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Lynn Tatum

LYNN TATUM STOOD IN the center of the cluttered home office (formerly back bedroom, pre-pandemic) of her house on Morning Glory Road, staring at the note taped to the center of her computer monitor: Wasn’t sure if you were working today. Didn’t want to wake you. Went to grab juice—be right back. Kids playing in Gracie’s room. —J

She looked up at the clock on the far wall—quarter to eleven. She’d overslept, and yes, she was supposed to work today. Shit.

Goddamn dizzy spell got her out of bed. Yanked her from a half-pleasant dream about a vacation they’d taken to Club Med at Turks and Caicos a lifetime ago (before kids) when she was still happy (before marriage) and still had some semblance of a body (before daily double caramel macchiatos). She’d woke with the world tilting, nearly fell from the bed, then managed to get her shit remotely together.

Still half asleep, Lynn dropped down into her chair and squealed as something bit into the meaty part of her ass. She jumped back up again, glaring down at the wood seat—one of Oscar’s Matchbox cars. The silver Aston Martin with the missing hood and bent door. She swatted the small car across the room, watched it crack against the wall and vanish behind the white banker boxes stacked precariously in the corner. It left a mark in the drywall. Lynn didn’t much care. Let Josh add that to his Saturday project list, the one that never seemed to get started.

Josh’s desk sat back-to-back with Lynn’s, and while her workspace was relatively free of clutter (there was a coaster for her coffee mug, nothing else, because a coaster was far less unsightly than stains left by unprotected cups), Josh’s desktop was buried under accounting books, printouts of IRS code, knickknacks, and God knows what else he needed to keep his daily shit show of an accounting company running. How the man was able to function at all was a mystery. She’d given up picking up after him. Maybe she should hang a sheet across the room, divide the cramped space. Subtle enough hint, Joshy dear? Maybe.

Down the hall, Gracie yelped, Oscar laughed, then the sound of spilling trash. Lynn knew exactly what that was—they’d tipped Gracie’s toy chest and dumped the contents across her bedroom floor. Like their father, those two had mess making down to an art form.

Lynn groaned and closed her eyes. She drew in a deep breath and held it for a moment. The Ambien she took last night had filled her head with cobwebs, made her thoughts sticky. She didn’t want to work (Sunday, no less!). Lynn hated her job. She should go back to bed, sleep it off. Just this once, take the rest of the morning for herself. Let Josh figure out how to cover the mortgage payment. The utilities. Groceries. Gas in that beater he forced her to drive around. Let Josh deal with the kids. Let Josh—

Another crash from Gracie’s room.

She leaned back and shouted over her shoulder. “What are you two doing in there?!”

They didn’t answer. Of course not. Why would they?

Lynn tugged open her center drawer, took out the three pill bottles, and lined them up on the edge of the desk. She popped the tops and dry-swallowed one of each. The white pill would wipe away the last of the Ambien and help her focus. The blue one silenced the ugly thoughts. And the yellow pill … she wasn’t a hundred percent sure what that one did, but her doctor had prescribed it, and that was good enough for her. She needed a shower, but there was no time for that.

Returning the bottles, Lynn leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes again.

Gracie screamed, a gut-wrenching, high-pitched shrill. Lynn felt the blade of it scrape down her spine. She kept her eyes closed. Whatever they were doing in there, Josh could deal with it.

Her computer dinged and a box popped up in the center of the screen, directly behind Josh’s note, like her asshole of a husband had purposely placed it in the most intrusive spot he could find. Maybe he did. A little fuck-you before abandoning his morning responsibilities. She didn’t for a second believe he’d gone to grab juice. More likely, he went to play a quick game of grab-ass with Nancy Buckley two streets over while her husband was out golfing. That’s where she’d found his car the last time he’d gone to get juice.

Gracie and Oscar were laughing again. She heard small feet run down the hallway, thud down the steps. So much for staying in Gracie’s room.

Not her problem.

Josh’s problem.

His turn to watch the kids while she worked.

Her computer dinged again with another text box. The sound of that ding cut nearly as deep as Gracie’s scream.

She pulled the note off of her monitor.

The box on the screen said: Lanford Collection Services: 23 calls in queue. Log in to earn big bucks on a bonus Sunday!

She couldn’t do it. Not yet. Not until the pills kicked in. And why was that taking so long? Because she’d taken them without water? No, that couldn’t be it. Maybe she needed to take more? She’d taken two Ambiens last night instead of one, maybe that was it.

Thumping footsteps again, like two small animals racing up the stairs. A moment later, Gracie’s door slammed shut. That was followed by shouting. Both Gracie and Oscar screaming over each other, the words so muffled they were meaningless.

Lynn reached over, slammed her own door, and immediately regretted it. The clutter in the confined space seemed to inch closer. They’d discovered mold in the house back when they first bought it. Josh swore he got it all out, but if he did, would she smell that?

A new box appeared: Lanford Collection Services: 29 calls in queue. You’re missing out! Lost seconds = lost opportunities!

Oscar yelled. Something about the color red.

Lynn closed her eyes again and pressed the palms of her hands against her ears.

Why weren’t the damn pills working?

She yanked open her drawer and eyed the bottles. Maybe one more of each.

Just one.