In the morning, I email Feloise. I’m a bit afraid to tell her what I need to, and I don’t trust myself at this point not to let her convince or guilt me out of my decision. Plus, I don’t want to turn my phone on, don’t want to get distracted by everything going on back in the real world. For now, I need my country hideaway, my chance to remove all obligations, free myself from thinking about social media posts and who everyone thinks I am and just figure out how to be me. And that especially means cancelling my appearance and guest speaking spot at the International Women in Business conference. Feloise got me the spot, which means it’s Feloise I need to let know.
Feloise,
I’m sorry but I can’t speak at the conference. I’ll explain everything later, but can you please let the organizers know?
Kit
I hit Send before I can change my mind. I scroll through my inbox, then realize it was a mistake to think about all the work I should be doing. A second later there’s a reply.
WTF??? Are you dying? Is someone else dying? The answer better be YES. Answer your goddamn phone!
I hit Delete, close my laptop and lie down on my childhood bed, waiting for relief to wash over me, but it doesn’t come. So I change into my dad’s old T-shirt and a pair of shorts and slip on my Vans, which are not great for running, but I don’t let myself have that excuse, and set off on a run. I’m always telling my followers that fitness really boosts your mood. Is it even true? I suppose I’ll find out.
I haven’t run in as long as I can remember and the whole act of running feels uncomfortable. My legs feel stiff. My lungs feel like they’re being squeezed. But I head toward the water, and then along the path where I learned to ride my bike when I was younger.
One stride at a time. No selfies, no posts. No phone means no music, either. The only sound is the rustling of the wind in the trees, the leaves gently brushing each other. I run down to the river, through the ravine, paths I haven’t taken since I was a child. The wind whips at my face, cleansing me of it all.
The next few days pass in a blur. I putter around the house, feeling both like a guest and at home, but in a childlike way. I help Dad with random projects, bake sourdough bread from Jeannie’s starter that I find in the fridge, and read books on the couch. Izzy calls to check in daily. She says she’s worried about me, but I tell her not to be. One afternoon, when I’m home alone and Dad and Jeannie are out playing bridge at a friend’s house, Izzy tells me that Feloise has been DMing her on Instagram. “I think she’s worried you’ve gone off the deep end. Have you?”
“Yes? No? Maybe so? I’m not sure. I have been swimming a lot. It might be a midlife crisis.”
“You’re a little young.”
“Just tell her you’re not my lifeguard and to go away.”
“That sounds like something I would text, yeah, OK,” she kids. “And what’s with your phone? Are you ever going to turn it back on?”
“At some point, sure. But for now, the silence is pretty nice. It’s like I’m in rehab, it’s my social media detox. And the important people know how to get in touch.”
“Well, as long as you’re OK.”
“I’m OK. I’ve been running, too.”
“Did you say running?”
“Yeah. Well, only twice. It’s a lot more tiring than sitting on the couch.”
“Well, good for you.”
After we hang up, I decide to go for another run. Three seems like it might make it a habit. I’m pretty sure I’ve told my followers that, too. Not recently—I haven’t posted since being at Dad’s. But before, when I would post about running but never actually run.
Twenty minutes later, I find myself on a path that’s familiar though I can’t figure out why. And then, the black iron gates of the cemetery loom before me.
I haven’t been here in years.
When I lived at home, Dad and Izzy and I would go every Sunday after church. Back when Dad used to go to church. Once I left home, I visited Dad less and less often, and when I did, visiting Mom wasn’t a priority. Now, I’m not even sure if I can remember the route to her plot.
I slow my run to a walk as I approach the entrance. The road from the gates shoots in various directions, but the one going straight ahead seems right. But at the bridge, it veers left, and turns out to be a dead end. I went the wrong way. Retracing my steps to the gates, I begin again, choosing the other tine of the fork, hopeful that this one is right. A couple standing by a site near the road glance to me and smile as I pass. I smile quickly, then lower my head, praying I won’t have to walk past them a third time. The road splits again, and now I’m guessing. Right, then left, then right again. I can barely see the gates from where I stand, and I can’t call Dad because I don’t have my phone. The rolling green hills are dotted with hundreds of gray tombstones, the winding roads making a never-ending maze. It’s hopeless. It doesn’t matter that I’ve chosen to come. The cemetery is too unforgiving. I did my best. Along the bumpy road, I make my way back toward the gates. But when I reach them, I don’t leave. I can’t leave. A car approaches from behind and I move off to the side. “You alright?” the silver-haired man says, through his open window. I nod, not swiping at my tears, not admitting that they’re there. He drives on.
I turn and take in the roads, the grass, the stone markers, the trees. And try again.
This time, my route works. The familiar gray tombstone, nestled between two large evergreens, comes into view. My mother’s name is carved in stone. I’ve found her. Tears of relief bring other tears. Tears that had been buried too deep for too long. Below her name, the day she was born, the day she died.
The evergreens are taller than I remember, but between them are rows of flowers—yellow mums, my mother’s favorite, in bloom. The soil is dark; there are no weeds. It’s the confirmation I need to know that my father will never forget my mother.
I bend down, resting on my knees. I look around, feeling self-conscious, and then realize it doesn’t matter who sees me, who hears me. What matters is that I’m here. With Mom.
The run home feels quick, and after kicking off my shoes, I head straight up the stairs to my room. Dad calls out to me, asking if I’m OK, and I tell him I’m fine, that I need to get something done. Rooting around in my desk, I find an old notebook and one of those pens with the four colors. I pop down the blue, but it’s out of ink, so I settle on green. And start writing.
I picture all those women in the conference room, staring at me up onstage, waiting to hear what inspiring words I have for them about why the child-free life they’ve chosen is the best way to go. The goals they’ll accomplish with all their time, the relationships they’ll have with men who don’t expect children, the travel they’ll do with their disposable incomes…and then I think about Izzy. How she’s child-free by choice—but not because it’s her first choice. How many other women are out there in one of the No Kidding groups, choosing to tell the world they’re child-free, but for reasons that are much more complex than they’ll ever let on? And maybe there are women who are too old to have children, who missed their chance and now choose child-free over sorrow for what could’ve been. And maybe there are women like me—women who always wanted to be child-free, but then something changes. Someone changes them. And they wonder if maybe, the life they thought was the only way might not be the only way. If changing their mind is possible.
It doesn’t matter who’s in the audience, doesn’t matter if I never speak these words aloud. I’ve got to write what’s real. I’ve got to write the truth. My truth. That I changed my mind. That sometimes you can make a decision that’s right at the right time. And then things change and you realize that maybe you’re missing out on something you never thought you wanted—or even really knew existed. Or you get so caught up in the person you think you are, that you’re gliding through every day, creating what you know people want, but aren’t sure if it’s what you want. I think about all my posts—cooking and running and going to restaurant openings and store previews for clothes I tried on but never even bought. Trips I only pretended to go on by standing in front of a green screen, or Photoshop techniques I used to make days look brighter, smiles whiter. Do these photos inspire people, or do they just make them feel bad? And do they make me feel better about my own life, because my feed floods with comments about how great I look, what fun I seem to be having, how my friends miss seeing me because I’m so busy living my best life while they’re at home, muddling through the mundane details of everyday life? Do I really feel like my life, my real life, is just too boring to even share?
I write and write and write, until there’s nothing left to say, until, eventually, it’s all there, everything I’ve bottled up, not letting myself feel. And it all just makes sense. I feel calm. I feel relief.