‘I can’t find Stanley anywhere. I’ve looked in all his usual hiding places.’ Her voice breaks. She’s not speaking in a haste, as one would expect her to in such a situation; there’s a subtle melancholy in her voice, almost as if she’s already anticipating the worst possible scenario.
Before she noticed that Stanley was no longer perched next to her on the living room couch, she was lying down, scrolling on Instagram in her purple pajamas – the ones with stars on the pants and a plain string top. It was too early in the morning for her to do anything else. Jack, her husband, was still asleep. His alarm wouldn’t go off for another 45 minutes, after which he would open his eyes, reach over to his phone, turn off the alarm, and proceed to get out of bed. When she’s in bed next to him, he rarely turns to her before he gets up. She knows this because she is often awake before him, but keeps her eyes closed. Sometimes, she doesn’t sleep at all. Just lies in bed, pretending to, trying to.
In 45 minutes, he will leave the comfort of his bed, of his sleep, and commence his morning ritual – no less than 20 minutes on the toilet seat, scrolling past news and people’s lives, then coffee as he puts on the clothes he had laid out the night before. His lunch box, containing the food she had prepared the night before, sometimes two or three nights in advance, would be waiting for him in the fridge. He would place his coffee mug in the sink and pick up the bag, grab his keys from their usual resting place on the small, round, wooden table by the door, then leave. He doesn’t usually slam the door; he closes it normally. But she could always tell when he leaves, because she is always up when he does. He just doesn’t know it.
That morning, on the beige couch in the living room, in her purple pajamas with stars on the pants, she reached over to feel Stanley’s white fur, but before her arm extended, she was in a trance. Her eyes were fixated on her screen as the colors changed from post to post. Landscape. News. Selfies. News. Selfies. Selfies. News. News. Objects. News. News. Pets. It is at that moment that she reached over to feel Stanley’s white fur, with her eyes still fixed on the screen. Her arm extended next to her but it touched the couch. Her head twitched, and then she turned to where Stanley was supposed to be.
‘Stanley?’
She got off the couch and looked under it. Nothing. She looked around the small living area – near the glass coffee table, under it, although she could spot him if he were under it. Behind the burnt brown curtain, in the cabinets of the media console. Nothing. She sat on the carpet. It matches the curtains. She crossed her legs, elongated her spine and pressed her hands onto it, feeling its fuzziness, turning her head from left to right with her eyes closed.
‘Staaaanley.’
She opened her eyes. Nothing. She got up and walked to the kitchen. On the island, she cleared the plate from last night’s dinner, stained with tomato sauce from the penne a l’arrabiatta she had devoured in silence. She took the plate and the fork and placed them in the sink, and as she was doing so, wondered to herself why they were still out. That’s when she glanced at the broken glass on the floor next to her sock-covered feet. She still couldn’t remember why she didn’t clear the plate and the fork. Once they were in the sink, she bent to pick up the glass, at least the big chunks.
‘Stanley. Are you here?’
She tiptoed over the smaller pieces of broken glass to throw the big pieces into the bin, right under the sink. She opened all the lower and upper cabinets. Nothing. She opened the fridge. Looked past the half-empty condiment bottles, the leftover food from days before. Nothing. Opened the pantry. The unopened tin of formula stared at her. Nothing. She made her way from the kitchen to the entrance, but there’s nothing to check inside of or under. She spotted her reflection in the mirror, and quickly turned away. In the split second her eyes met her reflection, she had begun to formulate a thought: ‘No wonder he-’
‘Stanley. Where are you sweet boy?’
She walked into the guest bathroom. Opened the toilet seat. Checked the cabinets under the sink. In the shower. Nothing.
‘God Stanley, where are you?’
She walked back to the living room, where she first noticed that Stanley was not perched next to her on the beige couch, and stood in the middle. Instead of sitting crossed legged, this time she lay on her back, the feeling of the carpet that matches the curtains against her back. She closed her eyes and moved her head from side to side. She moved her knees to her chest and hugged them. Still hugging her knees, she dropped to one side. Her head now facing the couch, she spotted something under it. It was glistening although there was barely any light coming in from the window or any light turned on anywhere. Jack was still asleep.
On all fours, she moved towards the glistening thing. A piece of glass. She picked it up, the sharp edge pressing into her thumb, a sudden, cold reminder of the plate that shattered. When was it? Last night? The night they packed the boxes? At that moment, she felt like her days and nights were one continuous loop. She got up. Walked to the closed door, slowly too, so Jack doesn’t wake up. Jack. Stanley must be with Jack. But she doesn’t want to wake him. In 20 minutes, his alarm will go off, after which he will open his eyes, reach over to his phone, turn off the alarm, and proceed to get out of bed. In these 20 minutes, she will try to not think about Stanley. Instead, she will crawl back onto the couch and continue scrolling, only this time, it will be through pictures. A selfie of her and Jack at their favorite coffeeshop. A selfie of her and Jack with his nieces and nephews. Christmas maybe? She couldn’t even remember. A picture of Jack across from her on the table, head buried in his phone. Taken at their go-to diner. More selfies of her and Jack. A lot of pictures of Stanley. The last saved picture on her phone is a selfie of her and Stanley. She lingered on it, and then decided to check the storage room. She didn’t think of it before because the door is always closed, but she wanted to know where Stanley is, so she had to look in all the possible spots, even if they were impossible for him to get into.
She got off the couch and walked towards the door next to hers and Jack’s bedroom. She realized that she hadn’t been in the room in a while, but she couldn’t quite figure out how long. The door was closed. There was no way Stanley could have gotten inside, but she opened it anyway. For what felt like ages, she stood in front of the open door. For what felt like ages, the things in the storage room stared back at her – boxes piled one on top of the other. Some labeled, some not. Better not rummage through them, she thought, else Jack will get up, and his alarm will go off in less than 20 minutes now. Baby clothes. Baby toys. Jack’s winter clothes. Her eyes scanned the tiny room; no sign of Stanley. But Jack will wake up soon, there’s no point in annoying him now. He might wake up in a mood, if woken up abruptly, and it will affect his whole day. She went back to the couch, this time with her phone on the coffee table in front of it. She laid back, staring at the ceiling – there’s a crack in the paint on one of the sides. She wanted to make coffee, but she thought it would be better to try and doze off, at least until Jack is awake, so she closed her eyes.
When she opened them back up, the first thing she saw was the crack in the ceiling. ‘Stanley,’ she said in a low voice. She sat up, but he wasn’t there. She looked around the room. Nothing. The bedroom door was still cracked. She looked at her phone, it was 15 minutes after Jack’s alarm time, so, she thought, she barely napped for 30 minutes. But it was better than having not napped at all. By this time, Jack should be getting ready for work, but she couldn’t hear a thing. She got up and walked to the bedroom, slowly moved the door open, and stared at the well-made bed, then the wide-open bathroom door, and then, her eyes landed on Stanley, sleeping on Jack’s side of the bed.
She walked over to him and picked him up, resting him on her shoulder. ‘I can’t bear to lose you too, Stanley.’
