ChadWife was a belated push present for Tara. Some women were gifted Hermes handbags you had to be on a waitlist to receive, while other husbands scoffed at the entire concept. Tara’s membership notification came to her email while she was attempting to breastfeed. Josh must have signed her up while he was at work.
Dear Tara,
Someone very special has gifted you one full year of your very own ChadWife. Remixing traditional gender roles, one Chad at a time. Schedule the arrival of yours today. Help is on the way.
You got this mama,
The ChadWife Fam
The email was vague, rife with aspirational lingo and images of well-rested mothers. Tara stared enviously at their bright under eyes, freshly applied lip gloss.
“What is this?” she texted Josh, but he was an ER nurse – he wouldn’t respond for hours, but he’d been adamant about her receiving help. They couldn’t afford a nanny, so she assumed this was some kind of start-up compromise? Baby Gemma gently cooed, and Tara smelled the top of her head. The cleanest-smelling head there ever was. Peachy-pink cheeks. The longest lashes. Her cat, Melba, lay contented at her feet. The room was a mess. Tara yawned, her eyes dry and cracked, her brain a messy fog. She could smell the unwashed mushroomy waft that emanated from the inch of dry shampoo coating her scalp. She shrugged. She scheduled the arrival of ChadWife for the next afternoon.
“Let’s see how this remixes the patriarchy,” she said to Gemma, her baby voice perfected, her baby’s mouth smelling of warm milk.
***
The door rang promptly at noon that Sunday, as Tara and Josh were sitting down for a second hacked-together meal of toast, cottage cheese, and leftover lasagna. Tara, a chef, gazed forlornly at the spread. Pre-Gemma, she loved crafting decadent concoctions full of fresh produce and unique sauces for Josh. She was also looking forward to feeding Gemma her first, well…everything. Maybe with ChadWife, she could get back to her art.
“I’ll go get back.” Josh smiled. He brushed a hair off Tara’s face. “It’ll be okay.”
The couple’s sprawling Brooklyn kitchen was filled with light, Tara had showered, and Josh had calmed any qualms she had about his gift. His reasons made sense.
“You know paternity leave sucks. I wish I was here more.”
“Just try it out. We can always decide it’s not for us.”
“You’re drowning.”
She didn’t love the implications of his last comment but knew he wasn’t wrong. She was already sleep-deprived, the loneliness of the long days with Gemma lingered unendingly.
Josh returned with what looked like a teenage boy behind him. Gangly and tall, hair a mess of curls and eyes that sloped stonily. He was swimming in jeans. His thumbnail was painted black (chipped). His sneakers were untied. And he seemed to be clasping a vape in one fist. Melba, always suspicious of newcomers, glared at him from beneath a credenza.
“Yo,” he said, with a dopey smile. Tara grabbed Josh’s arm. Her grip tightened.
“Can I speak to you?” The kid waggled his fingers at Gemma. Tara removed her from her highchair and, balancing the baby on her hip, pulled Josh into the foyer. The sound of a siren wailed on the street.
“You thought I seemed overwhelmed so you gifted me another child to take care of?” she hissed, balancing one hand on the vine and lemon-printed wallpaper. Back when they’d first purchased the townhouse, Tara decorated every room in moody gardens and florals to flatter the darker wood grain. Its somber, brooding tone now mimicked her churning insides. Josh raised his hands, raking one across the top of his shorn head. The nurses had loved that. Blue eyes pierced, apologetic.
“I swear, Tar, three different people told me it was life-changing,” he whispered, shooting his gaze back towards the kitchen where the kid stood. “It’s a legit app. Maybe don’t judge a book by its cover.”
“It’s not an app, it’s a person.” Gemma gently pulled on Tara’s earring. Josh nodded. He wasn’t a bad guy. Far from it. He was just…a guy.
“Okay, okay,” he acquiesced. “I’m home all day today. Consider it a test run. We’ll see what he offers, how he helps out. If it’s a disaster, we’ll cut him loose.”
Tara rolled her eyes. She nodded. She stared deep into the verdancy of the wallpaper, wishing she could climb through and hide among the vines. Slip into the juice of a lemon. Gemma lay the flat of her tongue against the shoulder of Tara’s T-shirt.
“Fine.”
The kid was standing in the exact spot they left him, his untied laces arranged on the forest green tiles like sea anemones. His expression lifted when they entered, and he held out a small business card. Tara took it.
This is your ChadWife. He is thrilled to begin his service with you today. Just a few simple rules to aid in you having an exemplary experience.
- Keep questions about his background to a minimum.
- He must have his own space to sleep in, but it need not be much.
- He is here for you during daylight hours only. He will lock the door each night. Do not be alarmed, this is company policy.
- Do not feed him anything crunchy. No matter what.
You got this mama,
The ChadWife Fam
When she was finished reading, he took the card back and shoved it into the pockets of his gigantic jeans. Tara shot the kid a wan smile. Weird.
“These ol’ teeth can’t handle texture either, buddy,” Josh said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “And we got our home office all set up for you upstairs. The futon is pretty comfy, I’ve slept on it myself.”
Tara cleared her throat, bouncing Gemma on her hip to playful gurgles. “Nice to meet you, Chad.”
“My name is actually Trevor,” the kid said, thumbing the tip of his vape.
“Trevor.” Tara tried the name out. “So what is it that you do?” Trevor’s relieved smile returned. Maybe he was nervous. After all, this was the first day of his job. She assumed he wanted to do well.
Was this really any different than an au pair or a nanny? Had a spritely girl walked in, with a backpack and ponytail, would she be having the same suspicious reaction? And Josh was right – he was home all day. They’d try it out.
He cleared his throat. “I’m here to make your life easier so you can find joy in your role as a new mom,” he said, memorized and media-trained. “Whatever you don’t want to do, you delegate to me. That can change daily, weekly, whatever. If you are well-rested and feeling like yourself, I’m doing my job.”
Tara stared at this kid. Her expression she imagined was the same as Melba, who had moved from under the credenza to beneath their farmer’s table, her gray tail swishing back and forth.
“We’re a little lost, buddy,” Josh said merrily, draining his mug of coffee. “How would you suggest we start?”
Josh nodded seriously. He was prepared for this. “Show me my room and I’ll drop my stuff off there. Then go for a walk. All of you. A nice long one. Grab some lunch. Come back in time for that cutie’s nap. Let me surprise you when you get back.”
Despite Tara’s worry that this kid would rob them the second they left the house, she did what she was told. Their walk indeed was revitalizing – brisk and crisp with the crunch of newly fallen leaves beneath their feet. Josh picked up pastries and they lay in a park with Gemma pointing her chubby hand at pigeons, Tara picking flakes of croissant from her glossed lips. The air and the sun and her little family all together – she did feel refreshed.
A few hours later, they arrived at a spotless home that smelled of freshly baked bread. Trevor, vape on the table and flour brushed across his cheek, was wrapped in one of Tara’s aprons and wiping down the granite countertop. A bergamot candle burned brightly. In one corner, a laundry basket full of folded garments stood. Melba slept atop a pillow laid near the door.
“Trevor, this is unbelievable,” Josh exclaimed, shooting Tara an “I told you so” look. “Truly, I can’t get over this. Is that focaccia? Tara was a private chef, you know. For some pretty important people.”
Was.
A ball of envy went down Tara’s throat at the sight of someone creating in her kitchen. She imagined the drizzle of olive oil, pushing her fingers deep into the dough. Trevor held up a hand, as if reading her mind.
“I just meal-prepped a few things,” he said. “But if you miss cooking, I can tend to Gemma while you make something. I’m not here to replace you by any means. I’m here to help. However, that takes shape.”
“A dream,” Josh mouthed to Tara. Suspicious still Tara couldn’t help but admit this was nice. Could she actually carve out time to make something again? Something difficult and decadent? She fervently missed pouring a glass of Malbec, allowing some sad meandering music to fill the kitchen, and painstakingly layering Filo dough or brining a full chicken. That kind of obsessive love had now gone elsewhere – she didn’t regret it, but she certainly missed it.
Trevor whipped a dish towel over his shoulder and sniffed. How did he seem so much like an adult yet such a boy? She opened her mouth to ask how old he was, where he came from, but remembered the first rule.
Keep questions about his background to a minimum.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to organize my belongings,” he said politely. “Would you like me to put Gemma down for her nap on my way? I have a decent singing voice.”
Tara held back her go-to dry sense of humor. What would he sing? Soundcloud rap?
“I’ll do it,” she said kindly, feeling her heart fill with trepidatious affection for the kid. Maybe it was the aroma of the focaccia. Or how her head was already filling with dishes she could make. “Just go get settled. Thank you for everything.”
By sunset, Tara had relaxed. Trevor indeed seemed to be some sort of angel. He had served them dinner – the pillow-soft focaccia and hand-pulled tagliatelle with Bolognese. He lit a fire in their living room and dimmed the lights as Gemma’s eyes began to soften. Tara, swiftly coming around to this idea (at least for now, she thought), even allowed Trevor to sit on the floor while she and Josh read Gemma to sleep. After cleaning the kitchen and putting away the laundry, he retired to his room. Luckily for Tara and Josh, Gemma slept mostly through the night.
“Not so bad, huh?” Josh said, practically giddy with his find. Tara massaged her breasts and rubbed lotion into her hands.
“We’ll see,” she said. “But today was pretty great, I have to admit.”
“Just don’t give him anything crunchy,” Josh joked, wagging a finger at her.
“So peculiar,” she said almost to herself, eyes on the door.
During the night, Tara awoke with her bladder close to bursting. On her way back to bed from the bathroom, she paused outside of the office door. There was no light from beneath the door, and all seemed silent, save for the vaguely chemical aroma of waffles. She’d have to ask him not to vape in the house. Tara placed her hand over the cold brass of the handle and turned it slightly. It was indeed locked.
***
Tara woke to the very real smell of baked goods, and Gemma nestled in beside her gurgling away and staring at the mid-morning light that danced on the ceiling. Melba dozed in a swirl of comforter. A text from Josh told her he’d left for work, and to enjoy her first full day with Trevor.
“You have to get more comfortable asking for help,” he’d whispered to her the night before. Tara had always worked for herself – hustled to get clients, rarely outsourcing for a chef’s assistant or anything of the like. Maybe he was right. Today would be a test. After dressing Gemma and herself, Tara made her way downstairs.
It was surreal to step into the bright aura of her kitchen and see someone else hard at work in front of the stove – and not just anyone, this random teenager. Trevor spun around, holding out a pan of freshly baked cinnamon rolls with the look of a child who’s just completed reading a book for the first time. She noticed one of his front teeth was slightly chipped and imagined him tripping on a skateboard.
“How did you sleep?” he asked, sliding one onto a plate and pushing it over to Tara as she hopped up on one of the kitchen island stools.
“I think…perfectly,” she said, in sudden wonder. Besides her one nightly trip to the bathroom, it had been a sleep of stark blackness. No dreams, no restlessness. No wails from Gemma. Her brain felt clearer than it had in months. Trevor grinned.
“I’m so glad to hear that.”
Somewhat self-conscious, she pulled her T-shirt up and unlatched her nursing bra to feed Gemma. She relaxed when Trevor didn’t so much as look, flinch, or redden. He simply poured a glass of grapefruit juice and began wiping down the counter.
“Are you going to have any?” she asked, pushing her fork into the gooey softness of the bun. It melted in her mouth and she audibly groaned.
“Naw, I ate,” Trevor said quickly. Then Tara remembered the card.
“It’s not crunchy,” she said. It was meant as a light jab, a way to connect.
He shrugged, humorless in the arbitrary guidelines set forth by his employer. “Hope those are up to your standards. I know you’re a professional and all.”
“They’re heaven,” she said, latching her bra and letting her shirt drop down again. Gemma stared up at her, that soul connection that knocked the breath from you.
“Do you mind?”
Trevor was suddenly in front of them. He dropped down to his knees to peer closely at Gemma. Tara tensed, but he simply reached a finger out and brushed her cheek with incredible tenderness as if it were a marshmallow. Tara noticed his eyes – one was blue, the other a deep gray. He looked up and smiled. The glow of youth. You never appreciate it until it dims.
“I sometimes think, how are babies even real, you know? Seems impossible.”
Tara laughed. She often had the same thought. “And how I made it all inside me. Her skin, her bones…cartilage…”
Trevor cleared his throat and stood again, staring out the stained glass window that overlooked the park. The stained glass was of a blooming oak tree – the branches reaching and stretching and begging. When they’d bought the place, Tara loved how bright and happy it appeared during the day, and the way it turned sinister and clawing at night.
“So what do you want to do today?” he asked, shifting back and forth between feet. “You can give me tasks or I can anticipate your needs. What they tell us to do is challenge you to pick something you haven’t done in a while and do that. Go to the movies. A workout class. Go see a friend. It’s about like…feeling like yourself again.”
Tara chewed the inside of her lip and absentmindedly caressed Gemma’s left ear. She knew she couldn’t leave Gemma alone with this kid, at least not yet. Closing her eyes, she knew the only thing that made her feel like the most version of herself.
“I’d like to make dinner,” she said to Trevor’s bemused expression. “Something complex that involves a lot of ingredients. Josh won’t be home so it’ll just be us. I’ll make sure you can eat it all.”
Trevor grinned. Tara took some pleasure in knowing he felt comfortable in her home, and that he was doing a good job. She wanted to ask him if he’d worked with families before. What got him into this line of work? But the card said not to. So she didn’t.
Tara took Gemma to the fancy grocery store, the one with sea salt that looked like snowflakes and yuzu sodas that came in cans. Tara knew for many mothers this task would be tedious, but she loved the process more than anything. Closing her eyes and smelling a piece of produce. Envisioning the way an herb would elevate a starch. How she would plate it. She held a mango in front of her daughter’s tiny nose for her to smell. Gemma placed her full mouth on the fruit’s green rind. Tara laughed and tossed it into the cart.
When she’d returned home Trevor had vacuumed, brought their winter clothes up from the basement to reflect the changing weather, and brewed a fresh pot of coffee. She ignored the hazy under-odor of that chemical waffle smell again. She didn’t want him feeling bad when he’d done so much. Let the kid vape. Her heart felt so full, the kitchen stocked with ingredients for her dream dinner, she even invited Trevor into Gemma’s room with her as she laid her down for a nap. He sat cross-legged on the floor, folding burp clothes and gazing up at Tara as if she were his own mother. Tara wondered where his family was. Why wasn’t he in college somewhere? Melba stood crouched beneath the rocking chair, a low growl emanating from beneath her whiskers.
“Shhhhh, Melba,” Tara whispered, shooting Trevor an apologetic glance. “I’ve had Melba forever, she's very territorial.” But that was a lie. Melba loved everyone.
Trevor sang softly along to Black Bird, only missing a few words as they stumbled along. Tara was surprised to feel a tender shift in her heart as they closed the door behind a dozing Gemma. This was nice.
An email appeared in her inbox from ChadWife.
How is it going? Rate us so far 1-10.
Tara clicked “10.”
Tara spent hours in the kitchen, her eyes filling regularly with tears every time she sliced through a mushroom or sprinkled rice flour onto a surface. She’d suggested Trevor go for a walk – she really wanted some time to herself. Aching indie songs from her own teenage years played on the radio, and a jammy glass of red sparkled in a wineglass nearby. She rolled out the dough for her asparagus tart, mixed up a Dijon mustard from scratch, and a potato au gratin that was creamy and luscious. She roasted a chicken with rosemary, and soon its juices filled the kitchen. By the time Trevor returned, pink-cheeked with hat hair, Tara was standing with Gemma in front of the feast, her eyes shining.
He gleefully housed every bite she served him, the absolute stereotype of a hungry teenage boy. She noticed he placed each shard of crackling chicken skin to the side of his plate. No vape in sight, a cloth napkin tucked into the collar of his T-shirt, all while gently rocking the small portable cradle Gemma gurgled in with one socked foot.
“How old are you?” she asked.
Trevor said nothing.
“Where does your mother live?” she asked.
Nothing. A speck of mustard rimmed the top of his lip.
“What do you do to feel like yourself?” she asked, the same question he’d asked her earlier. He was a gift, the least she could do was treat him like a person.
Trevor again said nothing. He didn’t have to. She knew it was one of the rules. He wanted to keep his job.
Maybe it was the delicious release of being able to do something that did indeed make her feel like herself, but within one short day, she had a tremendous amount of affection for this kid. She tried to picture Gemma at his age. What would she be like? What would she do? After he cleared his plate, asked for seconds, then cleared it again, he washed all of the dishes and wiped down the countertops.
“It’s totally chill if you say no,” he said softly. “But if you wanted some extra time, I could put Gemma to bed.”
Tara looked at the clock. Josh wouldn’t be home for hours. Her back hurt. Her glass of wine called to her. And there was the monitor.
“You can try,” she said, leaning back in the chair. Her reflection in the darkened window leaned back with her. “There’s a playlist she likes on the tablet. Call me if she gives you trouble.”
Trevor’s face lit up. He gingerly pulled Gemma from her position on the floor and the second he did, Melba launched from the shadows and sunk her teeth into Trevor’s calf.
“Melba!” Tara scolded, lunging forward to catch Gemma but Trevor gained his footing, despite a trickle of blood that oozed down the curve of his leg. Melba was gone – disappeared into the dark bowels of the house.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, feeling her cheeks redden. “Do you want a Band-Aid?”
Trevor waved a hand away, as if he’d dealt with worse. Tara gave Gemma a lingering kiss on the cheek, and Trevor headed towards her bedroom. A few errant drops of blood sank unnoticed into the wood grain.
It had begun to rain lightly, those sleepy drops that pattered against the window panes as if begging to come in out of the cold. Tara wrapped herself in a sweater and took languid pulls from her wine glass. She could see Trevor and Gemma now on the monitor, that eerie X-ray colorway that made everything seem demonic. Trevor’s eyes glowed as he made eye contact with the camera, then pushed “Play” on the lullaby playlist. A thin golden strand of jealousy made its way up Tara’s veins. She almost wished Gemma would give him a hard time. What did it mean if anyone could put her to bed?
The rain had worsened by the time Gemma was asleep and Trevor asked if he could retire as well. It wasn’t late. She wondered what he did in there. She felt wide awake and that was when she remembered – she’d forgotten to serve dessert.
One single ramekin sat cold in the oven, filled with the most decadent lava cake batter she could create. She hit “preheat,” then twenty minutes later, it was ready to serve. Spongey, gooey, and warm. Tendrils of steam rose around her as she sifted confectioners’ sugar over the top. A hardened caramel lattice bedecked the top like a derby hat. It was beautiful.
She was just about to plunge her spoon in for the first bite when she stopped. Tara loved to cook because she loved to feed other people. It was her way of showing her gratitude. She couldn’t eat this alone.
Rain battered against the stained glass tree as she tip-toed up the stairs, her hand tracing along the lemon wallpaper as she went. Gemma slept soundly in her room, a stars and moon mobile twinkling above her. That same waffle smell emanated from beneath the door, but the light was on.
“Trevor,” she hissed, lightly knocking.
He is here for you during daylight hours only.
She kept knocking. He needed to come quickly before the cake cooled. Finally, a bleary-eyed Trevor cracked the door, dressed in sweatpants and an oversized band shirt. Suddenly Tara felt embarrassed.
“Would you…” she started. This was silly. She shrugged. “I forgot dessert.”
Trevor followed her down the stairs, audibly gasping at the sight of the lava cake.
“I never had one of these,” he exclaimed, grabbing a spoon before she could sit down. Before it could even occur to her to stop him, he plunged it into the center of the rich fudge, shoveling it into his mouth with the caramel lace. They both heard the crunch. They both stopped and stared at one another. Tara envisioned the decadent chocolate, the butter, it couldn’t have been a less crunchy dish. And yet…he crunched down again, a flooding of pleasure that filled his eyes.
“This is incredible,” he said, muddy saliva filling the cracks in his teeth. Tara just smiled, hoping the app’s rule was as arbitrary as it seemed. She brushed it off, happy to have delighted someone new with her art.
Josh slipped into bed at half past two, smelling of soap from his post-shift shower.
“How did it go?” he whispered, kissing her on the forehead. She didn’t tell him about the caramel crunch. It seemed trivial.
“Perfect,” she whispered into the cold side of her pillow.
She meant it.
***
Josh was gone again by the time Gemma’s cries awakened her, but she felt more at ease now. What could she cook today? she wondered. Could she–gasp–go to a movie? The differences in privilege for care-taking for a child were staggering. A single mother versus a full family plus a nanny. Maybe ChadWife was a godsend with its affordable memberships and hiring savvy.
It still poured outside, a never-ending slickness sliding down the windows, a gloomy gray that blanketed the air. With Gemma on her hip gumming a small rubber giraffe, she entered the kitchen to absolute disarray. She struggled to understand what she was even seeing – egg shells crunched beneath her feet. Coffee grounds, wet and in clumps, seemed to cover the marble tile of the island. Tortilla chips mixed with a white substance like yogurt dripped from the table. The stained glass tree seemed to breathe from the wind and lightning outside. But what was stranger, was Trevor. There he stood with his back to her, swimming in his jeans and hoodie, pretending to cook at the stove. The burner was not lit. There was nothing in the pan. But there he was scraping, scraping away. Tara wondered where Melba was. With one hand, she texted her husband.
Something is wrong with him.
That stirring. That hunger. The permission to fall apart. She hadn’t had that since becoming a mother. The hunger for what makes you feel most like yourself. She could feel a distant danger but also, the unclear crackle of excitement. She’d been bored until he’d arrived.
“Trevor, are you okay?” she asked, alarmed to hear her own voice shaking. He turned slowly, the spatula still clasped in his hand. Tara gasped and tightened her grip on the baby.
His skin looked sapped of blood, the blackness of tired circled bloodshot, aimless eyes. A single gemstone of saliva clung to his bottom lip. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in weeks. Was it drugs? His other hand, usually clutching that damn vape of his, the smooth pull of sugary smoke, was missing.
“I’m fine, Tara,” he said, his voice monotonous, an even tightrope. “Would you like some eggs?”
But there were no eggs. There were no eggs.
“Is this because…I broke a rule?” she asked. But how would that make sense? A single crunch of caramel caused him to turn into a zombie? No. This was something else. She suddenly felt very aware that she was alone in her home with her child and someone she didn’t know. “I’m just going to go change her…”
Tara backed out of the kitchen and ran down the hallway into the guest bathroom, locking the door behind her. Gemma, confused, scrunched up her tomato face and began to scream, clutching fistfuls of Tara’s hair. Thunder boomed outside. She called Josh. She called him again. She called a third time.
“Babe, you know I can’t talk,” he hissed, annoyed. “What’s wrong?”
“He changed,” she stuttered, running the water in hopes that between that and Gemma, Trevor couldn’t listen in. “I gave him something crunchy and this morning he’s all weird and the kitchen was a mess.”
Relieved laughing filled her ear. Anger filled her body.
“Babe,” he sighed. “Maybe he’s getting a little comfortable, he is a kid after all. I bet all you have to do is threaten to email his boss and he’ll ship right up.”
Tara struggled to find the words that would accurately describe what she had seen. What she had felt. “It’s not that, it’s…” He cut her off.
“Gotta go, we just got a car wreck. A bus. Jesus. I’ll be home as soon as I can. Go for a walk. Love you.”
Go for a walk. Go for a walk?! Was that everyone’s solution?
“You told me to ask for help,” she texted. “This is me asking for help.”
But he wouldn’t respond, and she couldn’t stay locked in the bathroom all day. This was her home. He was a kid. She could handle this. Tightening her grip on a now-soothed Gemma, she forged her way back into the hallway and the kitchen. Her jaw dropped.
It was empty. Trevor was gone. She searched the whole house, but he seemed to have left. Silence echoed. She deadbolted the door, and headed to their home office where he’d been sleeping. A twin bed sat unmade in one corner, a thick, strange smell hung in the air. Like mildew and burnt toast. His suitcase still sat in the corner. Where had he gone? Melba stood in the doorway, head cocked to one side. She’d known. Tara remembered the attack, the blood down his calf. Cats always know.
“I should have listened,” Tara said.
She placed Gemma on the bed and unzipped its sides. Anything in her home could be scrutinized by her. She was his employer. Her heart thumped as she removed folded shirts and jeans, a toothbrush. A box of vape cartridges. Then there was a small black leatherbound book, cracked down the spine. Titleless. She flipped to where he’d placed a bookmark, and gasped when she realized it was a small bone. From a bird perhaps. Stripped clean. The book was unintelligible, Latin or something. She shivered. At least he was gone. She did not have to let him back inside, whatever his deal was. She sent a brief email to ChadWife, requesting a refund.
“Not what I expected,” she clicked as the reason.
Rain pounded outside while Tara nervously went about her day. She cleaned the kitchen, taking stock of what he had decimated. She noticed he’d left anything smooth alone – dips and oatmeals and liquids, anything with a texture that snapped against teeth was gone.
Was it a vitamin deficiency? Was the book somehow related? It needed not to matter. The door was locked. It could be over. She lit a candle and brewed peppermint tea. She read to Gemma. She roasted homemade granola in the oven so the air smelled of cinnamon. She breastfed. She attempted to calm herself down. She curled up on a velvet couch, clutching Gemma in the nook of her arm. She yawned. She was fine. He was gone. ChadWife could tell Trevor he was fired. She could ship his suitcase somewhere. It was over.
***
Tara must have dozed because she was awoken by the metallic click of the front door and the carefree chuckle of her husband. Water still beat against the window. Shadows from passing cars danced on the wall. The house was dark. Gemma was awake, eyes twinkling in wonder at her disheveled mama. A flutter of conversation. The stamping of boots on the welcome mat. Two shadows appeared in the doorway.
“Look who I found outside,” Josh said, shaking rain from his hair. He pulled Gemma from her arms. She wrapped her chubby little hands around his neck. “We forgot to give him a key, huh?”
“I picked up takeout,” he said, with a slash of a smile. He still didn't look great, but color had returned to his cheeks. Where had he been all day?
Now alone, Tara shot a death glare at Josh, but they’d spun around and headed towards the warm glow of the kitchen. Begrudgingly, she followed.
The room was spotless because she’d cleaned it – any evidence of what she’d seen that morning was now gone. And while the air still crackled with the electricity of her fear, Josh seemed oblivious. He’d fixed things. He was right, she was hysterical. She stared into Gemma’s eyes, willing her to assign herself to her mother’s side. I’m not alone in this, right?
Trevor unpacked boxes of Chinese food, the place she liked. Josh, famished in his scrubs, crystallized sweat on his forehead, rubbing his hands together with glee. “You got the broccoli.”
Tara sat down gingerly, staring at the plate of dumplings she couldn’t bring herself to eat. Trevor, on the other hand, had upended a translucent bag of fried wonton strips onto his plate and began eating them with his hands. Flashes of broken eggshells and chips filled Tara’s mind.
“They’re crunchy,” she said, as if in a trance. Trevor’s gaze shot upward from his plate, tendrils of hair obscuring darkened eyes.
“It’s fine now,” he said, mouth filled with beige shards. “There’s really nothing you can do.” His front tooth was chipped. Had it always been that way?
Josh wasn’t paying any attention, just happily poking at Gemma and spooning lo mein into his mouth.
Soon everyone but Tara was full. She scanned the table for anything that had a crunch, but there was none. Trevor seemed to be doing the same. Everything was soft now.
“Tara said you put the baby to bed last night,” Trevor said, swallowing a burp. “Wanna do us a solid so we can spend some time alone?”
“I can do it,” she said quickly, feeling her temperature rise. Trevor placed a hand gently on her arm. A look that said, “trust me.” He nodded toward the crackling baby monitor balanced against the stained glass window. She shook her head, hard. He sighed. His eyes rolled ever so subtly but she saw.
“I’ll go with you, Trev,” he said, a nickname out of nowhere.
“She’s in good hands, Tara,” he said, his chipped canine shining beneath the light.
She was the crazy one. Then she was alone.
She watched as they left, as the two of them appeared on the monitor. Tara put her head down on the table, exhausted and confused. How could she get him out? How could she convince Josh that something was wrong?
“See? That was nothing,” Josh appeared in the doorway, that goofy carefree smile back on his face. He fixed it. He was right. “Want a little wine?”
A horrific warbling yowl filled the room. Tara and Josh looked at each other, feline screams and growls coming viciously through the baby monitor.
“Melba,” Tara whispered, and they both ran. Out from the kitchen into the hallway. Rain still battered the windows, drumming against darkened windows in an unsuccessful attempt to drown out the cries. Tara swallowed nausea, dizziness obscuring her vision as they raced up the staircase, past the wallpaper that seemed to warp and undulate with every step. The verdant vines tightened and writhed, while the lemons grew grotesque and swollen like bellies or mouths. Hungry, so hungry.
Josh reached the sound first, skidding in the precipice of the doorway with silence that sounded like a scream. Tara pushed past him, the screams filling her ears and the air. She struggled to make sense of what she was seeing. What was real.
Trevor was Trevor but he also wasn’t. Every one of his teeth seemed chipped now, jagged shards like ice and needles dripping with a rich, red substance that dripped onto the carpet, rolling and sinking and staining down onto the hardwood. Those jeans, always swimming in denim, soaked from the bottom, up. His nails seemed to have lengthened into points, ancient dirt that rimmed them and filled the room with a metallic, bittersweet stench. His eyes were glazed, alive. Satiated.
And the smile, his smile. Fevered, demonic, wider than seemed possible. Stretched. Monstrous.
He crunched, and crunched, holding what looked like raw meat in his greedy hands. Spongey, gooey, warm, like her lava cake.
Melba. It was the only thing that made sense.
Sometimes you don’t assume the worst. You assume the second worst. That’s often wrong.
Something soft brushed her bare leg and she looked down, the juxtaposition of something pleasant amidst the horror. Until she saw what it was.
It was Melba, unscathed, fur fluffed, gently licking each paw as if indulging in the most luxurious bath. Tara’s mouth dropped. Her heart stopped. Her world ended.
“And how I made it all inside me. Her skin, her bones…cartilage…”
Trevor opened his mouth, blood squishing and running through his hand like water. His smile grew wider.
***
Dear Tara,
We are so sorry to hear that your membership to ChadWife has not been what you hoped for. The guidelines we have crafted are extremely important to the success of our business model, and we understand they can be difficult to follow. Please enjoy 15% off your next purchase with us, as a gesture and apology. Simply use code CHAD at checkout.
You got this mama,
The ChadWife Fam
-- Lyz Mancini is a writer living in Catskill, NY. She is a beauty copywriter for brands like MAC Cosmetics and Clinique, and her writing has appeared in Slate, Catapult, Salty, Witch Craft, Bodega, Shortwave Magazine, and more. She is a Tin House Winter Workshop and Pitch Wars alum and was nominated for a 2022 Pushcart Prize. Follow her at @lyzaster on IG.