Pandemic, politics, parenting. Where do I begin? Enter anywhere on that circle—it’s all the same loop. The world has hit terrible milestones. Quinn has endured, but not without moments of real sadness. Since November the Vermont state guidance has been no indoor or outdoor gatherings with anyone outside your immediate household. Walks are okay, wearing masks, spread apart. She’s tired of walking. She’s tired of us. She’s lonely.
We spent Thanksgiving alone. We cooked a roast chicken dinner with all the sides for Sam and Alden. We delivered it masked, and talked to them through the window. Then we went home.
In December, her school managed to stay open 4 days per week. That is a lifeline—other kids, her teacher, a change of scenery. She’s truly grateful for it and so are we. By mid December she was skiing with her club. As with all things, it’s different this year. The coaches are different. The club is smaller—in state kids only, no out of staters allowed. They ski only half days—no going inside. No walking from the clubhouse to the lodge with her posse at lunchtime to buy chicken tenders and Starbursts. On free ski days she can ride the lift with a friend, but when they’re training in courses, she’s alone. Only one kid at a time on the t-bar. She keeps lifting her chin back up.
I bought her an iPod for her 10th birthday. I had really mixed feelings about it. If I could manage to have her avoid the tech altogether, the chats and social media, and unpredictable internet, I would. I’m not convinced that’s possible, so maybe if she builds skills now she’ll be better prepared in middle school. That seems doubtful too. The one thing that compelled was FaceTime. She can call my dad and Louise, Grandma & Grandpa, Betsy & Claire in California, Auntie Amy, cousin Rob. She can call me at work, and she does, a lot. This part I love. I love that she can dial up a friendly face when she needs one.
I could hear her as Christmas approached, answering Louise’s questions about what she might like for Christmas. I was surprised to learn she asked for "something of Claire’s." I found a letter, in a sealed envelope, addressed to her. Another one to Boone. She is lonely. She panics sometimes.
Sam and I could both feel ourselves trying to compensate for all this at Christmastime. We had a great morning, opening presents, reading new books, eating sticky buns (our best ones yet). We kept the tree lights on all day, and Christmas music, trying to keep it festive in spite of the torrential rain. Of course it rained.
We opened presents with Nonna & Papa over FaceTime, and Zoomed with the extended Jackson clan. We had a quick phone call with Char, so Quinn could thank her for the latest batch of Nancy Drew books.
The governor had, that week, relaxed the guidance for Christmas Day, just a little bit. An effort to compromise, but not give up completely. We were allowed one other household, so Sam and Alden came over in the afternoon and Quinn convinced them to stay for the night. We played lots of games, ate lots of food, enjoyed having company and tried to focus on gratitude for all we do have. It is so much, really.
Still, the stress is there. I miss my Dad, and worry. Quinn worries too: “I never thought Dad would think I was good enough to buy me paints,” she told me, marveling over her new acrylics and brushes. She wants his approval so much. It’s a familiar feeling to me.
The meltdown happened at bedtime, as it often does. She wanted a "sleepover" in our room, but we were all tired after a long, full day. The truth is that I would be happy to have her sleep in my bed every night, but it doesn’t really work for Sam. She hit the "red zone" as soon as she heard the first sound of no. "I don’t want to be alone after this social day!" I could hear the panic rising in her voice. "I don’t want to be the only one in the nest! I’m lonely!" Pleading was quickly followed by demanding, which was quickly followed by screaming and anger. If she’d hung out in the yellow zone for a minute, I might have had time to change my mind—it was Christmas after all—but she didn’t, so I couldn’t. "Nobody cares about me!" That was the last thing I heard on our otherwise very sweet Christmas Day, her fear issued as an accusation.
My heart breaks for her when she loses control this way. I bought her a punching bag and boxing gloves for Christmas, thinking it would help her "get her anger out" as she keeps telling me she needs to do. And I agree. But when it comes out in a fit, it makes me so sad. I know she will feel like garbage afterward. I know she will be embarrassed and full of shame. It happens every time. She screams and stomps and says mean, hurtful things—she digs deep to find the worst things she can come up with. And then she passes out—she exhausts herself. And when she wakes up the next morning, she usually writes a note, turning the vitriol on herself and wondering if we’ll ever forgive her.
The morning after Christmas I found the note next to me on the pillow. I went to get her from her room and brought her to mine to snuggle and talk. It’s always the same talk: I will always forgive you. It’s okay to be angry, it’s not okay to take your anger out on others. She understands it all…it make perfect sense, except when it doesn’t.
We talked some more about the yellow zone—she has to find ways to grow it, on that we are both agreed…and it is growing. She is trying. She is trying so hard.
I’ve been trying to find a counselor she could talk to since last spring; there haven’t been any with openings—they’re popular right now. Even Quinn has asked for this: Is the lady with the dog available yet? Is there anyone else? Finally, in mid December, one of the local therapists had an opening. She works with many other girls we know. Quinn was nervous but incredibly brave. It was over video conference. She sat at the dining room table. I got on with her to say hello and introduce them to each other, but after that I was relegated to the basement. I promised to keep my earphones in; she didn’t want me listening.
On the morning after Christmas, at the bottom of her apology note, she wrote, "PS: I think I might need to talk to Heidi about this." And she explained what Heidi told her: that when you’re sad sometimes it feels easier, more in your control, to be angry instead of sad. I think she's relieved that she's beginning to understand what's happening when she rages like that, to not feel so out of control. And I know it's helping me. I’m glad she feels she has a resource. I know she hears the things that we say too. My respect for her maturity, her desire to "get it right" no matter what "it" is...these things help me keep that little bit of my own worry for her, for our relationship, in check.
At school we’re getting COVID tests weekly and the day after Christmas they needed someone to drive the samples to Cambridge to hand-deliver them to the lab for quicker turnaround. We haven’t been allowed to leave the state because doing so means a seven day quarantine on return, so we hadn’t seen my dad & Louise since August. I asked Quinn if she wanted to do the drive with me, and said we could stop in and surprise Nonna & Papa on our way back. It felt kind of exciting to have a road trip with her.
Before we left we cooked one last meal for Sam and Alden, and played one more game over coffee. As they bundled up to leave, I asked Sam his philosophy on hugging. The Jacksons are a hugging bunch, but Sam’s reply was quick, "I don’t do it, but if Alden wants to she can." It’s the reason I asked, and of course I respect it, even though there didn’t seem to be much logic in it after twenty hours spent in close proximity, unmasked, talking, laughing, eating, swapping playing cards across our narrow table. But that’s the way of this thing—it gets to all of us. You’re aware of the vulnerability, you take some minuscule calculated risks, but draw the line in other places. We are always explaining every move…"I went for a walk, wearing a mask," you always add, "six feet apart," you always say. It’s like a low grade fever—not enough to take you down, but enough to make you feel like crap.
Quinn and I packed snacks and blankets and a pillow for her in the backseat. She played DJ with songs and podcasts all day. We started off happy.
By the time we got to the city, which I’ve last seen in early March, and Quinn has last seen I’m not sure when, we notice everything. The streets are quieter but not empty. Faces are masked and unmasked. I parked the car in the taxi lane, in front of the sign that is clear as day—"No Standing," and of course that's all we're doing--we are all just standing still. I stepped up to 245 Main Street, and called the number I was supposed to call. No one answered so we stepped inside the small street-level corner lobby, to get out of the wind. There was a bank of elevators straight ahead, and a man sitting at a table—like a bellhop, but in a lab jacket. Only after I entered with Quinn did I notice the snaking line of people waiting for their COVID tests. I’m sure they could all see my panic as I rushed her back out to fresh air. "Don’t touch the door!" I whispered urgently, as she rolled her eyes. I called the number again and this time someone answered… "I see you there. In the red sweater?"
I told Quinn to stand right there in front of the door on the sidewalk in the open, clean air, but back inside the woman tells me I have to take my box of samples up to the 2nd floor…"I just have to get my daughter," I say. "Oh I can watch her for you," she says, with equal parts competence and genuine warmth. I believe she is someone I could trust, but I don’t trust myself to make it up to the second floor and back without losing my mind while Quinn is alone on the street, out of my sight. When we make it back to the car, Quinn is outraged when I ask her to sanitize her hands a second time in as many minutes.
By the time we get to my dad’s it’s dusk. We park the car down the street from their house, and sneak across the neighbor’s lawn so we can surprise them. Quinn’s mood has gone south at this point; I’m not sure why. I’m not doing anything right. She stands in front of the garage door and I call them on the phone. "We shipped something to you and I was just notified that they left it in front of your garage. Would you go out and see if you can see a box?" Quinn stands waiting as the door rolls up. She is happy and not happy at the same time. And Louise is speechless for a moment, somehow smaller since I saw her last. The fact of us eventually sinks in and she yells to my dad, "Dana, can you help me with this box?" She winks over her shoulder at Quinn as she goes to the door. Papa is thrilled to see her. So thrilled that he loses his head for a minute and asks if we want to come in, maybe just in to the basement.
Before I can say no, Quinn says yes, her eyes lit up once again, but I can’t let her. I explain where we’ve been, explain the lobby of people waiting for tests—all of them positive, for all we know—and he returns to his senses as Quinn glares at me and starts to cry. I try to keep it light, for the sake of all of us, but it doesn’t work. My dad points to the pile of clothes hanging on the railing outside the door to the house. "Nonna always makes me take my clothes off in the garage," he explains, "and then sends me straight to the shower." It’s their routine anytime he goes out for errands. They leave their mail in the garage for 24 hours before they bring it in. The tinfoil bundle of cookies we brought seems to crumble to dust in our hands.
They walk us out to the yard so we can peek in the window at their Christmas tree. Quinn won’t let me near her even though I know she desperately needs a hug. We retreat to the garage to get out of the wind. Quinn tucks herself in behind the parked cars, her face hidden behind her mask, chin tucked in to her collar, her head buried in her hood. There are two wet spots on the cloth under her eyes.
My dad goes in to make me coffee for the three hours of driving we still have to do, and I pretend to need something in the car so Quinn and Nonna can have a few minutes alone. Nonna draws her out a bit as I knew she would. I call my dad on the phone and we talk for a few minutes too—me in his driveway, he in his kitchen. I miss him.
When he returns to the garage, he has a green and red bag with Santas all over it, tissue paper sticking out at the top. He hands it to Quinn. "You said you wanted something of Claire’s, right? Well I thought of just the thing...something I think is perfect for you." She pulls out a long-handled gold hand mirror and matching hairbrush. They used to sit on my mom’s dresser. I recall the set as a centerpiece there, with clean space around it. I recall it having some magic when I was a kid—the kind of thing a real princess would have. I don’t recall her using it, but there are a few hairs in the bristles so it’s clear she did. Quinn seems a bit mesmerized by the objects and also not quite sure what to do. She can’t hug anyone. She whispers a soft thank you. We say our goodbyes and get back in the car as darkness fully settles.
We turn left, instead of right, at the end of their driveway, so we can see the extension of their road that’s been built and the new houses they tell us are there. They wave from the door of the garage. Right away Quinn tells me, "I’m sorry I got so mad." She chokes on her tears as she tries to explain, "I didn’t want to miss out on the opportunity…It is so hard…we work so hard and then as soon as there is a little reward, it is gone." I’m not mad, I promise her, and I’m crying too. It is so hard, and she has been so strong. When we pass by the end of my dad's road again, I can see him still standing in the open garage, watching for us. Quinn falls asleep soon after we reach the highway, and I let her.
At bedtime she pulls her mirror and hairbrush out of the bag again. She lets me brush her hair as she wonders where she should put it. I notice a tiny sticker on the face of the mirror:
ANTIQUE GOLD FINISH
guaranteed
not to tarnish
It takes a bit of the magic away for me, and I resolve to peel it off when she’s not looking. At ten she already seems too aware that there are no guarantees.
