White Noise, Part I

Tonight is the night, she thought to herself, lying in bed next to him. The sheet was draped over her out of habit, but she was warm beneath it. She stuck one leg out, unsure of her next move. She could hear his heavy breathing next to her. Rhythmic. Deep. Peaceful. Outside, the crickets chirped loudly above the sound of the frogs. She had never liked nature. She had never been one to be in the outdoors, in the fresh air or open spaces. But he had dragged her here. He had giver her an ultimatum and she had to come. She hated it. She hated him. She hated everything; she was seething.

It's now or never.

And it was. If this was going to happen, if she was going to make this happen, it had to be now. It had to be tonight.

Everything was ready.

"I think I might be coming down with something," she had said to her co-worker Stacy earlier that week. She stopped by her cubicle mid-afternoon, a hot cup of chamomile tea in one hand, a tissue in the other. In the bathroom she had vigorously rubbed her nose, giving it a reddish tint. Just the right touch. Prepping for when the time was right. She didn't even like tea.

"Oh no! What do you think it is? I hear strep has been going around. Or maybe mono!" Stacy gushed, more excited at the prospect of talking about bodily fluids and fevers than the work sitting before her.

"Ya, my throat is really hurting me. I'll see if I can make it in the next few days but, I don't know, I might have to talk to Cheryl about this," she said.

"Oh please. This work is not important. We input, it outputs. Anyone can do it, you take care of yourself. Besides," she lowered her voice and leaned in closer, covering about five inches of the three feet between them, "I hear Netflix just got a bunch of new stuff. Binge time?" Stacy whispered with a hint of excitement. She knew this was not the first time Stacy had planned for a "sick day."

In reality, she was sick. But it wasn't the kind of sick that a day of binging would right. It was the kind of sick that had been building for years. She was sick of the life she was living. Sick of the mundane, ho-hum, daily do-dum she was enduring. She was sick of what he was doing to her. Sick of not being with...him. Sick of the damn noise, the pain, the numbness, the loneliness.

But she had found her cure.

Months ago, she had stumbled across her perfect medicine. The ideal way to patch up what had been happening to her. Her next fix. Her new drug.

It was Thursday night. Wait, she looked at the clock. Friday morning. She had told Cheryl yesterday that her throat was killing her and she had a splitting headache.

"Oh, god. Stay home. You look awful. And please, do not get any closer to me, I have plans this weekend," Cheryl said as she sprayed disinfectant in the direction of the door she was standing in.

She had taken some offense to this, considering she was not sick at all. But she let it roll off her shoulder as she walked out the front door of that dreadful place; knowing full-well she would never set foot there again.

3:07 a.m. her alarm clock read from the dresser across the room. The red numbers glared at her as if they were judging her, telling her to stop, to reconsider and re-think her decision. She turned away as she quietly got out of the king size bed they shared.

It was about the only thing they shared these days, aside from the grating glances over the breakfast table, or the uncomfortable elbow brushes as they switched places in the bathroom before bed.

She grabbed her cell phone and turned the screen on. The dim blue screen was less judgmental and more helpful than the daunting alarm clock. She used its light to guide her to the walk-in closet across the room, on his side of the bed.

She had walked this short distance a million times before in the ten years they had been living here, but tonight it felt brand new. It was scary, and her pulse quickened. Her breath was caught in her throat as she gently opened the sliding door.

It squeaked as she pushed it open. She cringed, quickly covering the screen of her phone, pausing, waiting. He shifted, but his breathing stayed rhythmic. She let out a short breath.

She closed the door quietly behind her, stopping just before the squeak slipped out again. She turned and walked to the very back of the closet, past her pant suits, track suits, and other assorted ugly clothing. Past his neat button-ups, his plaid button downs, his flannel jackets, and his awful jeans that he insisted on wearing. Working for himself did not give him the right to wear something so terrible, that had been her opinion. He had thought differently.

She reached the furthest end and started digging behind the heavy winter coats, the wool blankets that smelled of must and Febreze, and the boxes of winter boots. They kept their suitcases at the bottom of the pile. She pulled out the biggest one, setting it on the floor and quietly zipping it open. She stopped every few seconds to listen, to contemplate. Inside the large suitcase was a smaller cloth bag, one of the ones you can get free if you spend enough money at the mall. It was plain black and had the logo of store stamped across one side of it. Inconspicuous. And packed.

She briefly rifled through it, more out of nerves than actual checking. She couldn't see anything in the dim light. She reached into the one inner pocket the bag had and pulled out the passport.

She lit up the front page and saw herself staring back.

Jennifer Lakely it read. Along with her birth date. She closed her eyes and mouthed January 14, 1982 over and over. She would have to get used to that. She would have to remember that.

She stuck the passport back in the pocket and pulled out the wad of bills that was stuffed near the bottom of the pouch, held together with a worn rubber band - one that had been taken off and put back on many, many times.

She took it off one more time, leafing through the bills: ten, twenty, and one-hundred dollar bills. It was still all there; all fifteen thousand dollars of it. She stuffed it back in quickly, hearing a stirring outside the door. She shoved the bag beneath a wool blanket and, leaping to her feet, she stood as casually as she could in front of her section of the closet pretending to rifle through her things.

"Kate, it's three in the morning. What are you doing in here?" Sam asked, opening the closet door all the way. She could make out his large form. His chiseled shoulders shone in the moonlight that came in through the window behind him, lighting him up from the back, showcasing his thinning hair and the outline of his beard. She hated that beard. Yet he had kept it for the last eight years.

"I was trying to decided what to wear tomorrow," she said as casually as she could, turning away from him.

"Oh," was all he said as he shuffled back to bed.

Soon his rhythmic breathing was back, and Kate tip-toed back to the back corner and reached again into the large suitcase, pulling out the outfit she had chosen for this day. She slipped it on, grabbed her cloth bag and hugged it to her chest. This was her new life, right here in this bag.

She snuck out the closet door, placing her phone on the night stand on her side of the bed. She wouldn't need it anymore.

Moving silently across the hall, she opened the baby's door.

Thomas lay in his car bed, the blankets half on him, half on the floor, breathing silently. Kate set her bag on the floor and knelt next to him. Her heart hurt for him, it did, but he would be fine here. She wouldn't.

She pushed his hair back, his forehead was sweaty. She kissed him on the cheek, adjusted his blanket so that he wouldn't be so hot, and slipped out the door and out of his life.