had no idea who in the world would be calling on the landline. We never even used it anymore.

I shook the water from my hands, wiped the excess on my shirttail, and answered. 

It was the hospital. They needed me to come right away. It was my parents.

The ride to the hospital had seemed eternal. Evie sat in the backseat, playing with her dolls, oblivious to the tumultuous day I was having. That was actually a relief. I didn’t explain where we were going, except that we had to go. I wasn’t going to take her to the hospital anyway. I didn’t know what to expect when I got there, and I certainly did not want to take her there when I hadn’t a clue as to why I was even going there. The hospital would tell me nothing over the phone except I had to come quickly.

I didn’t want to even think about why. I couldn’t.