Ink and Bone(9)

The idea of being unplugged, of long walks through the woods, of canoeing and picnics, of days where they could just be together as a family, cooking, reading, whatever it was that people did before they were slaves to schoolwork, and activities, and play dates, and endless birthday parties at Extreme Bounce? Before Netflix and iPads and smart phones and laptops? Well, when it came right down to it, it didn’t exactly thrill her.

Because mainly what would wind up happening was that Wolf would go off and try to connect with his inner adventurer. It’s the only place where we’re truly free, Wolf would exclaim. To Merri, the kind of “freedom” Wolf was talking about just meant “without structure.” And without structure, there was no control. No mother liked being out of control when her kids were part of the equation. But Wolf didn’t get that, because he never factored in his kids when he was making plans.

And the kids wouldn’t want to go with him on the excursions he planned because Wolf’s idea of fun was not fun for anyone else. (And when the kids got tired, started complaining as they would invariably do, or Merri dared to utter even the slightest note that maybe they’d had enough, Wolf would get peevish and he and Merri would start fighting. And what was supposed to be fun would just wind up sucking hard, as Jackson might put it.)

So to avoid that inevitable scenario, Merri would just let Wolf go off and do whatever he wanted to do, while she, Abbey, and Jackson would stay behind and play Monopoly (or Sorry! or Old Maid)—until someone had a tantrum. Or maybe she’d read aloud from The Giver, which she wanted the kids to read (but neither of them really wanted to). Or they’d go for a short walk until Abbey fell and scraped her knee, or Jackson started complaining about bugs. Like Merri, neither Abbey nor Jackson shared Wolf’s exact degree of enthusiasm for the out of doors.

So, Merri had been envisioning a weekend where she would end up entertaining Abbey (eight going on thirteen) and Jackson (thirteen going on eight) while her husband (forty-six going on eighteen) would disappear on hikes or whatever and take a bunch of selfies. He would then create a narrative of the trip, and in the telling of it later to friends, it would sound like the perfect family vacation. Because that’s how it went with Wolf, no matter where they were. Though, of course, he would completely deny that. What do you mean “create a narrative”? That’s what happened! You were there!

But those were the thoughts belonging to another version of Merri. The woman she was today as she drove up the winding rural road was so far away from that woman who worried about things like vacations, and not having time to work out, and whose turn was it to do the laundry. Those were luxury problems, the kind of problems people had when they had no real problems.

When she thought about the petty complaints that used to bring her and Wolf to screaming matches that sent the kids scuttling to their rooms—the ones that spanned days, had him sleeping on the couch—she was ashamed of herself. Literally ashamed. She would pay money to care about things like that again—his adrenaline addiction, how he spent too much time on the computer, how she knew he still jerked off to porn, how his “epic” nights with the boys left him reeking and completely useless the next day. But these days she only cared about one thing. Everything else in her life had turned to ash.

A big sign loomed to her right: Welcome to The Hollows. Population 9780. Established 1603. She breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that the town was just another fifteen minutes away. If the car broke down now, which it wouldn’t, she could theoretically walk. (Though her ruined knee ached at just the thought.)

Silence. No radio, she couldn’t stand the sound of chattering voices. Even NPR with its dulcet tones of liberal self-righteousness, or the classical music station on Sirius, things that once had been soothing, now grated on her nerves. Jackson and Wolf were back in Manhattan. Even they were moving on in the ways that they could: Wolf was working again; Jackson was back in school. But not Merri. No. She had stepped into quicksand and she was up to her chin, stuck and sinking fast.

If Wolf knew where she was, he’d have her committed—again. The first time, she barely remembered. She couldn’t recall the exact events that had led to her hospitalization or the time she spent there—except for these kind of shadow memories—soft lighting and gentle voices, a kind of floating cloud feeling. She liked to think of it as a brownout. Just a momentary dimming of circuitry, her system overwhelmed by grief and rage and loss. Anyway, she couldn’t go back to that place—literally or figuratively. Time was running out; she didn’t know how she knew that, but she did. Her instincts were powerful and usually dead on, even when she ignored them, which she often (too often) did.

She followed the signs and pulled off the rural road and into the quaint and tony town square. She remembered being impressed by just how pretty and clean The Hollows was when they’d first arrived; she’d even briefly (like for five seconds) entertained that fantasy about moving from the city out to a place like this. Wolf was right, she’d thought. This is going to be a nice getaway. And we are overdue for some time off.

On their way to the cabin, they’d spent the first afternoon -having lunch at the little diner. Then they’d wandered around and browsed in the cute boutiques—blankets and sweaters made from wool harvested from local sheep; simple, stylish clothing as nice and high quality as anything you’d find in the city; a glass and pottery shop—grabbing (really great!) lattes for her and Wolf and frozen hot chocolates for the kids at the Java Stop. She made a mental note to come in the morning to pick up pastries at The Fluffy Muffin.