A cat tower. Television set. Brooms leaning on a white wall. A red dustpan. Birthday and Mother’s Day cards stand on end tables. Brown stained carpet.  A mirror by the front door. She looks at herself. Lego pieces stepped on.

In a room down the hall, a child cries. He whines and throws things. Says, I hate you. Then cries more. He kicks the walls and door.  Mom takes another look in the mirror. 

Be quiet, she yells. You’re only going to make yourself sick. Don’t make me come back there, she looks at her phone. The baby sitter called and said she’ll be late. Her date has been canceled. Said he had to work. There are bottles of booze on top of the refrigerator. She pulls down a bottle of Skol vodka. She drinks from it.

A soft knock on the door. The babysitter apologizes. She can smell the alcohol. Nothing is said. The boy continues crying.

Go back and check on him every once in a while, the young mother says. He should wear himself out and fall asleep. The babysitter nods and smiles. I’ll be home late. Call me if you need anything. But, only if you really need something.  OK? She takes one more look at herself and closes the door.

Maybe she’ll find what she’s looking for. She drives the Dodge past the downtown bars past the church. She has a full tank of gas. The entrance to I-69 shines in the night.

She thinks about leaving it all behind. Fumbles through the glovebox. A small bottle of Fireball is half empty. She drinks the rest of the whiskey and is on her way. Going south. She has no idea where she’ll wind up. She wants to start all over again. A clean slate? There is no such thing.