He knows I’m leaving. And what’s worse, he knows something’s wrong even though he hasn’t seen the meltdowns. And he’s not going to let me just pack my things and leave.
He pulls cotton balls out of my cosmetic case and when I take them back he reaches into my drawer and tries to grab a handful of Q-tips. He’s got that runner’s stance – feet planted, knees bent, ready to take off as soon as his chubby little hands have a firm grasp on the paper sticks.
“Please, honey, be helpful. I’m trying to pack.”
I can actually see him prepare to crank the defiance up a notch.
“Why don’t you go see Daddy for a minute?”
Please. PLEASE. I need to leave. It’s just for one night and I need to leave because yesterday was awful and I’m crashing and I just…need to leave. Please.
“I don’t want to see Daddy! I want Mummy!”
Tears stream down his sweet baby cheeks. His arms stretch up towards me.
I pick him up and he hugs me tight. His head is tucked snugly into me and he’s holding on like a baby monkey whose survival depends on staying close to his mother. I pause, overwhelmed with love for him, and wonder how something so beautiful could have turned my whole world inside out over the last couple of years.
Having heard his wailing, my husband comes in.
“Why don’t you go with Daddy?”
“I DON’T WANT DADDY!”
He’s breaking my heart, but Daddy, ever resourceful, can fix this.
“Why don’t we go have a peanut butter snack?”
He agrees and I hand my baby monkey to his daddy. I take a deep breath and finish packing, all the things I need for a night in a hotel. Alone. I’ve got workout gear and cozy socks. Healthy snacks and Coke. A decadent, completely self-indulgent dessert. I intend to do nothing. Not go out for dinner, not walk along the harbour, not go to a movie by myself. I intend to lock myself in the hotel room and never come out think. Write. Figure out what to do next. I can’t get there fast enough.
With my bags in my car I head down the highway. The hotel isn’t far – maybe 15 minutes from where we live. The Sunday afternoon traffic is light, but every car is an obstacle. I keep missing lights – they change from green to yellow, taunting me. You’re not free yet.
A white van is plodding along at 10 kilometres an hour below the speed limit. Come ON! I change lanes and pass him.
Just two more blocks, across the bridge and I’ll be there. And then I see it. A sign, its yellow lights flashing: “Lights flash when bridge is up.”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
I round the bend and see that the railway side of the bridge is going up, but the vehicle lane is still open. Maybe I’ll make it.
The light goes red.
I can feel every nerve in my body twitching with the need to get into a quiet room with a door that locks behind me. I can see the hotel from here – mere metres from the end of the bridge. It’s so close. I’m so close. But I wait. I have no choice.
So close
I manage to breathe long enough to realize I’ve never actually been this close to the bridge as it’s going up, even in over 30 years of living here. It’s interesting to watch, actually.
And luckily it’s fast. Bridge goes up, boat goes through, bridge comes down.
About 300 metres past the bridge is the entrance to the hotel property. The lane curves left through a narrow driveway that’s surrounded by cherry trees in full bloom. I see lights wrapped around the trees trunks and wonder if it’s a de-Christmas-ing oversight or twinkle lights for nightly ambiance. Probably the latter.
I made it. All I have to do is park my car and talk to another human long enough to hand over a card in exchange for a room key. A simple conversation that will lead me to the silence and solitude I long for.
Unfortunately the conversation isn’t so simple after all, and I have another, potentially challenging, hurdle to jump before I find peace.
