Starting to Fly

Drool slides from the corner of my mouth and rolls under my chin. As I lift my head, I notice the blotch of saliva on the decorative throw pillow. I'm groggy and haggard. My body, heavy under a blanket of despair, wants nothing but to fall asleep until this day ends. A sigh escapes me, and I collapse to the pillow, urging my mind to slip back into the peaceful slumber I was in a few minutes ago. Two minutes turn into five minutes; five minutes turn into ten minutes. My attempt is feckless. I slide my foot to the edge and press my hand on the cushion, but then I change my mind. It's too soon to face the reminders that yesteryear is not today.

Eventually, I shrug off the belief that sleeping for the rest of the day is how I can endure being alone because now I'm wide awake. Most people would take advantage of being without kids. Do whatever you want. But nothing seems appealing today.

An ambient stillness makes the house eerily quiet. Tick. Tick. Tick. I had never known that damn clock to be so loud! I frantically search for the television remote. I don't want to hear the ticking; I want to hear noise- noisy children, the patter of feet, laughter. I even miss the sibling fights and the protests.

Finally, I locate the remote under a mound of napkins and grip it like it's the line that will pull me from drowning. A swollen face and wet eyes remind me that I've already drowned - just after Ted left, last year's memories brought a river of tears, and the anguish put me to sleep. I fumble with the buttons in haste to find something to watch before the tears rear their pitiful presence again.

A faint sound of a roaring train whistles in the distance and drowns out the ticking. 'Mommy, the train is coming.' I hear Henry say it after he pauses tinkering with his toy cars to listen for the whistle. Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack. I swiftly lift my head. He's not on the floor where he usually plays with his cars. I stare at the spot. The sound of the whistle fades as the train rolls out of hearing range.

The ticking! I round up enough concentration to find the home button on the remote. The choices daunt me. I scroll through the suggestions on the home screen. I'm drawn to The Holiday Bake-Off. Claire loves baking shows. I give it a try. Two minutes in, the judge is criticizing a woman's cupcakes. For a stretch, I'm into the show. The cupcakes I made for Claire's birthday were a disaster. The flowers I tried to pipe resembled a blob, not a pretty creation of a rose. Claire laughed along with me. I feel her energy as if she is here. My eyes grow warm and heavy. Quickly, I snap the button, and the TV shrinks to a black, soundless screen. Tick! Tick! Tick!

It's been at least twenty minutes since I've been awake. "Get up," I scold myself.

The sun filters through the window, bringing a tinge of warmth to this sullen day. The rays are reaching for me, luring me outside. I can't remember the last time I took a walk alone. Astrid falls asleep in the stroller when I walk her close to nap time. I shut my eyes. Henry is yards ahead, picking up rocks, and Claire is walking next to the stroller, keeping a watch on her baby sister. Her right hand grips the handle. She peers over and whispers to Astrid. I can't hear what she says, but I'll let that be their secret. I smile as I think about their sisterly bond. I shake my head and open my eyes. The clock's ticking has grown louder. Time doesn't stop, and neither does the torment of being alone.

A black-capped chickadee lands on the porch railing. It's tiny, but I can spot it quickly against the grain of the wooden plank. He flinches and then stills as I walk outside. Did he hear me? I creep to the closest chair and take my own perch on the porch. The lone bird, tiny against the forest behind us, provides me a reprieve. Even if it is not a human, being close to a breathing creature is surprisingly comforting. I wonder if he laments about being alone. I look away for a second, and when I turn back, he flutters his wings and flies away. Be free, little bird.

I reify his departure as a nudge to free myself, so I concentrate on letting go of the anguish. Let it all fly away. I repeat that ten times in my head. But it all comes crashing down when I think about the infidelity, the confrontation, the fight that ensued after I told him I knew. He denied it at first, but there was no way he could deny proof. Electronic communication can't be undone. I had hacked into his phone and found the texts. The screenshots of all the romantic exchanges I sent to my phone left nothing ambiguous. A foreboding feeling swallows me. I can't fly free.

"Music," I say aloud. I retrieve my phone and turn on my favorite playlist. Then I return to the porch, where the sunshine warms the chill of winter, but it's still too cold without a coat. I shuffle inside for the maroon jacket- the one I bought for the ski trip with Ted's friends before the kids were born. It fits snugger than when I bought it ten years ago. It's time I started doing more for myself, like exercising. I picture myself thin again. Inside my head, I devise a fitness routine. Unexpectedly, I am feeling lighter, and my mood has noticeably improved.

I feel hungry for the first time today, so I forego the porch but leave the jacket on. My refrigerator is filled with holiday food. Henry had begged me to make my famous hash-brown casserole, and Claire asked for chocolate silk pie. Out of sheer desperation to survive this day, the first holiday alone, I hadn't acknowledged that the kids wouldn't be here for dinner. So yesterday, I spent the day preparing the meal and last night cleaning. I put off the inevitable until it smacked me this morning at ten when Ted came for the kids. Henry and Claire forgot about the casserole and pie. 'Daddy's here,' they had shrieked with joy and jumped into his truck like the holiday and the new toys under the tree didn't exist. That drove a knife into my heart. I gasp thinking about it.

I see the cold ham on the counter and feel my hunger burgeoning. It's not too late to heat it for an evening dinner, so I slip it into the oven. By 7 o'clock, it will be warm, sweet, and delectable with the spicy mustard. We ate last year's ham dinner at two in the afternoon. I stop myself from ruminating over the memories. Tick. Tick. Tick.

I notice the sun is sinking. This would be my last chance to walk before darkness descends. Go for it. I feel myself acquiesce to my circumstances. I'm letting go. I think about the chickadee. I slip on my tennis shoes and zip my coat. I check on the ham before I leave. I can't wait to smell its aroma. When I leave my house, I turn off the music and walk briskly to avoid neighbors asking where the kids are. Everyone knows Ted moved out. I make it to the path in the woods without being seen. Fifteen minutes in, and I pause to listen to quiet. There's no ticking, only a tender breeze that caresses my face. The smell of the trees brings a freshness I can't describe, and I feel clarity wash over me. I realize that solitude is freeing. I'm starting to fly.

I arrive back on my street at dusk. Houses and trees become shadows and the fading sunlight shimmers with a pink aura. I eye my home in the distance. The wreath on the door is welcoming. When I get inside, the smell of ham will waft through the kitchen and into the living room. It will be closer to tomorrow when Ted will bring the kids home. My heart no longer feels so heavy because I can almost say I survived my first holiday alone.

As I walk closer, the front porch comes into view. An outline of two heads appears between the posts at the top of the steps. Then, my eyes swivel to the driveway. At first, my heart skips in panic, but then I see it's Ted's truck and not a stranger's. As I enter the driveway, I see Astrid's hand stretching to the ceiling of his truck. The driver's side window slides down, and Ted pops his head out.

"They missed you," he said solemnly.

This time, my heart skips because it feels joy.

"Mommy," I hear in duality from the porch.

I feel Astrid's sticky hands as I pull her from the car seat. Henry and Claire run to me and circle their arms around my waist. Henry pushes his sister away, and Claire, with her tenacity, pushes back.

"Stop it, you two!" When I say it this time, there's a smile on my face.

I kiss Astrid on her chubby cheek and give Henry and Claire each a peck on their head. Then, I walk toward the house but stop when Ted gets my attention. I leave my back to him.

"They haven't eaten. I'm sorry. We just didn't get to that yet. Nothing's open on Christmas," he says contritely.

I smirk as I turn to face him. "Luckily, I forgot it was your day, so I made dinner."

Did I forget, or did I just know Ted couldn't pull off dinner? The latter was more likely. I head for the house, leaving Ted to bathe in his stupidity. Astrid snuggles her head in the crook of my neck, and Henry and Claire run to the door. I sense their excitement.

Before I walk up the steps, I think about being alone on a holiday.

"Ted, would you like to join us?" I ask without reservation.

Surely, I could put this pending divorce aside for the night. After all, I had freed my heart from some of the pain. Ted doesn't matter as much as moving forward does. Eating at the same table as Ted, something I haven't done since I found out about his infidelity, is me moving forward. After dinner, he will leave, and I will get on with my life.

I open the door, and the smell of ham envelopes me. The five of us eat together that evening in peace. I know that I still have feelings to reckon with but being alone attenuated my agony and untangled my heart enough to know that I will eventually be okay.