I decide to call him back. But once again, I can’t figure out how to find his number.
I can’t seem to think straight. How do I call him? I concentrate very hard and try again. And again. After enormous effort I find his number, but by now I’m very frustrated and growing angrier.
“Come here now, Mirek!” I snap. “I don’t know where you are!”
“Just drive down the road,” he responds. “You can’t miss me.”
“Which way?” I plead.
“It’s a one-way road, darling,” he says.
That confuses me even more. What does one-way mean? It makes no sense. Even though I’d driven on this road dozens and dozens of times, getting to Mirek seems like a highly complex puzzle that I cannot solve.
“I don’t know where you are!” I repeat, my voice rising.
“It’s a loop. Just drive down the road,” he says, and he hangs up.
I stay in place, seething. I look for his number to call him back; it takes even longer to find it this time.
“Where are you?” I ask, on the verge of crying.
“I told you!” he says. “Just get in the car and pick me up.”
“No, no, you come back. I’m tired!”
“It will be much faster if you drive here,” he says, beginning to get angry himself.
By now, Cheyenne has finished her run and arrived at the parking lot. She listens with a quizzical expression as I argue with Mirek. When I tell her why I am so upset—“I don’t know where he is!” I whine—she offers to go pick him up in her car.
“No!” I snap. “Leave him there with those stupid chanterelles.”
“Why don’t we take a little walk,” she offers gently. “Just until Witek arrives.”
But I do not want to walk with her. I am furious. I decide to go find Mirek myself. I get into the car and start the engine. But should I turn left or right? What did Mirek mean by a loop? I can’t picture it in my mind.
Finally, I pick a direction randomly and head down the road.
I’m bewildered and increasingly irritated. The trees, the fields, all of them look familiar yet at the same time unrecognizable. And no matter how hard I try to retrieve the concept of a loop from the depths of my brain, it eludes me.
I drive very slowly, growing angrier and more exasperated. I begin to fixate on Mirek’s behavior.
I’m tired, I need to eat now, and he wants me to find him? He might as well be lost in a giant forest in a foreign country. This is Mirek’s fault, entirely his fault—he gave me the wrong directions!
Up ahead, I see Kasia and Witek running along the road in my direction after finishing the cycling portion of their workout. Unlike every other time in my life, the sight of my beloved children does not make me happy. I stop, and Kasia gets into the car. Witek keeps running to meet up with Cheyenne at the parking lot.
Seeing my scowl, Kasia asks, “Mom, why are you so angry?”
“Mirek is taking so long! I want to go home! Pieprzone kurki! Damn mushrooms!”
“Mirek’s picking mushrooms,” she says soothingly. “We’ll be there soon.” She gives me very simple directions—“Just keep going straight, Mom”—but I’m angry with her too.
“How can you be so sure that I need to go straight?” I say. “It’s annoying. Why am I at fault for this stupid loop and the park and everything?”
Her eyes well with tears. “We’re all here for you,” she says. “Why are you so angry?” she asks again.
“Because he’s late!” I half scream.
But then, ahead of us, there is Mirek, standing at the side of the road smiling and waving, his bike against a tree, a full bag of mushrooms in his hand. He puts his bike on the car and climbs in with his bounty. At first, he doesn’t notice my dark mood.
“Look at all of these!” he says happily.
I refuse to look. I want to toss the chanterelles out the window.
“I need to eat!” I shout. Mirek looks at me with a shocked expression.
Kasia offers to drive, and I move into the passenger seat, too tired to argue with her. I sit in stony silence as we head to our picnic spot, where Witek and Cheyenne join us. As they lay out the tablecloth and unpack sandwiches, fruit, and granola bars, I fume. We eat quickly, with little conversation, my inexplicable anger unnerving them. The food helps a little, but I’m still incredibly tired and angry at the entire world.
When we get home, Witek washes the chanterelles and I go upstairs for a nap.
An hour later, I wake up and head to the kitchen to begin making dinner. Each day, cooking has become harder for me, but now, as I stand here, I can’t remember what to do. Not even the simplest steps.
“Where are the pots? Where are the spoons?” I grumble. “Why can’t I find anything?”
Everything is gone! My family has gone behind my back and rearranged my kitchen! I slam drawers and pull open cabinets in a frenzy. It’s all wrong, everything has changed. Why would they do this to me?
I finally find what I need. But as I set to work, the simple recipe that I’ve made hundreds of times seems like a complex mathematical equation.
I try to recall the ingredients and locate them in the pantry. But it’s so hard! I grow more agitated, swearing and banging cabinet doors. Mirek peeks in and offers to help.
Kasia and I relish a breakfast of chanterelles and scrambled eggs the day after our fateful excursion.
“No!” I shout. “I make the dinner! I always make the dinner! I’m not going to stop now just because you’ve moved everything around!”
I manage to create some strange concoction that they politely eat at a tense dinner table where no one talks. For the rest of the evening, I barely speak, and when I do, it is only
