Strawberry Jam Under the Sea

I am swimming, thrusting my arms through golden water—golden like oil. The water grows thick and syrupy, then it pulls me under. I’m in a bottle, glass sloping above me. Someone tilts and pours, and I slide onto a pan, palms burning from the heat. I slip and roll in the slick spill. Steam rises off my wet hair. Then I am smothered under the sticky weight of raw meat.

“Mommy, can I sleep with you?”

The voice startles me, a breathy whisper in the dark. Then it comes again.

“Please? I had a bad dream.” Jack’s lisped dweem melts my heart, and I can’t say no.

So, into our bed he comes, nestling himself in between me and his snoring father—a hibernating bear on a weeknight in July. Jack curls an arm around my shoulder and buries his chubby face into my neck. I wonder what haunted his sleep—if he too was trapped in a frying pan, being smothered by chicken breasts.

A few minutes later, the door cracks open, and a girl with a halo of curls shuffles in—Maggie. She throws herself onto the bed and wiggles next to me, warm cheek against mine. Soon both of their breathing slows as mine begins to quicken; I’m too hot, suddenly suffocating under their small limbs.

Then a cry in the night cuts through me like electricity; the baby monitor lights up—an arc of color that changes from green to red. The baby is wide awake, though all around me, my family sleeps unaffected. My feet hit the floor before my brain agrees to get moving, and then I’m padding through the hallway and into Ethan’s nursery. It smells sweet, like baby skin and clean laundry and lavender lotion. But the smell has begun to disturb more than soothe me; the dim room, the sweet scent, his throaty whines, it’s an experience I’ve come to associate only with exhaustion.

After a fresh diaper, a belly full of milk, and a few minutes in the rocking chair, he falls back to sleep. I stumble into the kitchen, pour a glass of water, and drink like a woman rescued from the desert. The clock on the microwave glows green: 3:15 am. I stand there staring at the numbers as if waiting for them to apologize that I’m even awake to see them. My shirt feels damp, and limp strands of hair stick to my forehead.

Why is it so hot?

The house is perfectly quiet now; everyone is asleep. Not even the hum of air through the vents disturbs the peace.

The air.

A glance at the thermostat reveals the house is a balmy 83 degrees, and no matter what I push and flick, nothing happens. The house remains silent. And hot. No, no, no. This is not the time for the air conditioner to give out! Not in the dead of summer. Can’t it push on at least until morning?

I give up trying to resuscitate it and collapse onto the sofa. It embraces me with its worn-out cushions and shabby throw pillows stained with grape juice. The ceiling fan spins in lazy circles above me, and I let my eyes follow its orbit. Visions of homes with white couches and walls free from fingerprints dance across my mind. Women in crisp blouses and bouncy hair, off to do something important—to be someone important. I want to hate them and worship them all at once, despise them but also discover their secrets.

My shirt is itchy, the fabric coarse and irritating. It feels too tight around my neck like it’s slowly inching higher and higher, determined to choke me. I strip it off and toss it over the lamp, then throw open a window before falling back onto the couch.

Crickets chirp outside, and it sounds like they all must be perched on the sill, faces pressed to the screen, competing over who can chirp the loudest. At some point, the sounds morph into the singing of birds, distant and light, sweet and melodic. Then one bellows—an awful, belching noise like a chorus of angry bullfrogs. Then they start speaking to me in their gravelly croaks, and it sounds something like Mommy. Mommy. Mommy.

“Mommy, how come your clothes is gone?”

I force an eye open. It’s morning, and my oldest children are hovering over me—Maggie with frizzy curls standing on end and Jack wearing a Spiderman Halloween costume, his face concealed under the twisted polyester mask. One’s holding a jar of strawberry jam, the other a spoon.

I peel myself off the couch, find my shirt, and plant a kiss on each child’s sweaty head—then I confiscate the jam. Somewhere in the house, I hear the shower running and my husband’s off-key singing—always the morning person.

I need coffee.

The kids chatter on and on while I start the coffee, something about how I look “sorta deadish” when I sleep. Dark grounds tumble into the basket, some spilling all over the countertop. I wait, eyes half closed, as the appliance spits and sputters its trickle of hot water over the grounds and into the pot. It’s barely half full when I hear the baby, his impatient cries echoing through the house. In the reflection of the pot’s glass dome, a frazzled woman looks back at me—a woman not ready for another day.

***

I am swimming, pushing my arms through piles of damp towels, flannel blankets, and grass-stained jeans. Zippers snag and tangle in my hair. The air is moist and stuffy and smells like spoiled milk. I am shrinking, growing smaller and smaller until I disappear into the folds of a fitted sheet. The fabric settles around me like a parachute and I can’t discern which way is up, which way is out.

“I have to pee.”

The voice jolts me from tortured sleep. A face just inches from mine, quiet but urgent. In the darkness, I see little eyebrows shooting up toward the ceiling and a wide grin—unnaturally alert for the hour. Maggie cups my cheeks and leans in closer, stale kid breath in my face.

“I have to pee now.”

“Okay, let’s go.”

We race to the bathroom together, tripping over toys I don’t remember buying. The too-bright light hurts my eyes, and I feel hungover—drunk on exhaustion. Her short legs dangle over the rim of the porcelain bowl, then there’s a quiet trickling. She’s pleased with herself, but I’m too tired to dole out praise.

“Alright, back to bed with you.”

“Can you come tuck me in?”

“I’ve already tucked you in.”

“Just one more time? I want cuddles.”

We tip-toe back to the room she shares with Jack, and I crawl into the bottom bunk with her, pushing aside piles of beloved stuffed animals. The room is comfortably cool now, thanks to the repairman and our vacation fund which never even had a chance. I guess now we know we can always shut off the air, throw beach towels on the living room floor, and pretend we’re in the Bahamas.

I pull Maggie’s blanket to her chin and sing a song, stroking her hair until her eyes flutter closed.

“Mama?”

“Yes, baby?”

“I miss you.”

I wrap her in one more hug before slipping from the room.

I miss me, too.

***

I am swimming, dragging my arms through scattered heaps of paperwork: receipts, appointment reminders, wedding and baby shower invitations, bills I thought I already paid, and kids’ artwork that all look the same but are things I can’t bring myself to throw away. Somewhere a phone rings, and I can’t get to it. Then the papers turn into Amazon packages, and my feet become wrapped in tape and trapped within the cardboard flaps. The doorbell rings and the dog barks; it’s my mother at the door, but she’s holding a clipboard and is trying to sell me solar panels.

“Mommy, I don’t feel good.”

Light from the hallway silhouettes Jack’s face as he stands beside my bed, peering down at me. He whimpers and coughs and the need for urgency does not register in my foggy mind. I don’t move fast enough before the contents of last night’s dinner find their way out of my son’s stomach and all over my sheets. Fully awake now, I whisk him into the bathroom and lead him to the toilet bowl. I rub circles on his small back as he heaves, and I wish with everything in me I could make it go away—take the sickness from him. We sit there together until he has nothing left.

When I come back to bed, the sheets have already been stripped and replaced with ones that don’t quite fit but are at least clean. The washing machine hums from the other side of the house, and I smell bleach. I find my husband in the nursery, rocking Ethan back to sleep, an empty milk bottle on the dresser. When I take a step inside the room, he holds a finger to his lips and waves me away. I got this, he says.

And I don’t argue.

***

I am swimming in an endless, black ocean. My hands and feet appear like shadows in the dark, inky water. Something brushes my leg, then grips me with a slick, barbed tentacle; it pulls me down, down where no light touches, where no one hears my screams.

The dog is licking my feet. I jerk them back under the covers and gasp, sitting up. The house is silent, the sky outside the window is purple and blue and tinged with gold—like a bruise just beginning to turn yellow. Pepper watches me stretch, her furry head tilted to the side, and I wonder if she knows what I’m thinking. I grab my running shoes, and she follows me from the room, and together we slip out of the house.

It’s already humid, the air pregnant with moisture. Wet grass clings to my shoes and to Pepper’s paws. Dampness seeps through the mesh of my sneakers and it’s cooling, invigorating. The sky is lavender behind me and golden in front of me where the sun is beginning to peek above the trees. I lift my face toward it like a flower seeking its energy, absorbing whatever strength it will lend.

I am slower than I used to be, more aware of my uneven breathing and of a heaviness that seems to have settled in my limbs, but I push on, down a familiar path I haven’t tread in so long. Pepper trots along beside me, as patient as ever. With every slap of my shoes against the ground, I am reminded of the hope—no, convinced of the reality—that my weariness won’t last forever.

All babies sleep eventually; my children won’t always need my assistance with simple functions. Someday, they’ll grow tall and strong and will learn to do things for themselves. But when that someday comes, they might be too big to hold, might stop begging for cuddles—won’t ask to share my bed. I’ll wish, then, that I could turn back the clock—even turn it back to the middle of a sleepless night.

***

I am swimming, hands gliding through crystal clear water. There’s a village under the sea, where a man sits on his porch, painting at a floating easel: a portrait of a parakeet in a top hat. At a café next door, a woman pours tea from a porcelain kettle, and the amber liquid bleeds into the sea and disappears. The diners smile and sip from tea-less cups. Children push through the water in a slow game of tag. One breaks away from the group and swims up to me, her hair floating all around her like a crown. She hands me a spoon and a jar of strawberry jam.