Theresa’s Bio:

Since I was a kid, I’ve been writing stories and ripping them up before anyone could see them. Now that I’m in my thirties, I’ve finally got the ovaries to share my work with others. It’s amazing what a fun career, two amazing kids, a loving partner and a prescription for Prozac can do for one’s confidence…besides, I’m finding that it’s a lot harder to rip up my stories now that they’re on a computer.

I have a weird but enjoyable job as a lawyer who runs a library and implements knowledge management initiatives at a large Canadian law firm. In between work and family, I’m polishing my first novel and trying to learn about the crazy world of publishing.

Mommy’s Here

By Theresa Mae Leitch

 

The bathroom I'm hidden in is right next to the baby's room, but I can barely hear her shrieking over the buzzing in my ears. Anger reminds me of the ocean. It roars like the sound of seashells pressed against my ears, swelling louder and louder, till I feel like my head will burst if I can't make it shut up.

"She keeps screaming." He shouts so I can hear him over the TV. "Why aren't you calming her down?"

"We're Ferberizing her. Remember? I've got to leave her for fifteen minutes this time."

He mutters something that I can't quite hear. It's hard to keep the stress out of my voice, and I'm sure he can tell I'm staggering near the edge. He'll be really pissed if he has to come up here. God. It's not bad enough that I can't get the baby to sleep, but I can't even stay calm enough to deal with it. We both hate it when he has to swoop in to save the day.

"Sorry," I add as cheerfully as I can. Convincing enough, I guess, because he turns up the TV. Now, the sound of tin-canned laughs mixes with the baby's wails and my angry ocean.

I can't stand it. I grab the Exacto knife I keep hidden on top of the vanity and slither down the door till I hit the ground. I promised I wouldn't do this again, but I am losing my mind here. I won't go deep. I'll wear long sleeves for a few nights.

I click it open softly, slowly, and watch the pitted blade emerge.

"It's okay, baby," I sing to my daughter, forcing myself to smile in a pathetic attempt to sound soothing and in control. You should reassure the baby from afar, all the books say so. It never works, but I do it anyway.

I grab some tissues.

"Don't cry. You're okay, sweetie."

I yank my sleeve up as high as I can. Jerk it hard over my shoulder. Slowly, I turn my arm over and look at the soft, dimpled underside. This is the right thing to do. I just need to release a little tension and I can make everyone happy.

"Just go in and take care of her, for chrissake. I can't hear shit."

“Time's almost up." I'm still sing-songing and cheerful, but now I almost mean it.

I slash my arm.

I don't see blood yet. I slash again. Harder. Again. Finally, I see red seeping out in a satisfying crisscross pattern, feel the rage and bile slip out with it. My shoulders sink and I close my eyes for a moment before looking back at my arm.

The drops of blood strain toward each other for a moment before they finally melt together and dance down my arm. I catch them in the tissue and look with satisfaction at the red and white Pollack I've made. I blot my arm, adding to the pattern, before flushing the evidence away.

"It's been at least 15 minutes."

I don't answer him. I'm already pulling my shirtsleeve back down and slipping into the baby's room. The pain of cotton rubbing against my cuts gives me the first real smile I've had in days.

I cup Sarah's sweaty face and smooth back her hair, laughing at her indignant expression as she demands to come up.

"Everything's okay," I say. "Mommy's here."

 

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