A Week in the Country

The surface of the lake was dark blue-black, smooth as glass, clear and not too cold. By mid-morning it would be swarming with swimmers, speed boats and water skiers, all city people looking for relief from the crowds and the

4th of July heat wave. My mother had found this place through a lodge friend, just an hour and a half from Boston but a world away - we were renting a small cabin with bunk beds and a hotplate, not the Ritz as she liked to say, but it was cooler than the city and cheap. My grandmother had taken one brief, scathing look and immediately left for a nearby resort hotel. Roughing it isn't my style anymore, she told us briskly, You can all come for dinner if you like. We watched the Lincoln pull away in a swirl of dust and gravel, bitterly jealous and quietly dreading the week to come. Go find something to do! my mother snapped at us impatiently, And take the damn dogs with you!

My daddy arrived that night, hot and tired but cheerful. He had brought our bicycles, a box of books and board games, a tiny, portable black and white television and several cardboard containers of fried chicken. We ate at the wooden picnic table in front of the cabin, swatting mosquitoes and feeding scraps to the dogs while my mother slept peacefully after a full day of drinking. On the second night, they began to argue and on the third morning, he had us pack our things and return to the city - my brothers were sent to friends' houses and I spent the remainder of the week at my grandmother's who had elected to come home after one night at the hotel. My mother stayed behind, watching us drive away with a look I wasn't sure of - rage or maybe relief - it was hard to tell.

Keeping to tradition, the almost vacation was consigned to the Things We Never Talk About List - there are many such lists in alcoholic households - and we all pretended it had never happened. Looking back, I'm amazed by the ease with which we slipped into the routine of denial, telling ourselves privately that this was simply how families operated, that we were no different than any other. As children, we were quick studies - learning not to ask questions and assuming that any fault lay with us was far safer than the mildest form of confrontation. Emotions were too unpredictable to be set free.

We had other weeks in the country. As we got older, it got easier to isolate ourselves and stay occupied. We developed skills like avoidance and appeasement, learned to ignore the outbreaks of moods and stay out of the way, enabling our way through the years and trying to stay under the radar. Most of the time it worked and when it didn't, we ran until it blew over, taking shelter where and with anyone we could find. My mother took to the country alone and there was peace - restless, superficial, and temporary, but still peace.