Monday

      MY EYES WERE STILL CLOSED AS I LAY IN BED, INHALING THE cool morning breeze, feeling the weight of the quilt pulled up to my chin. I extended my arms and legs across the full length and width of the bed, savouring the spaciousness, knowing I could stay there as long as I wanted, listening to the cries of the birds greeting the arrival of the rising sun. Too excited to lie still for long, I opened my eyes and sat up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. Through the curtains in the window, I could see golden fields of grass, stretching across rolling hills, to the faraway edges of trees.

      I stood up and stretched my body. The silence in the room was as palpable as it had been the night before, but the light of morning had softened its effect on me. As I slipped on my robe and collected my soap and towel, I moved slowly so as not to disturb its spell. Everything seemed tinged with a kind of magic. Even the soap I had brought from home smelled sweeter than I remembered as I showered in the tiny bathroom across the hall.

      Drying my body quickly, I pulled on a long cotton skirt and t-shirt, and made my way barefoot down to the kitchen and dining room, one floor below. The night before Mary had showed me where to find freshly sliced bread, granola, yogurt and bowls of fruit. While the coffee brewed, I slathered two pieces of toast with homemade jam and peanut butter. Carefully balancing my breakfast on the tray, I climbed three flights of stairs to the top floor of the barn.

      There, in a book-lined nook, I sat in a rocking chair in front of a triangular window, overlooking miles of fields, hills and trees. Sipping my coffee and nibbling toast while I rocked, I felt my body filling with a sense of exhilaration as I realized the whole day stretched before me, unscheduled. I could do anything I wanted, with no responsibility for anyone’s needs but my own. Smiling, I felt my life, like the sun in my eyes, rising into a brand new sky.

      As I lay on an old quilt in the shade of a maple tree, a tiny ladybug made her way across the page of my opened journal. Watching her slow, patient progress across what I imagined to be an unfamiliar expanse of white, I appreciated the simplicity of her journey – just a shell, some wings and a bit of determination. By comparison, mine and my children’s journey, which had started in New Jersey three days before, had required the advance planning, packing and logistical consideration needed for a large-scale, military operation.

      On the day we left, I had risen before dawn and loaded the minivan with suitcases, coolers of drinks and snacks, and several backpacks full of books and toys. It was a two-day journey from our home in New Jersey to where Will, Margaret and Madelaine would be staying with my sister and her family in Michigan, but we had packed enough supplies, games and activities to last us for four. After waking the children, I had fed them breakfast, helped them get dressed and then made sure each of them went to the bathroom before they climbed into the car. Claude had come downstairs to see us off, embracing each of the children, but barely looking at me. As I backed the minivan out of the drive, all three kids had waved to their dad and then shouted ‘Ya-hoo!’ in unison. The four of us could have been headed west in a covered wagon for all the excitement we felt.

      Now, rolling over onto my back, I felt the matted comfort of the quilt under my bare legs and the soft cotton of the white eyelet pillowcase under my head. Lying in the cool shade, I caught glimpses of the afternoon sun as it danced between the spreading branches of the maple tree above. The colour of the ladybug’s shell, the whisper of the maple leaves tossing in the breeze, the scent of crushed grass beneath my quilt – as I inhaled the sounds, colours and scents of life around me, part of me wished that my children were here to share the beauty and simplicity of the moment.

      Yet, I also knew that it was only in being alone that I would have any hope of remembering everything I had almost forgotten.

      It was late afternoon, and I was pacing around my room, feeling unhinged and restless. The residue of warmth and peace from my time under the maple tree had been tossed aside. My brow was wrinkled. My heart pounded inexplicably in my chest. I was out of breath but not tired, rested but not at peace. I couldn’t help wondering if I had made a mistake in coming. After all, a voice whispered in my heart, what kind of mother would so willingly be separated from her young children for 10 days?

      I could not shake off the feeling that something was coming, that I was here to meet someone. It was entirely possible, I reasoned, that my sense of loneliness and the pain of separation from my kids was causing me to wish for someone else to talk to, to reassure me. Either that or I was going slightly crazy in the unfamiliar solitude and silence.

      I heard a phone ringing in the office downstairs. I raced to answer it, but the door to the office was locked. While I tried to figure out if there was a way to get in, the phone stopped ringing. Standing outside the door, I began to panic: what if it had been Claude trying to call me, or my sister Laura, or one of my kids? Although I knew they all had the phone number to my cell phone in case of an emergency, it didn’t matter. The fear I was feeling now was not rational; it oozed like lava out of a dark place in my heart.

      Plodding slowly up the stairs to my room, I began to cry. I felt helpless, impotent, disconnected from everything I had known as my life: my house, my family and my routine. Part of me felt frightened by the idea that Claude and my children could go on with their day-to-day lives without me. I missed my kids and longed to feel their arms wrapped around my neck, to inhale their sweetness, to listen to their voices telling me about their day. I felt guilty, physically sick inside, for having felt excited about being able to come here on my own, for choosing to spend time away from them.

      Throwing myself on my bed, loud, hiccupping sobs began to pour out of my chest. My heart felt waterlogged, overwhelmed by a sense of loneliness. I wanted now, more than anything, to be able to take my children into my arms and apologize to them for every angry, frustrated word I had ever uttered. I knew that my family deserved to know the happier, grateful, joyful woman I had been in the shade of the tree, hours before, rather than the wife and mother I had been lately, an uptight, angry expression of my frustrations and fears.

      Finally,