Long Way Round

Long Way Round

When she was two, she ran away from home. As the story goes, it was cleaning day and the front door was open to air out the smell of Windex on glass tables and the summer citrus of Mr. Clean’s All-Purpose cleaner on the tile floors. With all of those people in the house to chase, she had become comfortable with walking. She was curious. And fast.

It was summer. The sun was high and the new colors enticing. Outside was uncharted territory.

So she decided to go for a walk: down the cement front stairs, between the cars in the driveway, and around the block. Just her, her diaper, and the sweet fresh air.

She was two blocks into her newfound freedom before she was caught. A family friend happened to be mowing the lawn.

            He picked her up, walked back up the road, and rang the doorbell. A frazzled mother in worn down gym clothes-- faded from the sweat of mopping and chasing rowdy children rather than treadmills-- opened the door in shock.

“Is this yours?”

No one had realized she escaped. When her parents cast their bewildered eyes upon her, she bore her teeth with all the ferocity of a baby Corgi. At two years old, such was her definition of grinning.

She gave “Terrible twos” a new meaning. Not only did she initiate chaos, but she also learned to thrive in it. She made rocket ships out of couch cushions and rode them down the stairs and to the moon. She practiced her newest moves from dance class on the coffee table, leaving tiny muddy footprints as a ghostly diagram of the steps she had taken. She found a love of music and, when she couldn’t reach the piano, made drums with wooden spoons on metal pots and maracas with the box of rice in the pantry.

Back then, her mother’s favorite catch phrase was, “You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

            When she was seven, she took a swimming class. It was at the YMCA behind her house. The teacher couldn’t figure out why she kept sinking.

“Maybe stick your belly out more?”

“I think you’re tensing your body too much?”

“That… looks right-- I think?”
“How about you just use your kickboard in the shallow end today?”

She learned that some human bodies just have a harder time floating than others.

Instead, she found her calling on solid ground. She was bigger than the other kids but still fast. Everyone wanted her on his or her team for -- everything. Cops and robbers, kickball, soccer, relay races... everything except the three-legged race. She was infamous for winning—whether or not her partner could keep up. Some kids had been dragged across the finish line in the past.

After the first race, once her counselor had finished bandaging up the other kid, he took her aside and gave her the “It’s-Not-About-Winning-It’s-About-Having-Fun” speech. But she thought winning was how to have fun? He asked her if she knew what “competitive” meant. She did. But she was confused when he made it sound like a bad thing.

After the second race, the counselors made sure that she was always paired with her sister, who had the same unstoppable focus.

Together, the two were unstoppable. Late at night, when they thought their family to be sleeping, they awoke; sliding down the railings to the basement so the stairs wouldn’t creak. They trained. A red bandana fused them together as one as they sprinted endless laps around their basement. The challenge was no longer the other kids, but yesterday’s selves. And they won. They conquered.

But each day’s newfound victory ended before its time. Eventually, the counselors always made them go back to the pool. Always.
            That summer, she could hold her breath underwater for two minutes, thirty-seven seconds-- the reigning champion of Y-Camp. She figured that’s what happened when you spent most of your time sitting cross-legged underwater in the 4-feet deep end of the pool. She mastered wall flips and doggy paddling, but never went deeper than where she could stand on her tip-toes with her nose above the water.

As many times as she splashed into the pool, she wondered what it would be like to jump in.

When she was nine, she fell in love. His name was Roald. Dahl-ing she called him.

            After school, they would escape together, anywhere they wanted to go. He would tell her things. Stories of elsewhere and the people he knew. About a boy named James who found magic and some unlikely friends. About Charlie, whose good luck and good heart led him to meet a strange man lost in his candy. Matilda-- a girl who loved books almost as much as she did.

She cried when she had to return him to the library.

The next weekend, she found out he had more stories to tell. She devoured all of them. She started to bring her backpack when her arms could no longer hold the weight of everything she wanted to learn.

Late at night, when the fireflies flickered and the moon woke to stretch for his night-shift, she hid beneath her blanket, lost in what-ifs. She didn’t want to be found.

She briefly considered a career in acting when her father came upstairs to check on her and she passed as dead asleep. Drool, murmuring, foot slightly falling out of the blanket, everything. Her father covered her foot and carefully closed the door.

She read for another 20 minutes before her flashlight sputtered out. From the other half of the bed, her sister pressed her ice-cold toes to bare skin hissed to go to sleep. Next time, she told herself, remember to buy a new set of batteries with each new checkout.

She met his friends. And their friends. And their distant, not-entirely-sure-we’re-related-but-I’m-just-going-to-stick-to-this-idea-anyway cousins. She loved them too.

Time passed and she was on first name basis with the librarians.

That summer, she won a bike for reading more than anyone else her age.

When she was eleven, she spent her first full summer away from home. It was summer school barely disguised under the pretense of “Junior Doctor’s” Camp. Just her, her sister, and her parent’s high expectations. Two months, 119 miles away from home.

She cried when her parents turned out of the driveway. She cried when they unloaded the last of her bags in this strange new place. Her sister left her to chase a boy from Saint Croix and make friends with other kids her year. She was just about to cry again when her new roommate came in to introduce herself and ask her to come down for dinner. Somehow, she was able to replace her tears with a huge smile in milliseconds. Maybe all of those nights acting didn’t go to waste after all.

She called home daily.

            “When can I come home?”

“When can I come back to you?”

They told her it would get better. It did. They told her she would make friends. She did. They told her the summer would end sooner than she thought. It did.

She cried as she saw her newest home disappear into the distance from the back windshield of her mother’s purple minivan.

All the way home, she wrote down memories of the summer. Late nights sneaking out of her room for spontaneous sleepovers. Pranking the boys’ floor with shaving cream and Nerf guns. Escaping down the fire escape to chase the sunrise with her newest love interest in the wildflowers that bloomed behind the track. Staying up with her friends the last night, straining to squeeze every last moment out of the time they had left.

She was trying to hold on to this new world with everything she had.

When she was eighteen, she left. And kept leaving.

Nine months, 705 miles. She chose this.

She studied medicine for three months. She stopped, kicked herself, and found her way back to writing. Stories of elsewhere and the people she met blossomed from her pen. About a girl named Melody who couldn’t quite carry a tune, but found her way to music through her fingers on a keyboard or guitar. About Sean, who’s baking would put most shops out of business if only engineering allotted him more time. About the woman on the metro who had so much pride in her sons that she could speak of them non-stop for two hours all the way to the airport. About a teacher who changed everything.

The tales were finally real.

            She called home weekly. Then monthly. Then every once in awhile.

“When are you coming home?”
“When are you coming back to us?”

She told them she loved them. She did. She told them Christmas was just a few weeks away. She told them it would get better. She told them she was happy.

Late at night, she escaped from her dorm to climb buildings and fly on swings on the beach. She lost herself in the faces of strangers, soon friends, and uncharted territory.

That summer, she took a plane. To one of those far off lands she had learned to dream about. Just her, a single-stamped passport, and a journal. Two months, 4,227 miles.

She smiled the whole way.