Meltdown

There were warning bells. The first one sounded in February, the day Ron gave notice to Genworth. That night, Ron and I walked from our apartment to one of “our spots” – an Italian restaurant down the street. He was excited about his new job, his new responsibilities, and our move to Maryland.

I was eating a Sonoma salad and not so excited.

Ron kept talking, eyes dancing, sputtering on about the direction our lives were taking.

“Hang on,” I said, chomping lettuce and waving my hands in the air. “I’m happy for you babe, I am, but this isn’t easy for me.”

Ron set down his Arnold Palmer.

I swallowed a hunk of chewed spinach.

“In fact, I feel a big cry right here.” I pounded my sternum. “It hasn’t worked its way up to my eyes yet, but there’s a lump in my chest, so it’s coming.” I leaned back in my chair. “I’m just warning you,” I said again. “A big cry is coming.”

“Okay,” Ron said. “I’ll give you space.”

“Heck, no,” I shook my head. A tassel of hair fell out from behind my ear. “When I have my meltdown, you are going to sit right by my side and hand me tissues and rub my back.”

Ron laughed.

I laughed.

Time went on.

But I never cried.

I didn’t cry when I walked my dog to the beach for the last time. I didn’t cry when I hugged Kari good-bye. I didn’t cry when the movers loaded our boxes into the truck.

As we drove cross-country, I kept saying: “I feel like we're on vacation.”

And I didn’t cry then either.

In Maryland, we checked into a hotel. Our plan was to bunk there for a week until we found a rental property. But nothing felt right. Houses were too big, apartments too small, duplexes too dumpy, rowhouses to expensive.

“Gimme a hug,” Ron said at the end of one long day.

“No,” my voice broke.

The meltdown took me by surprise. Tears shot up and out of my eyes. Ron’s arms were around my body, my face buried in his soft t-shirt. Despite the fact that Ron kept scratching my back – my favorite thing in the world – tears kept dripping, my eyelashes drenched.

I calmed down enough to attempt another online search, except I couldn’t log into the Internet (bad connection). How were we supposed to find a place to live without access to Craig’s List?

“That’s it!” I said. “I’m leaving!” I snapped my laptop shut and lugged my suitcase out of the closet.

“Where are you going?” Ron asked.

I stopped to think. Technically, we were homeless.

I heaved my suitcase onto the bed. “Back to California!” I yelled. “Or somewhere! I don’t know, but I’m outta here!”

I scooped up a handful of clunky plastic bottles from the bathroom and threw them in my suitcase. Ron sat on a chair watching me haul possessions out of the hotel to the car. When I finished loading, I walked back into the room and looked around.

“Come on!” I said to the dog. “Let’s go!”

The dog hopped up from her spot on the rug. I grabbed her leash and marched to the door. But first, I snatched up a bottle of wine.

Then I was gone.

Once I’d driven a few miles, I realized I didn’t want to go all the way back to California. Not without Ron. All I wanted was time alone. Time to think. It was raining, and almost dusk, so I ruled out a stroll through The National Zoo. Besides, I didn’t know how to navigate the traffic circles in this new city. Meditating in an old, abandoned parking lot was going to have to do.

I closed my eyes and slowed my breath.

Dear God, I prayed, I trust you.

Minutes ticked by.

And then an hour.

I began to miss the warm bed in our hotel room. Also, Ron and I were supposed to have dinner with my brother and his fiancée. And I was hungry. Plus, as much as I hated the headaches of the move, there were places I wanted to see. Not just the zoo, but Rock Creek Park. And the Library of Congress. As a writer, I’d been dying to see the Library of Congress.

I went back to the hotel.

The next day, hope happened. All morning Ron and I had been searching – in the drizzling rain – for a place to live. Wet and cold, we ducked inside a random restaurant for lunch. The place was Logan Tavern. The menu looked delicious. The ambiance was hard to describe. It was almost sheik, but not quite. Almost urban, but not exactly. It was comfortable and clean and tasteful. It was us.

“You love this place,” Ron said.

I slid my bowl of carrot ginger soup along the table, closer to my heart.

“So do you,” I said.

Before we finished our appetizers, we knew we'd be back.