Looking around the table, time seems to pause. I see my mum, husband, teen and I, seated in front of our empty plates, as if watching from afar. My ten- and three-year-old are playing nearby, and I, for a split-second think, we’re having an actual conversation – where I’m getting to finish sentences and respond to people! We’ve arrived. I made it. I can get through this! Then, as if sucked back into reality, the room re-focuses, life resumes play, and my body notes that the toddler has gone quiet for more than a minute. I abandon my post and rush into the family room on reflex alone. Standing, with a look of hesitant delight, all 37 inches of him, with his right hand in the air, he dangles my peace lily with its roots bare. He stares me down as our eyes meet at the soil, where Lego figures stand among Playmobil men, buried knee deep at odd angles, in place of my plant.
“They’re diggin’ in the dirt mama!” he states with a certainty that challenges me.
I should laugh; he looks so stinking cute! Worse things could happen – worse things have happened. Instead, my head feels like it will explode and suddenly nothing else exists except that plant. The room begins to spin as the scene assaults my senses and my mind spins out in a panicked rage. I scream his name louder than necessary and retreat in fear of what I’ll say next.
Upstairs I fall into the darkness of my bedroom: my plant for fuck’s sake! The very plant that I had observed aloud to myself only the day before, “wow, look at that! It’s doubled in size since I re-potted it just a couple of months ago!” “At least something is thriving in all this madness,” I had remarked to no one, with a foreign satisfaction. My PLANT! I scream silently. It represented the last shred of my dignity. The last item we owned that hadn’t been damaged or destroyed or drained of life. We’re doomed, aren’t we? My rational brain attempts to calm my emotions and I begin to breathe slowly – the deep belly breaths my meditation practice has taught me – when the previously locked door bursts open and the destroyer jumps on me.
“Mama! What you doin’ up here?” he asks in oblivious delight. At the intrusion of my last attempt at solitude, I snap. I rush downstairs and attire myself in warm, outdoor clothing, faster than I ever have before. The dog appears at my feet without being called, knowing she may miss the opportunity for our nightly walk, if she dares hesitate, for even a second.
I hurry into the lamplit dark night, desperately seeking escape from the suffocating chaos of inside my house. My children’s bickering screams heard over the buzz of the vacuum and the rush of the kitchen sink being filled with suds. My heart races in relief as I exhale; the cold air, sobering. Marveling at my escape, I’m abruptly startled by the squeal of kids rushing closer, as two families merge on their evening walks, toward me. Panic rises and I cross the street, quickening my pace. Their squeals turn to giggles and screams; piercing the silence of the otherwise empty stretch; threatening to catch my heels and trip me up. Their parents’ laughter echoes after them. My thoughts stumble over each other: Why are they out together? Why are they happy? How do they get outside all together? My frustration turns to anger: Why isn’t’ anyone masked? Why are their kids playing arm in arm when mine have had to keep to themselves for months on end? Why the hell can’t I even be alone outside?!My legs hurry, my arms tugging on the leash to encourage the dog: faster, damn it!
The kids’ voices chasing close behind me – are they following me?! I make it to the end of the street and step off the sidewalk into the darkness of the lakeside park. I exhale again in relief: safe at last. I breathe in again and let out another long, slow breath – shattered again by the sound of those fucking kids. The sounds of their voices, physically assaulting me, I hurry into the anonymity of the darkness at the water’s edge. Hastily, I follow the shoreline around to the point, making sure to stay in the shadows, somewhat worried that they recognize me and see past our friendship to my angry thoughts. Why are they following me?! Do these people not care for the safety of their kids? I question no one but myself. I walk as far as the matted frozen grass will take me before returning me to the spotlight of the bright streetlights, and I hear the kids and their adults reuniting: so close to me, yet thankfully separated by the veil of darkness the lake provides as my camouflage. Feeling trapped, as if in a closet, peaking through the cracks, I hold my breath, hoping they don’t see me – hear my heart pounding – as I realize I’m now sobbing. My heart beats in my chest with such force, that my parka suddenly feels two sizes too small. I’m trapped. There is nowhere to go without them recognizing me; they’re my friends after all. Without them pitying me. Without them shoving their freedom of socialization in my face to choke on. Why do they get to play by different rules? What makes them exempt from all of this? What the fuck am I to do? In the split second I’m frightened with this thought, the two families part ways, and the park goes silent.
My tears, streaming down my cheeks, mix with my pouring nose, as I use the last dry corner of the single tissue I find crumpled at the bottom of my pocket. My heartrate slows, my breath evens out, and my sight clears. I see for the first time, the black stillness of the water between me and the crisp, sparkling lights of the downtown skyline. As a smile soothes my sadness, I am startled by the sight of several floating white shapes – blindingly white swans, aglow with the reflection from the city lights from across the water, each bobbing gracefully. Wow, this is beautiful, I allow myself to feel momentarily, before guilt overrides, with the pull home: I’ve been gone too long. As the responsibilities that await me pull me toward home, the tears flood back and the panic rises in a forceful wave, paralyzing my feet. I pat my pockets, knowing that I’ve left both clean tissues, and my phone at home. My eyes scan my surroundings, looking for an alternative to the implausibility of refuge in both the water and the return home. What to do? Where to go? All options evaporate with the harshness of their impossibility amidst a pandemic.
I glance at my watch and realize I can dial a friend. She thankfully picks up. We talk it out. My breath slows again. She offers to meet me but we both know the reality: to do what? We can’t hug. Her shoulders can’t dry my tears. Her arms can’t comfort my fatigue. Her voice will have to do. The tears dry up. My heart slows back into a familiar rhythm. We talk some more. Maybe I can just stay here and talk forever? Maybe I’ll be okay? Maybe we’ll all be okay? My watch threatens me back to the cold night with its low battery alert, and I abruptly thank her for rescuing me from my own thoughts. I’ll be okay. I will be. I will.
I disconnect and turn inland, giving in to the tugging on the leash in my hand, to indicate my defeat: “okay, you win. Home we go.” I put one foot in front of the other; pass no one; hear no one; see no one. Up one street, over two, up another. Right at our driveway, left at our steps, right through our front door. All just as I left it: mum at the sink, kids arguing over something, tv nattering on in the background. I hang my coat and unclip the dog from her leash, kicking my boots onto the mat. I remember the medicine I have to measure out and bring upstairs to my toddler who has finished his bath; my husband already multiple steps into his bedtime routine, and I hurry to find my place in it all. I reach his bed rail and administer his meds as he reaches over and clutches my neck in a bear hug.
“Mama! I missed you!” and my throat tightens – not with panic this time but with overwhelming love – how am I so lucky? I smile and he sees not my puffy red eyes and blotchy cheeks, but only his mama.
Another day done. Tomorrow is a fresh start. I will be okay. We will be okay.