“And who are you really?”
A long slow breath comes from deep inside his chest, like he’s blowing out a candle in slow motion. “A guy who loves his wife and his son but sleeps in the basement because he’s too anxious and underemployed to find a place of his own.”
Escape
There’s no easy way out—I can’t make Gary sleep in the snoring room now, because the People Puppets are there—and as much as I want to, pulling my bedding into the living room and sleeping there—with strangers in the house—doesn’t seem like a good idea, either. If Teddy were three or four I could bunk in with him, but now I’m trapped sharing a bed with someone I’m separated from who has just told me he’s met—and kissed—someone else—something I thought I’d wanted; something I thought would free me. And maybe it eventually will. But right now, while his sudden confession has exhausted him—he’s already asleep on the other side of the bed—I’m wide awake and rigid on my side, struggling with the sadness at the failure of our union and the strange guilt of relief: that he has moved a step away from me; that he will eventually end up with someone new who is far better suited for him than I have become; that one day we will both be happy again in our own way, together or apart.
So when I check my email on my phone in the dark and see that Sari Epstein has invited me for a special meditation-weekend—okay, when I receive her mass email advertising “only a few spots left” in her retreat, The Noble Journey: Creativity Unbound! at her Vermont farm this coming weekend—designed to “unlock your blocked artistic impulses and guide you toward free expression”—I decide to sign up. I know it’s last minute and impulsive and financially irresponsible, but I also know that solving our problems, marital and otherwise, starts with me finding my way back to the person I was when I created Bird: if Gary and I are ever going to be able to split up it will be because I’ve finally been able to make some real money again, or at least get back on track for doing what I was meant to do. Doing “just enough” at Well/er will never be enough to save us. But Sari Epstein might.
It takes just seconds between telling myself I can’t afford the seminar to justifying and rationalizing the expenditure beyond all measure—the $895 fee for the retreat itself (room and board for two nights at a plush nearby inn sold separately, and there is a link to a list of friendlier-priced Airbnbs and local hotels, too) isn’t exorbitant, it’s actually a bargain. What price could you possibly put on reconnecting with your creativity? I fill out the online registration form on my phone, find the one Visa card that hasn’t expired yet and that I’ve been saving for an emergency like this. Well, not quite like this—more like a dental emergency or, god forbid, a medical emergency—most likely some kind of mental health emergency outside the bounds of normal coverage—but why not a creative emergency? I pull the card out from the back of my nightstand drawer, where I keep it hidden, and fill in the payment information. Then, in the “additional information box,” I identify myself with my published-author credentials so that Sari Epstein will treat me with published-author respect when I get there. When I hit “send,” I think: Yes, this is why we’re broke, but what the fuck.
With the online purchase completed, I take a screenshot of the receipt and text it to Glenn:
Come with me on my Noble Journey. I’ll drive.
The idea of it as a spontaneous and fun girls’ weekend appears in my head like a fizzy bubble—but the fantasy of it pops and disappears when she declines with a single word:
Can’t.
I know she doesn’t have the energy to stay in a room and sleep while I’m out trying to cure my writer’s block. Part of me wants to stop right there—if Glenn’s too sick to go, then I don’t want to go, either—but I know that’s not an option. I have to start preparing myself for what’s coming, even though I also know that’s impossible. You can’t ever prepare yourself for that.
In the morning, after drop-off, I tell Gary about the workshop—and how the timing of it actually provides the perfect opportunity for us to take a short break from each other. “Given last night’s awkward revelation,” I spell out, “it’ll be good for both of us to have some time to think.”
“To think about what?”
“About what we’re doing.”
“And what are we doing?”
“Well.” I snort. “You’re having an affair.” I realize I don’t entirely believe his story about it being just a kiss. What sexually deprived husband who’s officially separated and has permission from his wife to have sex with other women would stop at just a kiss?
He snorts back. “I’m not having an affair! It was just a kiss, I swear!” He sits down at the table. “Look, nothing’s changed. We’re still separated. And we can’t actually separate. Except for that one thing, our situation is pretty much the same as it was before. Let’s not get crazy.”
But something has changed. He’s made a break for it. He’s done us each a favor by taking that first step. Is it possible that I feel relieved?
“It’ll be a quick road trip for Teddy and me, something we haven’t done in years,” I say, explaining that since Sari Epstein’s farm is only two hours from Boston and a few towns over from Gary’s mother’s house, which is right near Dartmouth College and on the Vermont/New Hampshire line, I’ll figure out an Airbnb or a cheap last-minute hotel, then drop Teddy there for two nights while I’m busy writing and drawing and coloring and meditating. “It’ll give us a chance to have time together in the car and go to all his favorite diners on the way there and back.”
It’ll also give me a chance to be without the dog for a weekend—now that the People Puppets can act as part-time dog-sitters, I can practice being slingless for when Lucy comes to live with us. I’ll tell Teddy after dinner. I know he’ll be as excited as I am.
* * *
“No, Mom.”
“What do you mean ‘no’?”
“I’m not going.”
“But you love our road trips!”
“I used to, but I don’t anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m different now. I just want some time alone!”
“But you’re always alone!”
“I’m not! I’m always in school! And when I’m not in school, I’ve got homework! I haven’t even started the outline of my yearlong Immersion Project, and the last thing I want is to be trapped in a car for a million hours.”
“Three hours. At the most.”
“No!”
“I’m tired of ‘no’!” I’m starting to understand how frustrating it must be for Gary to deal with me.
“And then there’s everything else.”
“Like what?”
“Like the Secret Pooper.”
“Has he pooped again?” I ask, then wonder about my use of the male pronoun—my assumption that the Pooper is a he.
“No, but everyone’s waiting for it. Every time you leave the classroom you have to sign out, and then they watch you walk down the hallway to see where you’re going. If you say you have to go to the bathroom, they check the bathroom after you come back. I feel like they’re always watching me. Like they think I’m guilty. Like they think I’m the Pooper. But I’m not!”