The World Outside

by Laura Leigh Morris

In the kitchen, Aden sings off-key, and dishes clatter, and the dog scratches at the back door, and trucks rumble down the busy street feet from our front yard, and yet I am totally alone.

I wear mesh underwear and a nursing tank and am propped up in bed. The baby pulls at my nipple, then turns his head, and I press his mouth against my breast until he latches again. We played this game all night, and we’ll play it all day. I look at the wall and wonder if we should have gone with yellow instead of blue. I have been staring at this wall all night, have read the entire internet, cannot imagine a world outside of this room.

The baby suckles, but I can’t tell if he’s getting any milk. The doctor told me to relax, said I should enjoy the experience. He said he’d give his left arm to lie in bed all day. I told him I’d trade, but he wasn’t interested. I close my eyes, breathe slowly, remind myself I can stop at any moment. Aden bought two canisters of formula yesterday, “just in case.” But the doctor said I have three more days before he’ll insist on the powdered stuff. “Lie back,” he said. “Think of it as a spa day.” I don’t know who the hell wears underwear packed with ice to a spa.

My mom once told me she’s never felt as alone as she did when she spent hour upon hour feeding me. She wondered what she was missing on the other side of the bedroom door. That’s why my brother was formula-fed, she said. “Show me the difference now.” She waved at his broad shoulders and broader gut.

I know she’s right, but still I sit here, rubbing the bottom of the baby’s feet to keep him awake, willing my milk to flow. I close my eyes, picture Aden dancing around the kitchen with a beer in his hand, tossing treats to the dog. The trucks on the other side of the closed blinds carry bouncy houses for adults and martini bars and funnel cake stands. They’re setting up at the end of the street, on the grassy lot where the neighborhood holds concerts on humid summer nights. Young couples order icy sweet lemonade from a teenager who makes it fresh. He adds a shot of vodka for parents who look like they need it. Aden will take the dog. They’ll ride a Ferris wheel. Later, he’ll tell me the dog leaned over the lap bar and barked at the people below. The face painting booth will have a line thirty-feet long, as many adults as children waiting. Balloons will bob from the corners of every booth.

And I’m stuck here, where the baby has drifted off, still suckling. I work my pinky between his lip and my nipple, break the seal. I lay him in the bassinet, wait for him to stir, but he sleeps, mouth suckling air.

I go to the kitchen, need to see and touch another adult, but the room is empty, the light off. “Aden?” The house is silent. I pad into the living room. The dog’s bed is empty, too. I look out the back door, but the yard is bare. I could have sworn I heard them.

I return to the bedroom, will rouse the baby, try to get him to eat again. Except when I walk in the room, he’s gone. No baby. Not even his bassinet.

I return to the doorway, call, “Aden, this isn’t funny.”

Except now there’s not even the sound of trucks passing in front of the house. It’s so quiet I hear my heart hammering in my chest, so quiet I detect the ragged edge of my breath, the sound of milk finally letting down and wetting the front of my shirt. I am alone. I turn back to the bedroom, but it’s still empty, and now the nest I constructed for the baby and me is gone too. The bed is neatly made, no sense that anyone has ever been here.

Then, faintly, carnival music. From the end of the block. I run to the front door, throw it open wearing only my mesh undies and nursing tank. Outside, the wind carries a few discordant notes and disembodied voices, but the street is empty. Except for a clutch of yellow balloons drifting higher into the sky, blown from a loosened fist.

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Laura Leigh Morris is the author of The Stone Catchers: A Novel (2024) and Jaws of Life: Stories (2018). She's previously published short fiction in STORY Magazine, North American Review, Florida Review, and other journals. She teaches creative writing and literature at Furman University in Greenville, SC. To learn more, visit www.lauraleighmorris.com.