Robin_Margeaux

Our apartment isn’t huge. It’s 700 square feet, roughly, so, with two kids plus a dog, it feels much smaller. The living room is a chaotic assortment of furniture, baby toys, Barbie dolls, crumbles of dried out play dough, junk mail, bills and shoes that no one wants to put away, no matter how simple I make it for them. Just about daily, I use a selection of expletives to inquire with each and every one of my family members how hard it is to wash a spoon. Or a cereal bowl. Or to take their dirty garments just six inches further, and into the actual hamper rather than scattered within short proximity of it.

The dining room is no bigger than a nook, really, and the cheap breakfast nook dining set, though less than a year old, sits lopsided remiss of its foot, leaving me no choice but to feed the baby seated together on the living room floor, just near Husband's desk, in the only space available. I prop Baby up in her booster chair, usually while the dog stares pathetically, wordlessly sacrificing her dignity to get in on whatever Baby’s having for lunch.

Ever since Husband’s job at the hospital became a contracted one, he’s been working from home, and our living room now serves partially as his office. He clacks away at the keyboard every now and then throughout the day, while I half-heartedly apologize for the baby's playful and complanatory shrieking sounds that disrupt his work. While I sympathize with how frustrating working from home can be, I refuse to dismiss all that I do for the kids. Lending my boob to feeding our child all day is hard enough work, but managing Dysphoric Milk Ejection Reflex alongside that is harrowing; my brain decreases dopamine and increases prolactin to allow for let down, yanking me into a dysphoric state of mind in which, simultaneously, all things are deplorable and I exist within a shell of shame, angst, and indistinct remorse for every breath I’ve ever taken. I’ve tried giving up breastfeeding a few times, only for Husband to consistently remind me that, “Breast is best.” Today, while he clears a level of a puzzle game on his phone, inactively sitting in on a phone conference, I sit cross-legged on the floor, downwind of Husband's rear end, as I come to wholly accept the question this routine begets: Am I lying to myself about enjoying the domestic life?

Refusing the sweet potato mush I’m trying to spoon into her mouth, Baby pitches back just as Husband rushes back his desk chair to stretch his legs, knocking my elbow in the process. That knobby, protruding part of my elbow that seems more sensitive than necessary for any imaginably good reason. But since our mutual respect has somehow managed to survive the monotonous, latent despair our union has [d]evolved into, I say nothing. I do, however, groan in frustration for being on the brunt end of his thoughtlessness.

“Sorry, baby,” he mutters.

He turns his head around just enough to feign a gesture of sincerity before he begins jotting down some work notes. His work notes fascinate me. Some days, he spends hours after the work day has ended, lining the blank pages of his small, black Moleskine notebook. Thin columns, narrow rows, to create his own, personalized grid, as if he yearns a sense of control which he finds in meticulously lining his own pages, because, surely he could just buy a notebook with that already done for him. I’ve seen those grid-paged notebooks. Same brand. Same black, leather cover. But he refuses them every time I show him that they do indeed exist. What he notes for work is far less interesting than how he writes it. He has one pen, and one matching mechanical pencil. He uses nothing else to organize his entire workflow, which seems odd to me since, as an IT project manager, he manages droves of others’ workloads.

What I more so fail to understand is how he convinced anyone to pay him the kind of money he makes for the mostly inconsequential work he does. I overhear enough of his conference calls to gather that he doesn’t render himself very effective. Just about weekly, he’s explaining to someone over the phone that he’s just not sure why the projects are taking longer than expected.

Baby rubs her eyes, smearing the rusty orange puree across her face. My nipples tingle with a sensation of fullness, and my mindset freefalls from something akin to normal, to a fearful sensation urging me to press my nails into the skin on my arms to ease the discomfort and remorse as my body gives way to the milk flow.

“She’s just about ready for a nap. Can you pick up Lavender from school?”

Husband says nothing, remaining fixated on whatever he’s writing in his notebook. I’m certain he’s heard me. So I wait, anticipating his better sense to kick in.

After a few more taps on his phone, he replies, “Yeah.”

We lock eyes.

I blink.

He blinks.

In that moment, with the literal blink of an eye, we acknowledge all the unspoken issue we’ve taken with each other since the second baby has come. Issue that is calculatively expectable when you remove sleep, healthy eating, and adequate living space. But we say nothing. We both know there isn’t time to bother, and, even if time weren’t the matter, we’d be hard pressed anyway for a solution.

“I’m taking her to the bedroom for a nap,” I excuse myself.

Husband continues to jot in his notebook. I watch his eyebrows crinkle and the black-rimmed glasses he has on, frame his intense expression, emboldening his moss green eyes and the ultra masculine nobility of his sharp nose, and strong cleft chin. Something about his look is duplicitous but alluring, and I am enticed the same way I was both times I landed myself pregnant with his babies. Quickly, almost frantically, he scratches something onto the page, just before sliding his pen between the pages to mark his place.

I lift Baby out of her seat, and carry her into the bedroom. He gets up from his chair, and heads toward the front door. We proceed in opposite directions, our backs to one another.

“Love.”

“Love.”

One word, that for us, is all encompassing; a farewell, a goodnight, an expression of support, symbolizing continuity and comfort, a fill-in-the-blank when our words fail us among the messy give and take of building a home and raising a family, while still trying to hold on to any sense of self and sanity: love.

I hear his keys scraping against the front door lock as he’s leaving. Slobber drips down my back as the baby presses into my neck, rooting for a teat. I crane my neck to look over her little body as I cradle her in my arms, scanning mini mountains of extraneous items scattered throughout our bedroom, playing I-spy for a burpy cloth to wipe up the drool. Overwhelmed by the disorder, I instead step back into the hallway, heading to the kitchen to rip a paper towel off the roll when I side swipe Husband’s desk with my hips.

“Gah damnit.”

I brace my hip in my hand, cursing the pain and my hips for being two pants sizes bigger than they were less than a year ago, before I had the second baby. On the floor I see Husband’s watch, computer mouse and black work notebook have fallen with the bump. Still warm, his coffee steadily drips from the desktop onto the page where his notebook landed open. I groan in frustration. Failing to find any milk, the baby’s anger turns to desperate grunts and she becomes even more infuriated when I set her down so I can try to salvage Husband’s notebook.

I press a dish towel against the page of his notebook, trying to avoid smearing what’s written. My eyes skim the page on which I recognize our joint account number. Thousands cycle in and out of it every month to cover the bills, but I hardly pay any attention since Husband manages our finances.

Ending balance: $20,810.15.

I read the number again, and then:

Robin_Margeauxforthekill

$30k- half up front

Quiet painless unassuming

By Sunday E.O.D.

Adrenaline floods my gut as I process what I’ve just read. And then, a much more pressing and grave realization sets in as I recognize more than just our bank account number.

I dive for my phone that I’ve left on the floor near Baby’s high chair, open my phone, racing pass screen after screen of virtual slime games (courtesy of our six-year-old), dieting apps, home buying apps, and finally stop on the fourth screen. I tap on the black and red tile, displaying a silhouette-type illustration of a busty ninja girl fiercely holding up a bottle in lieu of a samurai sword. I skim through all my incoming messages to the one I received about a week ago from user limp_bizkits828. A swiftly growing tension in my stomach is met with a loss of breath as I realize not only was the hit for hire on myself, but that my husband and I, like the truly synchronous twin souls we are, ended up in the same realm of the deep dark web.

“Aww,” I coo.

No novice hitwoman, I should have known to get better details upfront; I failed to ask for a name, and he failed to provide a name. I wonder, in that moment, how many other people also lie through their teeth when they cite “detail-oriented” as a work skill they possess.

“Am I the only one?” I ask Baby, who’s gnawing on her fingers.

My digression is interrupted by a sharp chime, as a notification lights up the screen: "limp_bizkits828 has paid Robin_Margeauxforthekill $20,000. Limp_bizkits828 says, 'A little extra for your understanding.'"

‘A little’?! I heave in a deep breathe, angrily and somewhat indignantly. Lord he’s so damned nice, I exhale, as I fawn adoringly over how sweet he really can be. But then I quickly remind myself:

My husband wants me dead. By Monday.

Less concerned by the hit he's placed on me, the true burning question is how my husband could be so idiotic as to write something like this down, and to leave it so carelessly about. Just as alarming, though, is the price tag. Thirty thousand dollars? Yeah, I set the price, but only an idiot would pay it I was sure. It was a monumental ripoff, but unsurprisingly so. Husband was never exactly a deal hound.

Welp, if he wants me dead… I accept the 1% instant transfer fee, moving the funds into a bank account I set up in Calgary three months ago while visiting my parents for Christmas. Husband had insisted he had too much work to come along that time.

“Can’t afford a bigger house bla bla bla,” I mock Husband out loud. “Sure, jerk. But you’ve got thirty grand to spare to have me killed.” I roll my eyes, grimace, and scoop up the baby. “Who does that stupid daddy of yours think he’s trying anyway?” I coo to her.

I hear car doors thud, and I frantically place the notebook back atop the desk as my 6-year-old bursts through the front door. I give her a quick peck on her cheek before continuing to wipe the computer mouse as I perch the baby on my hip.

“What happened?” Husband asks as he takes Baby from my arms.

“Ugh. I was rushing to the kitchen to get a paper towel and I bumped into your desk. I spilled your coffee. I’m so sorry.”

He pulls me in close, kisses me on the forehead and reassures me that it’s nothing to worry about.

In an effort to disguise what I’ve just learned, I pout my lips apologetically and explain, “I got a little on your notebook.”

I follow his gaze to his black notebook, alarmed by how quickly the blood rushes from his face leaving his complexion washed out and lifeless, and he suddenly looks so unwell it scares me.

“Honey! When are you going to make the doctor’s appointment to get your blood pressure checked? You said you would do that last week! Remember your dad died of a brain aneurysm. These things are genetic!”

“I know, baby. I was waiting for my insurance to kick in and--”

“Just get it done!” I interject my sincere concern for his well-being, gently pressing my hands to his cheeks, coaxing the blood back into his face. “Should I make squash casserole for dinner, love? It’s your favorite.”