Wrong Exit

I was driving up Highway 49 toward Nevada City, listening to Dr. Laura on the radio and feeling far less superior to the callers than I usually did. Feeling ridiculously sympathetic, in fact, and bursting into tears every now and then. The sky was clear and just the color you see it in picturebooks, until the trees began to envelope me. I turned off the radio and shifted my focus to the passing signs, hoping I wouldn't miss my exit. Despite the quaint shopping and ninety-minute proximity to home, I hadn't been up there in years. But in the split second that it took me to decide to bolt--stuffing things in an overnight bag, half crazed, and shooting out the front door without so much as a note--the little town popped into my head.

The afternoon was winding down, but in July there was plenty of daylight left and I couldn't really get lost as long as I stuck to the highway. Over the years I'd gradually overcome my fear of wrong turns, having wracked up nearly as many miles on my car backtracking as moving forward. That's the great thing about California freeways: if you take a wrong turn, there are plenty of opportunities to go back and try again-- and usually more than one way to get there, if you can read a map.

When I pulled up to the prim Victorian Inn, I knew I had made the right choice. As I stepped into the foyer, I had an absurd desire to call out, "I'm home!" like a college girl back from the dorm. The truth, of course, was less romantic. I was a runaway housewife, a spurned lover. And also, a confused mother of two, unexpectedly contemplating a future alone, and a new identity that I felt unable to even speculate upon. So I was hiding out in the hills, hoping to find self-awareness, awakening strength...or, at the very least, a good night's sleep.

I knew the manager might be out at dinner when I arrived, so when no one came to greet me, I wandered tentatively up the narrow carpeted stairway. Doors stood open on either side of the hallway. A stained glass window in one, the bed covered in fluffy white, a sunny room awash with chintz, a masculine suite with blood red walls and striped divan, and finally my own accommodation, The Lavender Room, third door on the right.

I was amazed to find it painted in the same color as my guest room at home, a deep periwinkle that my friends had advised against because it would be difficult to cover over. At home, my lavender walls were set off by white moldings, a white wicker chair, the white-painted iron headboard--leftover from my childhood and slightly yellowed--and an old-fashioned chenille bedspread like Nana used to have. I coveted that room, with its etched-glass water decanter beside the bed, and lavender-scented lotions on a tray. Perhaps it was the childhood sanctuary I had longed for or maybe I had a subconscious need to create a private oasis in the midst of family chaos. Perhaps, I mused, I will sleep there when I return home. And the thought of home gave me a sensation Nana would have called a "goose walking over my grave."

Inside my weekend refuge, two Chinese gardener's stools had been placed on either side of the bed to serve as night tables. There was even a clock radio with cassette player and a basket of homemade tapes beside it labeled, Tranquil Music, and Romantic. These people thought of everything!

Although it was hours before sunset, the room was dim, the only window open, but obscured by trees. I stashed my satchel in the tiny closet, pulling out my toiletries, a stack of aging magazines, and the knit dress I'd brought along, just in case. Everything else remained crumpled in the bag. I am a lousy packer, and had gladly turned over the task to my husband on our holidays together. He not only packed well, but insisted on unpacking and organizing our belongings at each destination, regardless of the length of our stay. He had always seemed a bit compulsive to me, but now I wondered if I might miss that about him. Or would I, as I had when I left my parents' home, adopt this skill when it was no longer expected of me. What other things would I miss? What other ways might I change? It felt strange to even consider starting over. How did a woman my age start over? Would ending a marriage be like recovering from a horrible accident, learning everything over again? It seemed equally as frightening--hence my hasty escape.

All at once the room seemed oppressively silent, so I moved back out the door toward the dusty sunlight at the end of the hall, peeking through open doorways, and brazenly opening cupboards to scan their contents. Soaps and cleaning supplies were poor substitute for the buried secrets that I fantasized finding, but the sunroom at the end of the trip was far from disappointing. It had windows on three sides, and white wicker made cozy with artificially-faded chintz cushions identical to my favorite comforter at home. I smiled at the kindred decorating spirit of this house. The room was hot and stuffy, a result of the triple digit temperatures outside, but in December there would be snow. Not much, perhaps, but enough to pile on rooftops and gather in the gutters, turning the town into a sparkling photo opportunity. In December the divorce might be final. In December I might be stuffing stockings and stringing lights all alone. But here, in the lemon-colored room of potted plants and sunshine, winter felt far away. And for the first time since I'd backed out of my driveway, I thought, Coming here was a good decision. I'm here and I'm fine and I will figure this thing out. And I shut my eyes in wordless prayer.

Back downstairs I heard a voice call out, "So I guess you made it in all right. Just got in myself from dinner. Everything okay? You found your room?"

"I did, yes. Everything is wonderful! I've just been poking around a bit."

"Make yourself at home. I'm Ev. It's just you and me tonight. Be full up by tomorrow night, though."

I judged Ev to be in her early sixties. Short hair, still more pepper than salt, and, from the looks of it, just over five feet of raw energy. She had continued to talk, but my attention had drifted.

"On the weekends I serve from nine to ten, but since it's just you, we could do it anytime." She was asking what time did I want to eat breakfast? And, absurdly, I found I didn't have an answer. The kids were up at 6:30, slurping cereal, and I took bites of toast between packing lunches and pouring milk, reheating a single cup of instant coffee two or three times before getting it down. It had been ages since anyone had cared whether or what time I ate! I laughed out loud, first at the idea of being confounded by breakfast, and then again at the sight I must seem, a grown woman, laughing crazily to herself, over mealtimes.
"Eight or eight-thirty?" I offered tentatively.

"Good!" she shot back immediately, "Gives me an earlier start on my day. Make yourself at home," she said again, with a smile that guaranteed her sincerity, "I'll probably see you later." She disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me alone in the parlor.

It was both exhilarating and odd to have so much empty time stretching ahead of me, and I was once again momentarily frozen in indecision. I should be contemplating my future, making lists, shedding tears, making plans. But I left it all behind, and wandered out into the sticky summer evening, down the hill and into town in search of a pleasant diversion.

I ate dinner at the first air-conditioned restaurant I came to, a dim place with brick walls, and linen tablecloths. A couple at the next table, a little tipsy and quite in love--or maybe the other way around--confided that the chef on duty's specialty was "sexy food," and recommended the salmon or the lobster.

I started with martinis and mussels, followed by the salmon, moist and flaky, but not the least bit flirtatious; maybe I just wasn't in the mood. Throughout the meal I stole glances at the couple across from me. Both wore wedding rings, and they appeared to be about the same age, but intuition and experience told me they were not married to each other. I recognized the tentative touch of the hands, the eager way her eyes nibbled on his every word. I could almost feel the sexual energy they exuded. I flushed. It was just this sort of behavior on my part that had brought me to my current crossroads. Had I really been so stupid as to believe there would be no consequences?

I had not. Though I heartily protested otherwise, I had known. No better than a gambler or a drug addict, I had put my children's family on the table, in hopes of winning a few more days--months, years--not of sex, which I considered superfluous, but of sexual pursuit. And I had lost. Yet with all the overwhelming guilt and confusion twisting inside me, I still missed that feeling of being predator and prey. Marriage hadn't erased my need for risk, my drive to recreate the dance of courtship, first date, first kiss, first clumsy coupling, heightened by the need to keep it secret. Clandestine dinners in out-of-the-way restaurants, necking in parked cars, furtive communication at work, where the titillating possibility of discovery was even greater. It filled a place inside left unattended by my growing children and complacent husband. I loved my family, did not want to watch it shatter and rebuild, take shape as something else. I wanted to be sorry, to repent, to relinquish any desire to repeat my crimes, but I had run away instead. And every day that I stayed hidden in the hills, the damage to my family grew. I ordered coffee and dessert.

Bloated by cheesecake and espresso, I skirted across the street, a wide-awake drunk in search absolution, but settling for cigarettes and a Snickers bar. I cursed myself for choosing a hotel at the top of a hill, and sweatily dodged the leisurely after-dinner strollers and surly teenager smokers that congregated at the corners and squatted beside shuttered buildings. I was not a part of this. I was not a part of anything. It felt unfair. Back at the inn, I carefully navigated up the narrow stairs, unlocked the door to the lovely lavender room and surrendered to the white-tiled bathroom floor, flushing the fish in its river of gin, before laying my cheek against the cool smooth floor. Sometime later, I woke up, dug through the mountain of pillows, slid between the cool, softly worn sheets of the beautiful bed, and went back to sleep until morning.

Only after brushing my teeth twice, and ransacking my belongings for aspirin, did I see the small, pink message slip pinned by a budvase to the table near the window: 8:30pm: Your children called to say goodnight. Said they hoped you were having a good time. Ev. I swallowed hard, and went downstairs to breakfast.

It was impossible to maintain my melancholy mood in the face of Ev's cheery morning demeanor. While I ate forkful after forkful of some wondrous kind of popover, crusty brown link sausage, and chunks of sweet crisp melon, I encouraged my hostess to tell me about herself. Ev was not, it turned out, the owner, or even the manager of the house. The house itself was up for sale. She was a friend of the owner, and had agreed to step in and run things after the previous manager had departed for a more stable position. She and her husband had retired some years back, and lived about half an hour down the hill. "It's hard," she said, as she refilled our coffee cups, "to be gone this many days in a row." She set the carafe on the table and continued, almost to herself, "We talk on the phone, of course. I just didn't think it would last this long. I thought the place would sell."

They had been married thirty-two years. Thirty-two years, and she still longed for his company. I had a million questions. Were you ever lonely or bored? Were you faithful? Are you still in love? And, most of all, How? How do you do it? How can I? But I found that I was embarrassed to voice any of them. Ev had stayed thirty-two years, but I had deserted my own marriage, even before I had strayed. Long before I had screamed out of the driveway yesterday afternoon. Ev headed out for a morning walk, and I shuffled back upstairs.

In the filtered lavender light of my room, I again saw the note:
8:30pm Your children called to say goodnight... I lay down against the pile of pillows and pulled the covers up over my clothes. I knew I had been selfish. I knew better than to justify my behavior the way I had heard so many women do, claiming that children are happiest when their parents are happy, too. I was sure that my kids, like doubtless the majority of their friends, had no thought of my happiness whatsoever. Their world revolved around homework and school activities and television shows. Their world, quite rightfully, revolved around them. They didn't care if Mom and Dad were happy, except perhaps in the abstract. They cared only that we were present. Present for soccer games and school concerts, to shampoo hair and cook breakfast. To argue with and hide behind. Now, in the mid-morning quiet, I stared at the little pink message slip and imagined myself at home, explaining to my kids that the four of us would not live together anymore. I began to cry, and then to sob. Enough was enough. I would not teach my kids to run away and hide from their mistakes. And I could only hope for his part, my husband would teach them about forgiveness.

On the back of a shopping receipt, I scribbled an apology to Ev for leaving without notice, thanking her for her hospitality. Minutes later, I was back on Highway 49, leaving the forest and the foothills behind.

Fumbling in my purse for lipstick, I found the pack of cigarettes, cellophane unbroken. When had this impulsively self-destructive woman taken over my body? Thankfully, I had a chance to backtrack and start again.