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I reach back with my free hand to scratch an itchy spot at the base of my neck as a second burst of crying from the hallway releases a feeling in my chest. Milk.
But there’s a competing sound that takes my attention away from my baby, my phone, and my itchy neck. A scratching at the side of the house. The kind of thing Josh would be in charge of investigating...if he was here.
Jumping out of bed before fear gets the best of me, I cross to the window that overlooks the side of the house and throw the sash up, bringing in a blast of cold spring air, along with the strong chemical smell that means one thing: spray paint.
“Hey!” I shout at two figures in hoodies. “I’m calling the cops!”
Captain barks behind me. I hear some oh shits and scuttling as I grab the baseball bat leaned up in the corner of the bedroom and dash downstairs with Captain on my heels.
I’m out the kitchen door, heartbeat quick with anger, my bare feet hitting wet weeds and loose stones. By the time I whip around the side of the house with Captain skidding in front of me, all panting and paws, the vandals are far away. They whoop and laugh as they run down County Road HH, the rural road that dead-ends at my front door, the woods cupping behind me, like I’m being held up in offering to anyone who approaches.
“Don’t come back!” I shout after them, raising the bat even though they probably know I couldn’t hurt them even if I wanted to. “This is private property!”
Property I can’t wait to escape. But I’m here now, and I need to sell them this vision of bold Julia, fearless Julia.
Captain barks one more time, then whines up at me.
“You did good,” I tell him. He wags his tail.
We survey the damage to the siding together: a half-drawn robot-woman with springs coming out the sides of her head. A speech bubble ballooning from full, open lips: MADE FOR FUCKING. A knife stabbed into the side of her head, red paint trickling from the wound.
For a second, I just stare, jaw tight. This might have brought me to tears a year ago. Not anymore, which is its own level of sad. At least it’s not fire. That happened. It was a few months ago, and scorch marks still streak our siding from the pyre where we found a melting redheaded Barbie doll.
Back inside, Annaleigh has progressed from whimpering to full-on rage. Poor thing. She might have been awake for a while this morning while I slept on. I somehow misplaced the parent side of her baby monitor, and she’s hard to hear, even down the short hall with both our doors open.
Just as I’m setting foot on the first stair to head up to Annaleigh, her crying cuts off. There’s a murmur upstairs—deep, male—Josh? Did he arrive home while I was dealing with the vandals? I bound up, my feet silent on the carpeted treads. At the top, I can make out words.
“Shhh, I’ve got you, little lady. I’m right here, I’m watching over you...”
The voice is definitely male...but lower than Josh’s...
“Josh?” I cross the short hall. “Josh? Hello?”
No answer.
My short-lived joy turns to panic. Someone’s in there with my baby.
I blast through the semi-open nursery door, baseball bat raised, taking in the scene—crib, rocker, changing table—
No one. No one here but Annaleigh, on her stomach in the crib, gripping the bars, brown eyes wide.
“Who’s there?” I shout, spinning. The closet. I fling it open, bring the bat down on a pile of linens. Annaleigh whimpers as I topple the stacked boxes of too-small diapers.
I step back, sucking in my breath. Little lady? Josh never calls her that. He calls her sweetie-pie. Jelly-belly. I test the window. Closed and locked. I turn. Turn again. I’m shaking. There’s nowhere else for someone to hide. Dear God, I’m losing my mind. I want Josh to come back so badly, my mind is putting him in the scene. It felt so real...but it wasn’t. Clearly.
I set the baseball bat down softly as I finally bend over the crib.
“I’m sorry to make you wait, sweetie. Mommy’s sorry.”
The minute I lift Annaleigh, a flood of emotion opens in my chest and spreads to my toes, which I crinkle against the carpet as I lift the precious weight of her into my arms. The graffiti boys don’t matter. The phantom voice doesn’t matter. Just her. Just us. Annaleigh kicks her legs and paws at my chest, eager, ready for her breakfast. I tug my oversize sleep shirt down and she’s soon happily guzzling, her body relaxing with each gulp. One of her fists rests against my collarbone, where I cover it with my hand. There’s a warm brush against my legs—Captain, my shadow. My protector.
But the sweetness of the moment doesn’t hold me long, because one piece is missing from our blissful domestic scene: Josh. Who may have left not only me, but our baby. The thought is so sickening that I feel my stomach, synthetic as it may be, turn violently in my gut.
He wouldn’t just leave, right? Not when we’re this close to a fresh start. This close to building our new house, tucked away on a twenty-acre property just an hour from here. Like our marriage, rural Indiana has its problems, but this house will be a dream, embraced in woodlands and privacy. I’ve imagined it all—a man cave for Josh, a sun-drenched playroom for Annaleigh, a chef’s kitchen for me. Chickens, a tree swing, a state-of-the-art grill. And a state-of-the-art security system.
“Sounds lonely,” my best friend, Cam, said when I told her. “You should move back to LA. Or Austin, with me! People love weird shit here, so naturally they’ll love you.”
“You’re funny,” I said dryly. “I’ll think about it.”
