But there were too many bugs for Ian, and Madison swore she heard coyotes in the woods. The kids tramped dirt inside the tent, the batteries ran out in the lights, we burned the chicken. Our site seemed to be at least half a mile to the nearest bathroom, and the kids drank so much soda we had to take them there every hour. Even I had to admit the black flies were bad.
There was a moment, after the kids crawled dirty-footed into their sleeping bags, when Adam and I sat out by the dwindling fire looking at the stars in what seemed like the biggest sky we’d ever seen. We held hands and talked about having a third child, which wasn’t in the cards. Later on, we zipped our sleeping bags together and cuddled in a way we hadn’t the time to in many months.
We vowed to get a sitter for the kids and go camping as a couple, but we’d never found the time. We thought about taking the kids again, but after the buggy/coyote-sounds trip, the kids didn’t want to go again.
Now here it was, this clunky, ugly thing on our driveway.
“Home away from home!” Adam said.
“Doesn’t look like home to me,” I said at last. “Doesn’t look like a way to vacation, either.”
Adam came over and sat next to me. The neighbor across the street came out to look at the abomination in our driveway. I pretended I didn’t see him staring until he went back inside, only to peer out at us from his living room windows.
OK, it wasn’t rusty or in bad condition, but it was huge and dreadfully out of place in our cul-de-sac.
“OK, well, I’ve been saving up my bonuses for a couple of years.”
A couple of years? Without me knowing? What the hell?
“I’ve been looking at campers and planning trips for months.”
So that was it. That was what he’d been doing sneakily up in the office. Not looking at porn. Not looking around on dating sites. Researching his next life at campgrounds.
“Figured we could make some spending money selling a lot of our stuff that we won’t need—you know, big garage sale. We won’t need many belongings, living in this beauty.”
I closed my eyes, imagining putting price stickers on my beige sofa, wicker rocking chairs from the front porch—hell, even my extra bath towels and blankets, because how would they ever be stored in a thing that clearly had no linen closet? Maybe hang a clothesline and display most of our clothes for a couple bucks per piece: the black sequined cocktail dress I still couldn’t zip, the matching stilettos, more pairs of leggings and sneaks than I cared to count, my favorite Fair Isle sweater, my wedding dress.
Adam climbed back into the RV and sat proudly behind the wheel. “What do you think?” he said proudly. “Wanna take a pic for Facebook?”
I did not want to. All I wanted to do was go back into the house and pretend it never happened, rub my eyes, open them, and find the driveway empty.
Adam kept talking about having a big New England adventure. But something was ringing in my ears: the realization that he didn’t want our life, our lovely, full life, anymore. I couldn’t imagine him thinking I would take to the road with him, leaving behind everything we’d built there. It was our life he rejected, and also me. Adam’s plan to live in the RV and travel was nearly as shocking and hurtful as if there’d been another woman.
What he was telling me was this: he wanted a different life, a life that wouldn’t include me. Had he honestly thought I’d jump at the idea of living in a home that was never in the same place more than a couple nights? That we’d pick up part-time jobs along the way to buy more hot dogs and canned beans to cook over a fire? Wash our sleeping bags in laundromats and dry them on the roof? There were so many things I’d hate about living on the road, I stopped listing them in my mind and shut down, not even close to being able to take in all that was happening, how our lives had changed in under an hour.
“Give it some time,” Adam said soothingly. “The travel bug will bite you soon enough.”
Waiting for that bug to bite me, Adam parked the camper out back beneath the maple tree, spending nights outside by a fire he made in a makeshift pit he’d built from cinder blocks and cement.
Ian went out some nights to sit with his father. But Adam seemed just as content being alone in the dark by the glow of the fire. He played Bob Marley songs and got into the habit of wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat. He grew a beard, although he had to keep it neatly shaved for work. I hadn’t noticed how gray he was until the beard grew out.
We barely spoke that summer, living in our separate quarters like neighbors more than anything else. Many nights I’d stand with the lights off in our bedroom, now my bedroom, and watch him from the window.
On a Sunday in mid-August, I walked out back where Adam was sitting against a backdrop of tree silhouettes and fireflies, having a Sam Adams. He was barefoot, wearing cargo shorts and an Eddie Bauer T-shirt I’d given him many birthdays before. Now it was faded at the collar, but the well-worn clothes suited him.
“Hey,” he said, clearly delighted to see me.
“We have to talk,” I said, pulling up a blue canvas seat.
Adam sighed. “Nothing good ever comes after those words.”
“What are we doing here?” I said, twisting the ends of my hair. “This is crazy, living apart just because you’re having a midlife crisis.”
Adam sighed again, this time heavily. He
