by Lindz McLeod

The first time our son nearly choked to death, we were at a nice—not so nice that it made

me anxious I wasn’t dressed appropriately, but nice enough—restaurant on the Upper East Side. My

husband had ordered a pesto pasta dish and was tucking in with gusto, while Benji picked at his

chicken. Afterwards, I could never remember what I’d ordered, although I must have ordered

something. There was a bottle of house red on the table; our glasses were half-empty, and when

Benji lurched forward, his face shading from crimson into purple, eyes bulging out in a way they

hadn’t since he’d been born and the cord had been wrapped tightly around his little neck, my

husband and I had both leapt to our feet.

The table jolted and the glasses all tipped sideways. One broke—I heard the crack, sharp and

high—while the others fell harmlessly against cutlery. I put both arms around my son’s waist, made

a fist, and heaved upwards. He smelled of fear and shampoo and earwax. The label on the inside of

his shirt collar had come loose, the fabric hanging by a couple of threads. I wanted to bury my face

in his hair and never let go. Instead, I stared into the spreading red stain and heaved again and again

until the offending chunk was finally expelled.

We’d assumed it was a one-off—that everyone, from time to time, bites off a little more than

they can chew—but Benji developed a habit. We’d taken him to doctors, specialists, even a

therapist, but he was still struggling. They said it could be something to do with how he was eating,

or what he was eating, or stress, or hormones, or depression, or any number of fixable or unfixable

things. I’d enforced a soft foods policy for two of the three meals, and had banned him eating

outside with his friends, even in public places, even in his own bedroom. I couldn’t take the risk.

On a Friday night in late June, Benji sat at the kitchen table, head cupped in one hand, sheets of

paper spread everywhere, while my husband stood in front of the open fridge in my line of sight

and, unblinking, drank straight from the carton. Marriage makes monsters of us all.

“What’s the report about, bud?” My son pushed a dog-eared textbook towards me. He’d

circled several pictures. I read the footnotes, squinting, because my glasses were upstairs in the

bedroom. “Gargoyles?”

“Your mother’s a gargoyle.” Henry grinned, a thin milk moustache on his upper lip. Once

upon a time, he’d have been teasing; the sting would have been light. No more than a needle prick.

One and done. These days his words stung like paper cuts. Lingered, salty and ragged.

Benji’s eyes flicked sideways to catch mine. “We had to pick something interesting from our

last field trip. They’re usually monsters with funny faces. People used to think that scary statues

would frighten away any demons or ghosts or whatever.”

“Okay.” The fridge door was still open. My husband was just standing there, listening,

letting all the cold air out. The AC was turned up high but even so, I could feel sweat break out on

my lower back. Outside, on the trees which adorned the property line, the leaves trembled in a faint

breeze which, if I opened the door, would feel exactly like someone holding a hairdryer three feet

from my face. The sun was still an hour away from setting, the light dipping gentle golden fingers

against the windowpanes. Whispering a farewell, not shouting. “Did they?”

“Probably not. But look, this is cool. If they have a spout where the rain can come out,

they’re called gargoyles.” He flipped back through a page and pointed at a picture. “See this? The

rain goes through somewhere at the back and comes out of the mouth here.”

“Wow.”

“But guess what they’re called when they don’t pour rain—when they’re just solid stone.”

I thought for a moment. “Statues?”

“Nope. Grotesques.”

Henry lifted the carton to his lips again, badly hiding a grin. I pictured the milk spilling

down his chest, soaking his t-shirt, filling up his lungs. Coming out of his nose like a cartoon.

“Don’t finish that. We’ll need it for cereal tomorrow.”

“I’ll get more.”

I bit back a retort and turned to Benji. “Okay, bud, time for dinner. Can you take all this stuff

upstairs?”

He nodded and started to gather up his things. When he’d left the room and the creak of his

footsteps echoed across the ceiling, Henry finally closed the fridge door. “What are we having for

dinner?”

I didn’t point out that he’d been in there long enough to set up camp, never mind memorize

the contents of the fridge. “Takeout?”

He picked up his phone, selected an app, slid it across the table.

“We need to get him something soft,” I said, scrolling through the options.

“He just needs to chew. He’s not a baby.”

I paused at Greek, scrolled on past Chinese and Indian, then went back to Greek. “The

therapist doesn’t think the problem is entirely psychosomatic.”

He scoffed. “Yeah, okay. You think doing a project about swallowing is going to help keep

his mind off choking on every meal?”

I picked out a sweet chili pita wrap, aware that my blood pressure was rising again. “No,” I

kept my voice measured, “but maybe there’s a reason he chose gargoyles.”

“Whatever, Becca. He just needs to chew,” my husband repeated, and stomped into the

living room.

A second later, the TV blared loud enough to shake the glass in the kitchen cabinets.

On Saturday night, I slipped into a gorgeous emerald cocktail dress and raked through my

jewelry box to find matching earrings. Henry walked through the bedroom wearing only boxers and

socks, carrying a freshly ironed pink shirt in one hand and a beer in the other. He put the can down

on the bedside table and opened the closet.

“So I’m a gargoyle, huh?” I put an earring in.

“What?” He was staring at his tie rack. I didn’t know why he bothered, since he only wore

about four of them.

“Yesterday. You called me a gargoyle.” His words had been bothering me; I’d laid awake for

over an hour last night, listening to his heavy breathing, picturing myself haggard and hunched on

top of a building.

He picked up the beer again, took a long swig. “Oh my god, lighten up.”

I put the other earring in and wiped a mascara smudge from my eyelid.

“Jesus. You used to know how to take a joke.” He replaced the beer, bent, produced a

crumpled green t-shirt from under the bed. I was forever finding his clothes scattered around. There

were hampers in damn near every room but that didn’t seem to matter to him. “Where did this come

from?”

I wasn’t sure that was true. I’d rarely been the butt of his jokes and when I had they’d been

easier, more tender. A casket, lined with sweetness. “It wasn’t a joke, it was a barb.”

“A what?” He dabbed cologne onto his wrists and neck. The scent wafted over, dominating

my subtler sandalwood with brash pine notes.

“A barb.”

“Who died and made you Alex Trebek? What’s the fucking difference?” He balled up the

green t-shirt and threw it near the laundry basket where it lay, crumpled, on the floor. I pictured the

warmth of his body slowly receding from the material, leeching out in the air. Dissolving like salt in

water. I wondered how long it had been lying there, and when he’d last worn it.

“There’s a difference,” I insisted. “Besides, Alex Trebek is dead.”

“Okay, whatever.”

He disappeared into the bathroom. The sounds of vigorous toothbrushing drifted out,

followed by a loud gargle. He spat, ran the tap. Appeared in the doorway again. “Is he really dead?”

“Yeah.”

His dark eyebrows kissed. “I didn’t know that. I used to love watching him.”

After Benji had been born, we’d watched a lot of Jeopardy together. My son preferred to fall

asleep in his father’s arms; neither contestants answering questions or the familiar theme music

would rouse him, but the slightest indication that he was about to be put into a crib was enough to

prompt full-throated wails. Jeopardy got us through hundreds of quiet nights.

“Me too.”

He smiled, shrugging into his shirt. “You look beautiful. Did I tell you that already?”

He hadn’t but I wasn’t going to ruin the moment. “I wouldn’t mind hearing it again.”

He crossed the room, still buttoning the shirt, and dipped to press a peck against my cheek.

“Beautiful,” he repeated, and turned my head to kiss my lips.

On Monday morning, I drove Benji to another specialist appointment. We hadn’t told our

son we’d discussed divorce. He probably knew, or at least suspected, because he was a smart kid.

I’d asked the therapist in private whether she thought he might be anxious about things at home, and

she’d hedged the answer. Guilt gnawed at me as I stopped at red lights, navigated the city’s

honking, chaotic traffic. Benji sat quietly, legs splayed, fingers drumming on his thighs.

I pulled into a spot recently vacated by a blue Volvo and turned the engine off. Benji didn’t

unbuckle his seatbelt. He was at the age where he didn’t want me to come inside because it made

him feel like a little kid; at the same time, he was frightened—not childishly, but in a deep, visceral

way. Anyone at any age would be—should be—terrified by their body turning traitor, rejecting the

most basic method of survival.

“I’ll come in with you, if that’s okay,” I said, solving the issue.

His shoulders relaxed. “If you want.”

God, he was just like his father.

The specialist went over the details with us for what seemed like the thousandth time. He

suggested a variety of treatments, most of which we’d already tried.

“Your file is very thorough.” She put down her pen. “There’s always the chance that one of

the treatments could work, but we simply haven’t given it a proper chance to settle in yet.”

I looked at Benji, who was staring at his feet. Unlaced Jordans; an expensive birthday

present from my brother-in-law. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

The specialist bit her lip, skimming the file again. “We might consider an anti-anxiety

medication.”

“Anti-depressants? I’m not sure that—”

“Yeah, maybe,” Benji interrupted.

I stared at him. “Are you depressed?”

The specialist picked up her pen again. “That’s not all they’re used for, Mrs Parks.”

“It’s no big deal, Mom. Loads of people at school are on them.”

Other parents complained about their kid’s grades or extra-curricular activities—or lack

thereof—but I had no idea so many of his peers experienced mental health issues. Despite probing,

he refused to elaborate; unsatisfied, I dropped him off at school and drove on to work. My boss was

waiting for me as I walked in the door, hauling me into a client meeting I’d hoped someone else

would lead in my absence. The day passed in a blur of emails and catch-ups, and I was thankful

when I finally slid into my car and out of my heels. My driving moccasins soothed my aching

arches, and the traffic wasn’t terrible. I turned the radio on and up, windows down, letting the tepid

wind whip my hair against my cheeks.

After dinner that evening, my husband asked Benji what the doctor had said, which my son

relayed in almost correct terms before trudging upstairs, face already glued to his phone. When he

was out of earshot, I clarified further. My husband frowned. “Anxiety meds? So it is all in his head?

That’s what they’re saying?”

“Yes and no.” I picked an apple out of the bowl, rolled it between the palms of my hands.

Pictured pushing, hard enough to crush the flesh into pulp. Once, Benji had showed me a video of a

man demonstrating how to pull an apple apart into two halves. My son spent almost a month trying

to replicate the trick before giving up, leaving a bowl full of bruised fruit in his wake.

“Which is it?”

“Neither, really.” I put the apple back in the bowl.

Henry blew out an impatient huff. “I’m going to the gym. Back in a while.”

I pushed in the chair and turned towards the sink, where hours-old dishes were calling my

name in discordant voices.

“Hey, uh, did you book the room for tomorrow night?” His hands slid around my waist,

stopping just short of meeting on my stomach.

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” He mouthed the back of my neck, teeth scraping in a move that had stopped driving

me wild years ago, and which he’d never noticed or cared to amend. He pulled away with a pop,

leaving the wet flesh chilled. “Looking forward to it.”

On the bed in the hotel room, I googled proactive positions to receive your lover and how to spice

up your marriage. Everything was about spicing something, heating up. Mating in captivity. I

pictured us fucking in a zoo, cameras flashing, newspapers spinning like in the movies. LIBIDO

ON LIFE SUPPORT.

He knocked on the door. I told him to come in. He jiggled the handle.

“Didn’t you get a card? I left one at reception.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Why not?”

“What’s the point in pretending if I’m going to get a card and walk straight in?”

“That isn’t part of the pretending. Its just practical.”

“It’s not sexy if you don’t commit.” Knuckles rapping against wood. “Come on. I’m not

having this conversation through a door.”

I got up and let him in. He pushed past me, cheeks already flushed, and made a visible effort

to relax.

“You look great.”

“Thank you,” I said, although I wanted to scream.

“Do you want to—” he gestured towards the bed.

I unbuttoned the second button on my shirt. “Aren’t we pretending?”

He was already unbuckling his belt. “Aren’t we always?”

I assumed a docile expression while he flung his belt at the chair, missing it, and walked

back to the door. With his fingers loosely resting on the handle, he began to apologize for walking

into the wrong room. I assured him it was no trouble. His gaze travelled from my chin to my

sternum as he hesitated, explaining it wasn’t safe for a pretty girl like me to travel alone. I wanted to

ask what kind of world he was building here; which genre he was fantasizing in. I wanted to know

whether he truly enjoyed the idea of a world where a woman couldn’t safely travel alone, and

whether he realized that was the world we already lived in. A fun pretense for him; a jarring

reminder for me.

I wondered what would happen if my new persona told him to leave—if she turned out to be

a witch, a shape-shifter, a demon. If she informed him that she was more than capable of managing

her own adventures. I wondered what his expression would be at first, what it might evolve into

afterwards; the many-legged stages of homo rejectus. I wondered what my future would be like

with neither an occupied space nor a man-shaped void next to me. The words didn’t choke me,

because they never made it as far as my throat, far less my tongue.

As my husband kissed his way down my chest, I wondered why we bothered pretending to

be strangers to each other when we so evidently already were. When he slid into me after only a few

minutes of lip service, I pitched my response. Low, encouraging, but not condescending. He stared

straight ahead, thrusting steadily, while I was treated to a close-up of the underside of his jaw. He’d

shaved that morning but there were several ingrown hairs, the skin around them swollen in small,

pink mounds. Oysters formed pearls around pieces of dirt. Lucky me.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I pictured a clamshell, razor-edged rims slicing through the water.

The back of my husband’s head and shoulders flexing as the door closed behind him. The thought

spurred me on abruptly; my climax rose steeply, banked, thundered to a crescendo. I came,

shuddering, an empty doorway outlined against my closed eyelids.

He followed suit shortly, looking smug and satisfied, but the smile of contentment faded

within seconds. “Did you have a good time?” He rolled off, clutching the sheet to his chest.

“Yes.”

“Who were you thinking about?”

“No one.”

“Yeah, right.” He bent over over, the jutting sail of his back reminding me of a replica of a

Spinosaur skeleton Benji had once been so fond of, and clawed around on the floor for his shirt.

“If I’m a gargoyle—”

He blew out a sigh, hard enough to ripple the curtains. “Jesus fuck, not this again.”

“If I’m a gargoyle,” I persisted, propping myself up on my elbow, “does that mean you’re

the building I’m there to protect?”

Henry rose, bare-buttocked, and didn’t turn around. “Uh. I guess so. That sounds kind of

romantic. Where’s my belt?”

“Where you threw it.” I flopped back on the bed.

After he hopped into his pants and threw his jacket over his arm, he glanced over. I hadn’t

moved. “Aren’t you coming?”

“I thought I might stay here for a while. Get a little work done.”

The vein in his forehead swelled, but all he said was, “Okay, babe. See you at home.”

When the door clicked behind him, I waited until I heard the elevator ding open and whoosh

shut before I pulled my laptop out and googled gargoyles. I studied their faces; some horned,

snarling, some roaring with silent rage. Some looked tragic, mouths curved in theatrical frowns. The

urge to pick apart the word—to ascertain exactly which of us was the monstrous being and who was

a mere conduit for the onslaught of rain—seemed more important than ever. I didn’t dare tell Henry

I could only climax now while picturing his absence. It was nothing to do with other people filling

that gap, although he would undoubtedly jump to that conclusion. The idea of the gap being filled at

all, by anyone, was abhorrent. These days, emotions ran through me and poured out onto the

pavement far below. I figured I had my answer.

I drove Benji to his next appointment, late on Wednesday afternoon.

“I’m gonna go in alone, okay?” He slouched off without waiting for a response.

The waiting room was empty, the TV in the corner mouthing silent news between

advertisements for back pain medication. I picked up an issue of Teen Vogue and flipped through

the glossy pages. They’d been doing some steady journalism over the last few years; teenagers these

days had access to instant news and an incredible nose for even the slightest hint of bullshit. I

stopped at an interesting headline and smoothed the page out.

The article purported to expose yet another senator in the latest string of sexual harassment

claims. Opening with a description of the execution of a man called Giles Corey for the crime of

witchcraft was a strange choice, but it caught my interest. Apparently, the executioners had pressed

his body between heavy stones, and when they’d demanded that he confess to his crimes under such

a punishment, Corey had simply requested more weight. More weight, more weight, until his last

labored wheeze. The author of the article asserted that the truth could be crushed, but never quelled.

I wasn’t sure I agreed, but Benji emerged from the doctor’s office before I had a chance to find out

whether the rest of the article supported the idea.

“That was fast.”

He shrugged.

I waited until we were in the car, buckled in and reversing, before I pressed the issue. “So?”

He was already fiddling with the radio. “He thinks I’m doing better.”

I waited at the intersection while a red car barreled past, way over the speed limit. “Do you

feel like you’re doing better?”

The radio settled on screeching dubstep. “Yeah.” He crossed his arms and didn’t pull out his

phone. “My report was good, by the way. Mr Adamson said he liked it.”

“The gargoyle one? That’s great, bud. Do you want to celebrate?”

He pulled out an apple and took a careful bite. My fingers tightened on the steering wheel,

but I said nothing. He swallowed. Chewed again, swallowed. “Maybe we could get Chinese?”

“Sure. Whatever you want.” I held a smile in, all the way home.

When I passed on the good news, Henry didn’t seem as relieved as I felt. He opened the

fridge, stared inside. “Okay. Good.”

“Good? Just good?”

He picked up the milk, shook it, and drank. “Yeah. Good.” He caught my eye, sighed, and

closed the fridge door. The carton bent under the pressure of his fingers. “What?”

“Nothing.” I put my keys down on the counter. I’d been wrong; neither of us were

gargoyles. We were simply two halves of a building under permanent construction, waiting out the

latest storm. Maybe that’s all marriage ever was.

“What do you want, Becca? Do you even know? Is there someone else?” Bit out each word

like a bark, the sound of a dog half-strangled by an urge to stretch a chain as far as it would go.

“Yes. Myself. I’m the other person.”

He scoffed, disbelieving. “Don’t get cute.”

I splayed my keys out, one by one, making sure each had individual space. The words

bubbled in my throat, pricked my sinuses. I want to recreate myself in stone. I want to carve out my

own void and leave the space empty. I want to choose weight, not water.

More weight.

More.

Bio: Lindz McLeod is a queer, working-class, Scottish writer who dabbles in the surreal. Her prose has been published by Catapult, Flash Fiction Online, Pseudopod, and many more. She is a full member of the SFWA and is represented by Headwater Literary Management.