The Golden State

I sling Honey over my hip and we walk across the room waving at the van Voorheeses and to Kimmy, who points me to the bathroom. “We’ll catch up,” she says, and I say “Absolutely” and rush Honey to the bathroom because she is starting to cry and squirm and the smell says to me that the diaper has been breached. I feel calm and capable and as we open the door to go into the bathroom I say “We are going to have you fixed up in a jiffy,” and then with the mother machine brain I run a quick diagnostic of the situation and recall that I have already put her spare pants on her but then remember that the other pants are just wet with water and so they will work as a switch if the worst has happened. There is a changing table in the handicapped stall and I set Honey down and she cries and squirms and I babble at her “You’re fine you’re fine you’re fine” and think about what we’ll need to get done before we take Alice to her last stop. We’ll need to clean up the house. We’ll need to call Engin send several e-mails to the Institute do laundry and pack everything up. Sure enough there is a smear of poop that reaches up to Honey’s back, peeking out of the diaper onto the inside band of her pants but mercifully not her shirt. I regret that poop is getting on the changing pad I’ve spread over the fold-out changing table but remember also that I have hand sanitizer because I am organized and ready for anything. I wipe Honey’s bottom put on cream put on the new diaper put on the damp previous pants and pack everything up and set her down on her feet and glance at my phone which tells me it is nearing bedtime. She grabs my leg and says “Mee-ow mee-ow mee-eow” which I realize with sudden clarity is “Pick me up!” and I say “Ah, yes! Yes I will pick you up! Listen to all this talking you’re doing” and I pick her up and kiss her a big dramatic kiss that makes her giggle and I think I don’t make her laugh enough and I do it again and again until she’s laughing so hard her hiccupy baby laugh it’s hard for her to catch her breath. I don’t do anything for her enough, I think, not enough talking singing playing teaching.

I knock the door open with my butt and pass by Kimmy who says “Can’t wait to get our kids together” and it almost dissipates the all-pervading feeling of desolation I get in Altavista, look at this friendly normal person raising her family and having a great life up here even if she is homeschooling them and teaching them god knows what. I file this thought and get back to the table and look around for someone to get us the check and Alice says “I paid,” and I consider groping around for cash I don’t have and instead just say “Thank you, that’s very nice.” I set Honey on her feet and get on my knees to clean up the wads of bread and napkin and meat and other shit all over the dense nap of the rug and tuck it into a napkin and when I lift my head I see Honey is running down the room with that forward tumbling run. By the time I’ve leapt to my feet to go after her she’s splayed headlong on the ground and wailing and I pick her up and kiss her grab the bag make sure Alice is out of her seat and walking slowly behind and wave to the van Voorheeses wave to Kimmy and I’m sweating when we get out into the cool night air.

I put Honey down on the crunchy grass that abuts the parking lot and let her run around. It feels so good outside, the air smells so good and feels so good on my skin and it’s the first time in weeks I’ve felt a good physical sensation that wasn’t immediately followed by psychic distress. Honey screams just to hear herself and pants, she’s so happy to run around.

“Well,” I say to Alice, “I guess I ought to take you back and we’ll all get ready to go tomorrow.”

“Let the little one run around some,” Alice says. “You don’t let her stretch her legs enough.” It’s amazing to me that I find a rebuke of my mothering in even the mildest statements from friends coworkers strangers i.e. “Sleepy baby!” or something innocuous but this actual rebuke, this correction, feels so natural I accept it without injury. “Stay on the grass, please, Honey,” I say and lower myself onto the low concrete wall that lines the path to the lodge. I’d love to pull the cigarettes out of my bag where I’ve stashed them just in case but there’s Honey and there’s Alice and all the promises I’ve made to myself about not being trash. Not trash. Shouldn’t say trash. Alice stays standing. “If I sit on that thing I’ll never get up,” she says. I wonder at her body, that she’s been able to drive out here all alone.

“So how will we work this?” I am feeling efficient ready to bang out some logistics. “So you’re going to call Mark and Yarrow and tell them what exactly? That you met a responsible person who is going to drive you out there and then bring you to an airport? I haven’t looked at a map yet—do you know what town this place is near?”