Wife 22

“You mean the Donner Party,” says William.

“Breast or thigh, Zoe?” asks Peter.

“Hil-ar-ious, Pedro. How long is this camping trip anyway?” asks Zoe.

“Our reservation is for three nights,” I say. “And it’s not like it’s work. It’s car camping. Nobody has to do anything. We’re here to have fun and relax.”

“Yes, this morning was extremely relaxing, Alice,” says William, staring out the window. He’s as unenthusiastic as the children.

“Does this mean there’ll be no cell service?” asks Zoe.

“Nah, we’re just in a dead zone. Dad said there’d be Wi-Fi at the campground,” says Peter.

“Uh-he’s wrong, sorry. There’s no Wi-Fi,” I tell them.

I just found out this fact myself yesterday when I confirmed our reservation. Then I went into my bedroom and had a nice, private panic attack at the thought of being incommunicado with Researcher 101 for seventy-two hours. Now I’m resigned to it.

Gasps issue forth from the backseat.

“Alice, you didn’t tell me that,” says William.

“No, I didn’t tell any of you that because if I did, you wouldn’t have come.”

“I can’t believe you are going to unplug,” says Zoe to me.

“Well, believe it,” I say. I reach over William and pop my cellphone into the glove box. “Hand your phones over, kiddos. You, too, William.”

“What if there’s an emergency?” says William.

“I brought a first-aid kit.”

“An emergency of a different sort,” he says.

“Like what?”

“Like having to get in touch with somebody,” he says.

“That’s the whole point. To get in touch with each other,” I say. “IRL.”

“IRL?” asks William.

“In real life,” I say.

“It really disgusts me that you know that acronym,” says Zoe.

Fifteen minutes later, apparently incapable of doing anything-daydreaming, conversing, or having one original thought without the aid of their devices-the kids are asleep in the backseat. They stay asleep until we roll into the campground.

“Now what?” says Peter, after we finish setting up the campsite.

“Now what? This is what,” I say, spreading my arms wide. “Getting away from it all. The woods, the trees, the river.”

“The bears,” says Zoe. “I have my period. I’m staying in my tent. Blood is like catnip to them.”

“Disgusting,” says Peter.

“That’s an old wives’ tale,” says William.

“No, it’s not. They can smell it miles off,” says Zoe.

“I’m going to throw up now,” says Peter.

“Let’s play cards,” I say.

Zoe holds up a finger. “Too windy.”

“Charades,” I suggest.

“What? No! It’s not dark yet. People will be able to see us,” she says.

“Fine. How about we go find some firewood?” I ask.

“You look mad, Mom,” says Peter.

“I’m not mad, I’m thinking.”

“It’s strange how your thinking face looks like your mad face,” says Peter.

“I’m going to take a nap,” says Zoe.

“Me, too,” says Peter. “All this nature makes me sleepy.”

“I’m a little tired, too,” says William.

“Do what you want. I’m going down to the river,” I say.

“Take a compass,” says William.

“It’s fifty feet from here,” I say.

“Where?” asks Peter.

“Through the trees. There. See? Where all those people are swimming.”

“That’s a river? It looks like a stream,” says Zoe.

“Tucker, you are not allowed to do dead man’s float in the water!” we hear a woman scream.

“Why not?” a boy yells back.

“Because people will think you’re dead!” the woman screams back.

“We drove all this way so you could swim in a stream with hundreds of other people? We could have just gone to the town pool,” says Peter.

“You people are pathetic,” I huff, stomping off.

“When are you coming back, Alice?” William calls after me.

“Never!” I shout.

Two hours later, sunburned and happy, I pick up my shoes and head back. I’m exhausted, but it’s a good exhausted, the kind that comes from submersing yourself in a glacial river on a July afternoon. I walk slowly, not wanting to break the spell. Occasionally I have this sort of out-of-body experience where I feel all my previous incarnations simultaneously: the ten-year-old, the twenty-year-old, the thirty-year-old, and the forty-something- year-old-they’re all breathing and looking out of my eyes at the same time. The pine needle path crunches under my bare feet. The smell of hamburgers grilling makes my stomach growl. I hear the faint sounds of a radio-Todd Rundgren’s “Hello It’s Me”?

It feels strange not to have my phone with me. It feels even stranger not to be on constant alert, waiting for my next hit: an email or post from Researcher 101. What I feel instead is emptiness. Not a yearning emptiness, but a lovely, blissed-out emptiness that I know will be obliterated the moment I set foot in our campsite.

But that’s not what happens. Instead I find my family sitting around the picnic table, talking. TALKING. Without a device, or a game, or even a book in sight.

“Mama,” cries Peter. “Are you okay?”

He hasn’t called me Mama in at least a year, maybe two.

“You went swimming,” said William, noting my wet hair. “In your shorts?”

“Without me?” says Zoe.

“I didn’t think you’d want to go. You spent half an hour blow-drying your hair this morning.”

“If you had asked I would have gone,” Zoe sniffs.

“We can swim again after dinner. It will still be light.”

“Let’s go for a hike,” says Peter.

“Now?” I say. “I was thinking I’d take a little nap.”

“We’ve been waiting for you,” says William.

“You have?”

The three of them exchange looks.

“Fine. Great. Let me change and we’ll go.”

“We’re not making enough noise,” says Zoe. “Bears only attack when they’re surprised. Or smell you. Woo-hoo. Woo-hoo, bear!”

We’ve been hiking for over forty-five minutes. Forty-five mosquito-slapping, horse-fly-buzzing, children-whining, no-breeze-to-be-found-anywhere minutes.

“I thought this was a loop. Shouldn’t we be back already?” says Peter. “And why didn’t anybody bring a water bottle? Who goes hiking without a water bottle?”

“Run up the trail, Pedro,” I say. “Scout ahead. This is all looking very familiar to me. I’m sure we’re almost at the end. In fact, I think I hear the river.”

This is a lie. I don’t hear anything but droning insects.