That Stain on the Couch

A short story by Brooklyn Olson

TW/CW: sexual assault, domestic abuse

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In the other room, the coffee maker beeps a good morning. Jesse must be awake.

I’m not asleep, am I? I blink my eyes from the ceiling where they’ve been stuck since I got home past 2 a.m., wide open. Did I really just lay here all night? I need to get up to help him get to class, but everything is sore. My eyes, my feet, my… I push past the weight holding me in place and pull back the thin blanket covering me.

Did I forget to take off my uniform? I reach down to smooth my blue dress and syrup glazed apron. Slowly, I swing my legs to the edge of the bed with a groan. God, I didn’t even take off my shoes.

With too many muscles shaking, I peel the sticking dress from my body—Why am I so sweaty?—and find a loose-fitting tank top and jogging shorts (both mostly used for lounging now), pulling them on with little regard to the caked-on makeup I forgot to take off that transfers stains onto the top’s neckline.

As I stumble into the living room and kitchen area, Jesse looks up from his cup of coffee, only needing a glance at my swollen, sunken eyes and cotton ball hair to spark his child-like insight. “Jeez, mom. You look like shit.”

Blinking my bleary eyes, I hesitate to react. He knows well that swearing and drinking coffee are not on the list of things he’s allowed to do, at least not at thirteen. But I’m so tired. Just this once.

“Did you finish your homework?” I cross the room to the coffee pot he left haphazardly on the counter, passing the pull out he has yet to put away—“Sorry, sweetie, that’s not my style.”—and the mess I have yet to clean up from yesterday morning—“Damn, you’ve really let yourself go.”—and Jesse whose eyebrows furrow while his eyes follow me. His mouth is moving. I can’t make out the sound.

“Mom?” Jesse breaks through. My hands visibly shake as I pour the coffee into a mug—not my usual “Mom of the Year” mug that still rests in the packed-full sink, but the one with the broken handle that I keep meaning to toss—and I realize I hadn’t paid attention to his response. My shaking hands put the pitcher down a bit too loudly. I jump at the thump of the glass on cheap countertop, but Jesse visibly shrinks. “S-sorry,” he says.

I take a long sip of coffee even though it burns my lips. It’s not strong enough. I spin around to the cupboard Jesse is not allowed to open and grab a bottle I’d nearly finished yesterday, pouring the rest of it into my mug and drinking until I have to pat the bottom for more. One slap stings my hand and rings with a crying crack.

The slap brought unwanted clarity. “Scream again. I dare you.”

“You okay?” Jesse’s brown eyes look so sincere, so sorry. And it’s all my fault. He deserves better than this.

“I—”

There’s a knock at the door. My mug is shattering on the floor and my back is pressing against the counter behind me.

“Woah, you okay?” Jesse is standing and looking at me and I’m a horrible mother. “It’s probably just Alec. It’s time for school.”

With a glance at the clock on the oven, I see that it’s almost 8:15. He’s going to be late. I should have made him leave earlier.

With a strain of confidence from the “coffee,” I hustle to the door and interview the peephole for any news about the petitioning intruder. A boy—a bit taller than mine with hair a lighter brown and eyes less careful—stares off down the hall, waving presumably to our next-door neighbor, the widow who always walks her fat corgi Sampson around this time.

He was smiling.

I don’t open the door. I can’t open the door. Instead, I take a few steps back and shove a textbook and a granola bar into Jesse’s faded red backpack. “Have a great day.”

“You sure you’re okay?” Shouldering his backpack, he looks at me with care, an amount of love that he must’ve gotten from his father. Eventually, his will fade too. I hold my smile in a white-knuckle grip.

“I’ll be fine.” I give him as much of a hug as he’ll allow. “I love you.”

“Love you, too.” He mumbles, tossing one last look at me as he opens the door. I look away as it opens. I’m not ready yet. He and Jesse will walk to school together and he’ll be okay, I repeat to myself a few times.

“Bye, Ms. Brown!” Alec calls as Jesse runs out the door, pulling it closed behind him. With a couple of clicks, the locks switch to safe.

And I’m alone again.

The dingy, eggshell walls seem darker and closer together, and the sound of the ceiling fan above me feels deafening.

I forgot to turn it off. It was going while—I forgot to turn it off. The energy bill…

I crouch on the floor I haven’t vacuumed in weeks. No matter what time of day, the downstairs neighbors pound on the door within minutes saying we woke their baby from her nap. Given that their youngest is nearly Jesse’s age now, I never really cared too much about what they’d say; they could turn their hyperactive listening into a sport and and their complaints wouldn’t stop me from doing what needed to be done. Only the extra shifts I pick up could do that.

Do I usually feel this numb?

I rub my goosebumped arms and nearly prick a finger on my crispy elbows.

I don’t have to do this yet. I can shower first.

The water is hotter than I like, but I need it to be. I need it to burn the feeling of him off of me. The shower right after wasn’t enough.

After wiping the caked, ten-hour-shift-and-left-overnight makeup off my face, I scrub every inch of exposed skin until it stings a bright pink. I am clean, but all of me feels so filthy. I want to keep the water running until I melt down, layer by layer, and follow the mess he left down the drain.

“Just relax, baby. You might just enjoy yourself.”

Something builds in my chest. I feel raw, like a dog is clawing at my ribcage, tossing up mud as he unearths a rotting skeleton long since buried. No matter how many times the damn thing is hidden in its Mother Earth’s bosom, the bastard can’t stop digging. It hurts, god it hurts, but it won’t stop digging until everything is back on the surface, stinking up the world with a past better left forgotten.

I’m sobbing, hyperventilating to the molding, floral shower curtain. Once I realize what I’m doing, I straighten my back and swallow the next sob. No, he doesn’t get to make me cry anymore. I swore he wouldn’t.

My shower lasts ten minutes. I can’t let it go any longer or the bill will stack too high.

I smear the steam around on the mirror and try to meet my own gaze. My eyes are brown; his were green. My eyes are soft; his were uncaring. If I never see those green eyes again, it’ll be much too soon.

Deep breaths.

I put my tank and shorts back on and tidy up the bathroom. I have another shift an hour after Jesse gets home from school, and he deserves to come home to a house that’s somewhat clean. I read in a magazine somewhere that a clean house is key to a child’s ability to succeed in school, and Jesse is getting out of this place.

He will not end up like me.

I start in the kitchen; the couch is too much right now. I wash the pile of dishes in the sink in silence, the ceiling fan, splashing water, and scrubbing sponge my only company. The water is too hot and I can feel my knuckles starting to split, but I keep scraping the melted cheese from Jesse’s impromptu nacho dinner and microwaved leftover pizza grease off of the plates he used the past few days. The pain keeps me grounded, and for that I’m grateful enough.

When the sink is empty and wiped off, I move to the papers, shoes, and socks strewn about the room. I could never find it in me to blame Jesse for his messes. Without his own room, the best he got was half a dresser in mine, and he never wanted to bug me after a long day of work. It doesn’t take much to move the clothes to the hamper in my room and the papers to a neat pile on the table.

Now for the couch.

My eyes stick to the pull out, still mucked up from my son’s restless, growing-boy sleep. The blankets form a smile and drape over the edges like they were carved by Strazza, a corner of the fitted sheet revealing a shoulder of the bed—“You really oughta show more, doll. You’re much sexier that way.”

I—I can do this.

I strip the—no, no, no.

I remove the bedding from the mattress and give each piece a haphazard fold before tossing it into the basket by the couch, the single, flat pillow placed carefully on top, though it was still wet from Jesse’s sleeping slobber. The bed unmade, I take a breath. It’s just a couch. A couch like any other couch. I fold away the mattress and replace the couch cushions.

There’s a stain on the left cushion.

I can see the harsh, intruding splotch of white crust marring the ashen couch, a mark of someone else’s sin that most certainly should not be there.

“Thanks for the fun. You can handle the cleanup, can’t you?” He picked up Jesse’s picture from the shelf on the wall. He should not have touched it! “Who am I kidding? You’re useless. He deserves so much more than you.”

I hadn’t noticed it yesterday. I hadn’t noticed the damned spot when he left because I showered and called the police and Jesse came home just before I had to leave for work. I hadn’t noticed it, but Jesse must’ve. He always sits and watches TV after I leave.

I have to get it out.

Bleach would be too harsh. It would turn the grey fabric into a permanent reminder. Glass cleaner could darken it. The only solution that comes to mind is one reserved for when Jesse “accidentally” spills breakfast on his only tie right before church: a rag, warm water, and dish soap. Stain eraser in hand, I kneel in front of the couch and try not to breathe too deeply.

There’s a knock at the door.

There’s a knock at the door.

“Ms. Brown? It’s the police. We have some more questions for you.”

“Delivery for Mrs. Brown.”

The rag falling from my hands, I buckle into myself as all the air leaves my body, refusing to return.

It’s him. Oh, god, it’s him, it’s him!

The room tilts; I can’t keep my head upright because gravity is centered left. Things tunnel black, and all I see is the stain he left.

The knock is louder this time. “Ms. Brown? It’s Officer Davidson. We spoke yesterday. We have more questions to ask you.”

I force more air into my lungs and stand on shaky legs. With one more breath, I make my way to the peephole, begging it for safety. Through the little round window, I see two male officers stand outside the door. An older, balding man and a younger, short one. I recognize the younger one from yesterday, Officer Davidson, though he came with a female officer last time. She held my hand while I cried.

Shaky hands flip back the lock and twist the handle. When the deed is done, only the officers stare at me expectantly. “May we come in?”

It was him. The man I left, the man I’d hoped I’d never see again. He was smiling. He put his hand over my mouth and pushed me inside, kicking the door shut with his foot.

“Miss me?”

I step aside and gesture for them to enter. They each take a seat at the table.

“We need to ask you more questions about what happened yesterday,” the balding one says as he folds his arms. Officer Davidson takes off his hat, and his green eyes meet mine for longer than I want them to.

“No, sweetheart, don’t close your eyes. I want you to look right at me.”

“Go ahead, then.” I sit across from them and fold my hands in my lap.

The balding one leans forward. “You said the man who did it was your ex-husband?” I nod. He scoffs, and his breath smells like cheap coffee. “Your ex-husband who’s trying to gain custody of your son came to your house and assaulted you while your son was at school?” I nod again. My eyes sting. “Tell me, Ms. Brown, which is more likely: a man risks losing his son forever for the sake of having sex with his ex-wife, or a woman in the middle of a custody battle presses false charges to assassinate her ex’s character?”

My face is damp again. I look down at my lap and try to pull down my shorts, make them cover a bit more. Neither of the officers offer comfort. “You don’t believe me?”

The man laughs. “Look, Ms. Brown, you have no evidence, no probable cause. You want to know what I think?” I shake my head. I have no interest in what he thinks. “I think your husband came to talk to you yesterday, the two of you had sex, and you regretted it.”

“I had a restraining order,” I whisper to my shorts.

“What?”

“I have a goddamn restraining order against him!” The fury came from nowhere and everywhere. “That man hit me and my son and is not welcome here!”

“Then why the hell did you let him in?” I’m standing over the table. The balding officer’s hand is on his hip. I sit back down.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t want this.” His breath is on my neck. It didn’t belong there. “It’s only been a year. Did you already forget how good this feels?”

“I told your officers yesterday.” My voice is colder than their gaze. “He said he was a delivery man. It didn’t sound like him. I didn’t check the peephole.”

Officer Davidson speaks up, “you went to the hospital for the rape kit, right?”

I shake my head. “I had to go to work.” And Jesse came home. Do you remember, officer? My son came home and I had to tell him to leave because you wouldn’t stop talking to me in front of him.

“Look,” the balding cop says, “do you even have proof that Max was here?”

“I—” I look around. Cops on daytime TV fingerprint houses and search for traces of DNA, but they had already shot that down yesterday. They hadn’t even looked for any evidence when they were here; they wanted Max’s story first. The way they’re acting now, they must have spoken to him already. He always had a way of convincing people he did nothing wrong, no matter how many bruises he left.

As my eyes scan the room for anything, anything I could point to, I remember what he left.

“That—that stain on the couch.” The unblinking eye on the left cushion stares back at me. “He left that stain on the couch there,” I whisper. I pull my shorts' hem down and my tank top's up. If my eyes could dry long enough, I’m sure I’d be able to use them burn the stain out of the grey fabric from across the room.

The officers stand and walk to examine it, Davidson pulling on a rubber glove before touching it. A bit crusts off onto his fingers. “How old is this?”

“A day old.”

The balding one frowns at me. “You were married to him a year ago. How do we know he didn’t leave this when you were still together?”

It’s my turn to laugh, and I do. “My son and I left that bastard in the middle of the night with just a change of clothes each and our IDs. We had to live in a shelter for a month or two until I could afford an apartment. I bought this couch last week at the thrift store. My son slept on an air mattress until then.”

“Did you keep the receipt?” Davidson says.

I better’ve. I walk to the junk drawer in the kitchen and sort through a stack of receipts: the pizza Jesse and I got this weekend to celebrate an A on his math test, the poster he needed for his Chemistry project, the sheets we got for the pull out. And there it is. A white peace offering in the midst of an unyielding war. A small victory, but I’ll take it.

“Here.” I hand the receipt to the balding officer, a grin that I found somewhere pulling at my mouth’s edges.

“March seventeenth, 2018. One pull out couch. 50 bucks.” He grunts. “Fair enough. We’ll have to take that cushion to get it tested.” I nod. “Honestly, if you’re telling the truth about this, why the hell are you still staying here? Isn’t it...” he waves his hand in the air as he searches for his next word “...traumatic?”

My answer is locked in the back of my throat and I don’t have the key. I swallow and say, “we have nowhere else to go.”

And now he knows where we are, I don’t say. I don’t say, I looked at security cameras on the way to work yesterday and cried when I saw the price tags, or, I’m thinking of getting a big dog, but that would make money even tighter: rent would go up and there’d be another hungry mouth to feed.

The officers don’t say much after that. They put the receipt in a small bag and the cushion in a big one, and then they leave.

And I’m alone again.

The dingy, eggshell walls seem darker and closer together, and the sound of the ceiling fan above me feels deafening.

And my couch is missing a cushion.