I stand at the kitchen counter, stretching my neck to the right, then to the left, trying to relieve the unrelenting strain that sets in at the end of each workday. I’m on my last chore of the evening. Dinner’s been eaten in a fraction of the time it took me to prepare it from the groceries I picked up on my way home. I’ve loaded the dishwasher, including the breakfast and lunch dishes that sat waiting for me all day, growing scabs of dried oatmeal and congealed mozzarella. I’ve checked homework and signed permission slips. All that’s left is tomorrow’s lunches.
The recliner in the family room groans as Jeff adjusts himself. I can hear him flipping channels, no doubt searching for Clint Eastwood or James Bond or something else I won’t want to watch. Soon I’ll head upstairs and change out of my work clothes. I’ll wash my face and put on my sweat pants. I’ll join him on the couch, waiting until the hour is late enough to justify bedtime. But first, tomorrow’s lunches.
I pull some cold cuts out of the fridge, along with whole-wheat bread, mayo, and a brick of store-brand American cheese. The lettuce is too limp to be appetizing, and I know it’ll get picked off, so I skip it. The ham is starting to feel slimy, but I give it a whiff and decide it’s good enough. A couple of slices of cheese will mask anything funky. I hastily give the bread a veneer of mayo and slap on the cold cuts. Feeling guilty about the lack of vegetables, I scour the fridge for the mini carrots, but they’ve developed a whitish cast and are sprouting little hairs.
When I was a little girl, little enough that my Mary Janes dangled off the bench attached to the long lunch table, my mother used a cookie cutter to make shapes on my open-face bologna-and-cheese sandwiches—a yellow brontosaurus on a pink sky and a pink brontosaurus on a yellow sky. The lunch lady with the pointy bosoms clucked her approval, her whistle tickling my ear as she leaned over to get a closer look. My classmates abandoned their beige peanut-butter sandwiches to gawk at my technicolor lunch.
I cut the sandwiches into rectangles and shove them into Ziploc bags. My childhood sandwiches were cut into four triangles and wrapped in Cut-Rite wax paper, expertly folded like origami, a handwritten love note tucked in its folds. When the kids were younger, I used to slide notes into their lunch bags. I stopped doing that years ago.
I grab two bags of jack-o’-lantern-shaped pretzels to add to their brown paper lunch bags. It’s January but the Halloween pretzels were a hard sell, so I’m still working my way through them. The kids complain about the pretzels. I throw in a clementine each, using my thumbnail to make the first cut in the skin, hoping to improve the odds of it actually being eaten. My mom used to include miniature boxes of Sun-Maid raisins that made me feel like a giant. On special days my lunchbox held a small can of cling peaches. I loved spooning the slippery peaches into my mouth and sipping the heavy syrup, careful of the metal edge on my lip.
I reach up to the cabinet where the cookies are stashed, pulling down the Chips Ahoy! that were always my favorite lunchbox cookie. Thursday nights in my childhood home meant The Waltons, which the whole family watched together. We’d gather in the TV room with the burlap wallpaper, and my sister and I would sit on the floor with a sleeve of Chips Ahoy! cookies and a mug of milk each. As the Walton family loved each other through trials and squabbles, I savored my ration of cookies, dipping, slurping, and dipping again before letting the crumbling cookie come to rest in my mouth. There was peace in our home on Thursday nights, and peace tasted like Chips Ahoy! I wrap two cookies in small pieces of aluminum foil and add them to each lunch bag. I grab one more for myself and take a bite.
Hard as I try, I can’t taste peace.
When my sister and I were in middle school, we started sharing responsibility for making tomorrow’s lunches for the family. My parents were both teachers, so we took turns making lunch for the entire family. On Fridays my sister and I bought droopy squares of pizza from the cafeteria. I didn’t hate making lunches then. I enjoyed the challenge of stretching a can of tuna fish to make four sandwiches, adding finely chopped cucumber or celery. Topping a thin layer of tuna with crisp iceberg lettuce and two slices of muenster cheese that my mom got at the deli counter of the local supermarket. I’d cut the sandwiches on the diagonal and fold them in wax paper as I’d watched my mother do. I hid personalized notes in each bag. I liked to imagine my family smiling at lunchtime, thinking of me.
I scribble the kids’ names on the lunch bags with a Sharpie, fold down the top, and place them in the fridge. I’ll be gone for work before they leave for school, and they’ll have emptied their backpacks by the time I get home. I never know if the lunch was eaten, traded, or tossed. I put away the fixings and wipe down the counters, squeezing out the sponge so that it doesn’t start to stink. I allow myself a heavy sigh at the completion of this final task, sagging over the sink like a damp dishcloth.
I’m just so weary. I can’t remember when I wasn’t so weary. I used to ask Jeff to help. Begged him to do the grocery shopping or make dinner every once in a while. Or make tomorrow’s lunches. Help never came. As our marriage became more fraught, it felt safer to do more myself than to hope or to demand or to expect. And so I did more. And more. And more. And the more I did, the easier it was for him to do less.
I make my way upstairs to check on the kids and get changed out of my suit. The usual evening chaos is in full swing. I retreat to my bedroom closet, shutting the door for a rare moment to myself. I strip off my clothes and assess my body in the full-length mirror. It’s not as strong as it used to be. There’s no time for the gym anymore. I’ve managed to stay the same size, but I’m spongier now, my belly like yeasty dough ready to be punched down. I avoid looking at my face. It’s painful to see the me that looks back.
I’ve started meditating recently. Jeff was harping on me to become more self-aware. To conquer my fears. To cultivate compassion. It’s hard to argue with those goals. It’s hard to argue with a lot of what Jeff says because he says it so often and so loudly and so convincingly. I’m anxious all the time and my anxiety hurts him. It makes him feel like I’m afraid of him. Like I don’t love him. I owe it to him to become less anxious. To be more compassionate. To be a better wife.
So before going back downstairs to join Jeff on the couch, I sit on the floor of my closet in the dark and breathe in and out and try not to think. I try not to think about my son’s struggle with fractions or my daughter’s chronic stomachaches or which sleepaway camp to choose. I try not to think about the presentation I have to give on Tuesday. I try not to think about the icy distance that has grown between me and my mom. I try not to think about the clean clothes crumpling in the laundry basket because Jeff “did” the laundry. I try not to think about the stay-at-home moms who get to go on class trips with their kids. I try not to think about how desperately lonely I am. I try not to think about what I’ll make for lunches tomorrow because the ham won’t hold out for another day. I try not to think about how much I resent making tomorrow’s lunches. I try not to think about how much I resent my resentment.
When the timer chimes I stand up and take a deep breath, my mind heavy with all the things I was trying not to think about. I can hear the kids arguing about something, followed by Jeff’s angry voice shouting from downstairs. I know I should go to them. I know I should go to him. I wish I could just stay in the closet. I open the Notes app on my phone. Buy cold cuts.
Beth Holly’s writing has been featured in HerStry, Grande Dame Literary, and Chicago Story Press. After a 35-year legal career, she is currently pursuing her MFA in Creative Writing at Sarah Lawrence College. Her passions include adventure travel, theater, storytelling, live music, and challenging herself to do new things. Learn more at www.bethholly.com.