Decompression

by Dana Wachter

The trees stretch tall toward the sky, backlit by pale blue, white, soft pinks. One by one the black lines fly by like an 8mm vintage movie reel, turning my stare out the angled window of the Jeep into a trance. Music on the radio, silence between us. A sadness behind us. Left over there, for now. The minutes that inch toward an hour pass far slower than the branches and limbs keeping frenetic pace. My thoughts come in waves ping ponging between speeds: slugging through thick fog and rapid fire.

So close yet so far, as we drive away from your weekly visit, in which I occasionally get to join. Each trip ends with a big hug and a high five, and I pull the lever of the passenger door and disappear. Because appearances are triggering. My appearances, anyway. She’s done all she can to prevent my presence in her little boy’s life, and yet his long-lashed eyes squint as his chubby cheeks plum into a wide toothy grin when he first sees me. Just minutes ago, I waited for you to drop him off, pretending as if I hadn’t been there at all, perusing hypothetical Halloween costumes at the Valu Village. I slowly swiped each hanger, as if I had something specific in mind and I wasn’t just passing the time. Hypervigilant in those moments, I’m afraid of who may step behind me. Perhaps she’s enlisted people she knows to watch for me in this neighbourhood where I feel I don’t belong.  

Then you come for me and I skip through the puddles to climb back into the front seat. A wave of relief that I’m here with you, safe in our own space again. The Jeep is somber without a giggling little boy. A lump in my throat, persistent reminders that we’re not fully part of his world, and yet we’ve turned ours upside-down to be here. 

And we go. As if we’re banished from his bright buoyant reality, we zigzag through narrow city streets and our bodies lean into the wide circle turn of the on-ramp. Familiar signs of industrial warehouses, one after the other, until fallow farmlands mark our journey. There’s no quick threshold to step across into our quiet makeshift lives. We spend the usual hour and fifteen minutes on the road. A buffer between what could be and what lies in waiting. Decompression from the roller coaster. From wanting it all to go right. From wanting him, as a small child with limited memory, cultivating attachment, to know me and know you. From wanting him to feel safe in our arms, against the backdrop of ongoing chaos, coercion, cattiness. Staring out the window, entranced by fading light, dull rays far past their prime sink lower behind the tree line. An ache mixed with uncertainty. Never-ending legal battles dictate your time and my legitimacy, after I chose a future with such enthusiastic potential, pouring all I have into loving someone else’s sweet child who could so easily break my spirit.

Your hand rests on my leg. An occasional squeeze. I turn toward you and place my hand on your neck, kneading my thumb into the tension. You sigh a breath of defiance, of persistence, of exhaustion, and look toward me and smile a closed mouth smile. Your eyes crinkle downward with soft warmth. I nod and smile the same knowing smile. And the rumble of the highway soothes my racing heart.