1. A SHADOW AT THE GATE

A SHADOW AT THE GATE

I slid in my thick wool socks, cutting off my daughter, Victoria. "GOTCHA!" I yelled, hoisting her up to kiss her flushed cheeks–not so easy since she'd turned eight.

"Ria, where's your sister?" I asked, setting her gently on the ground while searching for my six-year-old.

Victoria shrugged and shoved her curls out of her eyes before turning on her heel and skipping away. Just then, hard little feet thundered across the hardwood as Olivia, ever-active, rounded the corner and slammed into the wall with a thud. She grunted and shook her head before spinning around to announce herself.

"Hello! It's me!" she called out, giggling, her green eyes wild with delight. Olivia was a miniature version of me, with the same wild dark hair, the same eyes, and the same chaotic energy. Throwing out her arms like bird's wings, she leapt onto my chest, forcing a grunt out of me and nearly taking me to the ground.

"There you are!" I wrapped my arms around her tight and kissed the top of her head. I set her down gently, her feet barely touching the floor before she took off after her big sister, with me hot on their heels. All three of us dashed through the house, this way and that, howling with laughter.

My love for those two tiny people swelled in my chest with every cackle and guffaw as I roared behind them, doing my best monster impression. It was this love that allowed me to push through the unyielding exhaustion each day, hour after hour–picking up around the house, packing organic lunches, stumbling through meltdowns and backtalk. The endless appointments, and endless worrying, and cooking, and cleaning, and baths, and battles–over, and over, and over. But times like these, the love, the belly laughs, make it all worth it, and there's no place else I'd rather be.

I snatched a stack of pajamas from the arm of the couch as I sprinted past, tucking them under my arm like a football while in hot pursuit of my little ones, who were headed for a dead-end in the hallway. They slid to a stop, whirling, eyes wide with amusement and mock horror as I closed in on them, creeping ever so slowly and growling. Once their anticipation reached a crescendo, I dropped to my knees, and we fell into a group hug, pajamas tumbling from my arms to a heap on the floor.

"Can you guys keep it down?!" barked my husband, Steven, from inside his office, where he'd holed himself up for the past twelve hours and for pretty much every day over the last two miserable years. I rolled my eyes and felt my jaw ache.

"Nope, caan't. Life's happening out here!" I called to him through the wall, trying my best to temper the rage building inside of me. Heat spread through my belly and chest, burning up the joy.

Steven yanked the office door open and stuck his pinched face into the hall, "I'm in a MEETING!" he growled through his teeth, eyes narrowed to two hateful slits.

"Daddy! Play with us!" Olivia cried.

"Take them somewhere else!" he snarled. Then, without warning, he slammed the door shut in our faces.

My blood roiled. I balled my fists at my side until my nails dug into my palm, then relaxed them, focusing on the lingering throb. In that moment, I hated him so much it was blinding. And I imagined what it would feel like to punch him in his stupid face, how my knuckles would feel grazing the shadow of his light brown stubble. I blinked, forcing my rage down to a simmer. I sucked in a deep breath, in for four, hold for four, out for four , then turned my attention back to my girls, who were still smiling, though their eyes were watchful. What do I say? I made eye contact with Victoria and then Olivia, shrugging, "it looks like your dad is upset. It's okay to be mad but not okay to yell and slam doors, right?" They nodded. "Okay. Let's get you into your pajamas so we can read your new books! Does that sound fun?"

I smiled, pretending that Steven's explosion hadn't rubbed off on me, leaving a film of unsteadiness. I handed each girl a pajama set. Victoria politely thanked me. Olivia hugged hers into her chest and bounced on her toes.

"After getting yourselves all cozy, can you each choose one book and meet me on the couch?" I asked, tapping my chin and pretending to mull it over. "Who is faster? Is it Ria? Or Liv? Hmm."

They squealed and then raced toward their room, exchanging competitive taunts back and forth. When they were out of sight, I whirled toward the wall that separated me from my husband and dragged my hands down my tired, puffy face, exhaling forcefully. I would never actually harm my husband. But! I could beg the universe to do it for me, and so I did just that for the fifth time that day. I hoped that the next time he boarded a plane, it would, I don't know, accidentally eject him. Then guilt gripped me and I banished the thought. I'd never wish anything like that on my little ones, especially not after the way I lost my father. A few minutes later, I sat with my girls curled into my body on the blue velvet couch in the living room, their limbs this way and that, soft little bodies and hard elbows sunk into my belly, bruising a rib. Olivia's head rested on my chest, her legs straight up in the air to admire the different bugs printed on her gray pajamas. Victoria lay to my right, her head on my shoulder, where she could no doubt smell the fragrance of the dry shampoo I used so frequently that sometimes I worried my head might catch fire. Olivia pointed to the illustration of a spider on her knee. Victoria judgmentally scrunched her nose and smoothed the lines of her purple nightgown. I took stock of the state of my house: a small laundry basket was parked on the vintage media center below a painting of a woman giving birth to a clock; the chandelier over the dining table needed a few new bulbs. At least the girls were mostly clean and dressed well (at least in the early part of the day), although Olivia was often speckled in dirt or mystery debris. I, on the other hand, almost always looked like I was coming off of a bender, wearing the same three-days-in-a-row stained black lounge set, my hair corralled into a crunchy pile on top of my head, eyes perpetually bloodshot from a never-ending string of long days. At only thirty-five, I felt somewhere around nine hundred. I yawned, and Olivia followed. We read the two books a million times each until their eyelids were heavy, and the only sounds in the house came from the hardwood creaking like it was stretching and relaxing after a hard day of being trampled.

It was only seven-thirty, early by most standards, but my body sagged beneath the pressures of the day. Hand in hand, I walked my groggy girls up a small flight of stairs to bed, my back aching just above my hips from the strain of their weight as I lifted each into bed. I kissed each of them on the head and then leaned in to whisper, "you are loved, you are safe," before double-checking the windows and turning on the low hum of the sound machine–a magical invention that allowed the girls to practically sleep through an earthquake. I closed their door slowly.

In the kitchen, I paused to pour myself a comically large glass of red wine, swiped the nanny cam from the counter, and headed towards the back door, where I nabbed my beanie from the coat hook with my pinkie finger. A few drops of Malbec hit the floor. I shrugged and stepped over it on the way to my little studio, which was attached to the garage in the backyard. The cold nipped at my face. Shriveled leaves shook in the oak trees, and a fat squirrel raced along the power line with a massive acorn clenched in its teeth. Despite the long day, a smile pulled at the corners of my mouth.

I kicked the door to my studio open and it crashed into the wall behind. "Shit," I muttered. I breathed in the pungent smell of wet oil paints and used my elbow to switch on the lights before placing my wine and the nanny cam on a small desk. I stretched the green beanie over my head, bun and all, then plopped down in front of my easel. A wall-size canvas, my painting in progress, loomed over the space.

"Hey there, cutie," I cooed.

The giant face of Rebecca–a differently-abled elderly Shih Tzu–stared out at me. Her little fuzzy body posed in front of Fleur De Lille wallpaper. With the space heater on full blast, roasting my right side straight through my wool loungewear, I surveyed the full scope of the ancient dog with her crooked head and glossy eyes.

"Oh, Rebecca, you're a hot fucking mess,"

I chuckled to myself, shaking my head in amusement. The dog I saw in front of me was missing teeth and probably wouldn't make it to Solstice. Nevertheless, her owner, Barbara, had commissioned a portrait every year and for the past five years, each one a little larger than the last; the canvas grew because Rebecca's spirit grew, although her aging body shrank and withered.

I loved my job. It wasn't the one I'd envisioned for myself, but I did enjoy it. I'd never planned on painting pets. But I liked dogs, and it was easy to do after the kids went to bed.

After adding some finishing touches to Rebecca's crooked right paw (a glossy Fuchsia toe polish), I noticed the time. Ten already? I arched my back and raised my arms to breathe deeply. My lungs inflated to their fill, stretching my rib cage in a dull and glorious ache.

Back inside the house, I checked on the girls, lingering for a moment in their bedroom doorway to watch their chests rise and fall, adoring the way their dark hair framed their light olive faces–a gift we all received from my late father's deep brown Persian complexion, along with mauve lips, and an impressive unibrow–and resisted the urge to kiss them goodnight again. Humming to myself, I wandered toward the kitchen, pausing briefly at Steven's office door to listen to him pound on his keyboard, before continuing on to pour myself a titch more wine before going out to the front porch.

The porch swing squeaked beneath me; the brisk air kissed my cheeks as I settled into my happy place, rocking back and forth. The dim street lights were the only lights on at this hour, the sky so black that it seemed to swirl like smoke around the new moon and few visible stars. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and typed a text to Steven.

"It's pretty out. If you get a break, come hang out for a bit."

I swung a little, hoping that maybe he'd come out, and maybe he'd be nice.

"In meetings with the project managers in China."

I swallowed my disappointment and frustration and slipped my phone back into my pocket. The night was silent as a tomb. I scanned our front yard and the road beyond it for signs of life before I reached under the cushion to claw out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. I lit one and took a drag, leaning back to let my mind wander.

Steven and I had bought the porch swing the same day we closed on the house. I'd insisted we put it together right away, too, so we could have a glass of champagne to celebrate on our porch "like a sweet old married couple." After finishing the bottle of champagne, we'd had sex in the living room and slept on a mattress on the living room floor. Steven had laughed a giddy laugh and rolled into me. He'd looked into my eyes and touched the tip of my nose gently with his pointer finger, mouthing, "I love you." I'd leaned in to kiss him, flicking my tongue into his mouth, before falling asleep next to him.

But we hadn't sat together on the porch for years . Hell, we'd barely spoken for years–not since his career took off. Sometimes I ached for the life I'd had before he shut me out, before the loneliness crept in and stayed. For all its joys, being a parent was by far the most isolating thing I'd ever done. Most days, I barely interacted with other adults. Most days, all I did was direct little people in the ways of the world, coaxing them to eat and clean themselves, playing, praising, and singing songs about a goddamn spider that wouldn't stop climbing up a fucking spout. So much time spent on my knees naming feelings, taking deep breaths, and occasionally blocking tiny flailing bodies from slamming into me with their small, swinging arms.

I was lonely. I was bored. And I was so fucking tired all the time.

My phone vibrated with another message, this time from my sister, Jess.

"Whatcha doin' sis?" she'd written.

I quickly typed out, "Nothing."

"You lying filth," she scolded, "You're smoking. Put that shit out."

I grinned and sent a picture of me flipping her off.

"Ha!" she replied, then sent one back. "Whatever. Twat. See you tomorrow!"

As I slid my phone back into my jacket, it vibrated again. This time, it was an email alert from the PTA at the girls' school. I huffed. "It's Socktober! Don't forget! Accepting donations!" I groaned, then added "socks" to my shopping list and hoped that this week, unlike last week or the week before, I'd remember to grab them for the drive.

Footsteps sounded on the sidewalk, and I panicked, plunging my cigarette deep into the shadows behind the swing. Gods forbid someone see me smoking, especially one of the parents at Ria and Liv's school. Those blood-thirsty soccer moms would come unhinged, and, I didn't feel like doing the justifying and apologizing, "I only smoke once in a while and never in front of the girls, and I always wash my hands carefully in a vat of bleach but not actual bleach, I use organic chemical free vinegar" thing.

It was true. I only smoked once in a while, and never in front of the girls, or anyone else. The only person who knew about it was my sister, who knew everything. It was a dirty, guilty pleasure, but I needed it . Once in a while, I needed to live a little dangerously, to feel a little un-mom-like, a little wild. My adult life had become nothing but caution and anxiety as I fumbled to hold on to myself, while also moving into the many new roles of motherhood. Maybe it was harder for me than others because I'd always been a little on the feral side—a little wild. And the all-consuming monotony, mixed with the anxiety of wanting to be perfect–to do better than my parents, specifically–ravaged me.

The footsteps grew louder, closer, closer, until a tall man with short, dark hair came into view. Oh, it's him; I'd seen this man before . My stomach fluttered a little. Over the past month, he'd walked by several times, always a little before midnight and often with someone beautiful on his arm, someone equally as striking. Tonight, he was dressed elegantly in a slim-cut wool coat, and holy stars was he gorgeous. Hooked on his arm was a woman who looked like she'd just stepped out of a movie screen, so lovely it should be illegal. Tall and lean and curvy, her hair sang in a satin zinc-white bob that caressed her golden shoulders.

I tracked them as they strolled past. Inhaling, I absentmindedly took a final drag from my cigarette, forgetting that the cherry would flair that bright orange. The gorgeous man's head suddenly jerked towards me, fast and animal-like, and his eyes, the most gorgeous and fierce sapphire eyes I'd ever seen--like the crashing waves of the Caribbean–bore into mine. It was predatory, that stare, and it sent a bolt of lightning through my chest. Then he turned his attention back to his date before they rounded the corner and disappeared into the night. My breathing steadied. I had no idea how he saw me so clearly up there in the shadows of the porch, clear enough to look right at me, right into my eyes, right through me.

Or maybe I was just so godsdamn lonely, so bored, that a part of me hoped he'd seen me, that somebody would see me.

I hissed as I rose to my feet and wandered down the steps to the garbage cans, carefully pinching out my cigarette and dropping it into the abyss, away from prying eyes, before tip-toeing back into the house, pausing once or twice to look over my shoulder. I could feel eyes on my back, and I wasn't sure if it was just my paranoia from sneaking around, or if my intuition was tickling the flesh on my neck to let me know that someone, somewhere, was watching me.

***

In bed, alone, I let my left leg stretch into Steven's side of the bed, a 400-thread-count Egyptian cotton desert. A small part of me wished he would finish early just once so he could lie next to me like he used to. But then again, having his arms around me would feel so foreign now, almost icky, like sinking into the sticky unknown of a stranger's hold. And the resentment was there, too, from both of us, creating an invisible barrier between us. It had been so long since we'd gone to bed at the same time, touched, or even laughed together, that I could barely remember it. I groaned and focused on the breasts of the nude portrait I'd painted in college that hung above the headboard. I followed the delicate curve of the woman's back, her round hips and full ass, down to the Persian carpet beneath her, a replica of the one in my parents' house, bought on my father's first trip back to Iran after the revolution in ‘79, when he'd fled the country like countless others. The people had wanted change; I'd heard they wanted a leader who wouldn't exploit the land for western gain. But, after the revolution, once the Shah had been exiled, a group lurked on the fringes, organized and ready. Instead of a leader who would protect them, they ended up with something else.

The moonlight made the colors of the painting glow, and I couldn't help but think of the man who passed by earlier, that beautiful face and confident stroll. He moved like an aristocrat from another time, his open coat punctuating his height and displaying his flat muscles, and his dark blue eyes that had seemed to burn into mine. My lids fluttered closed, and I slid my hand under the cool, crisp sheets. My fingers slowly searched for the slickness of my sex, the oasis in this desert, and I went to work.