Sunnydale Academy

I can see that my mother-in-law called. But it's Sabbath afternoon, and I don't want to throw myself into anything that will make me feel bad. My dad left a message, too. But I can't let that call go unanswered—my parents have both been in the hospital too many times in the last months. So I call him back.
"Do you have a minute, son?"
"Yeah, dad."
"How's your Sabbath?"
I feel like he's avoiding something. If he had bad news, he would have said it already. Anyway, I'm fine. He asks after Amanda and Russell, and they're fine. The cats are fine. The kitten is weird, but she's fine regardless. I've left the house to have some quiet, and the wind is flying across the open fields and filling my hammock with leaves, pushing it out to one side like a misshapen kite. One-handed, I shake the leaves out and load myself in.
"What's up, dad? Your message said you had some news?" Regardless, I can't imagine it's good.
"Well, we heard from Linda, you know, your mother-in-law." My breath catches. "Well, she said Delight is going to file papers. She's looking for an address for you so she can initiate a divorce."
There's a long silence on the line, filled by the screaming of the wind in the oak trees above me.
Dad starts talking about something, I'm sure. It's information, or sympathy, or concern, or advice. It's a human connection, but I can't remember it. I hear his low voice, calm like normal, two thousand miles away and right in my ear, trying to make things okay where he can't make things right.  He's my dad. But at a certain point, I don't listen to him anymore.
I didn't think she had it in her. She was always too afraid of change, always too willing to let uncomfortable things fester, always afraid of paperwork. I guess this time, she realized how easy divorce has become. Or maybe the minor inconvenience of putting my name on her taxes is more onerous than the paperwork. Or maybe she found someone. But this last idea dies as it's thought.
"Where did she send it?"
"I'm not sure. I think her mother said the last address she had for you was Curtis. Have you talked to her?"
"No, dad. We don't talk." And that's the truth. The last time was April.
Dad prays with me. I should crave it, but this time, it's just words between me and silence. All I want is the wind.
He hangs up and I briefly battle a desire to throw my phone from me. It belongs to Philip. I put it carefully in the pocket on the ridgeline.
I cry, only for about five minutes, the wind drying the tears off my face. It's more of a betrayal than an injustice. I didn't expect it.

The last time I cried about her was this summer at camp. Things were normal. Nothing was stressful in a new way, or damaging to my self-esteem, but about tween week, I was feeling extremely laggard. Things weren't easy, and I couldn't put my finger on why. So I just kept plugging away, expecting revelations. A full week of feeling like something was wrong and the universe was against me and Friday afternoon came around. You don't know me at camp, probably, so suffice it to say I am in übermensch mode from Friday at noon until Saturday at ten, when the kids go to bed. Every weekend is like throwing myself from a precipitous cliff, and this Friday was no exception. But this time, around one, I walked into the props closet and, without obvious reason or meaning, slow-motion collapsed on the floor and closed the door behind me. I flicked my radio off, and heaved three or four gargantuan sobs.
I don't know what made her come to mind. I couldn't share that secret if I wanted to, but there she was, dominant and oppressive. My whole self fixated on her for two minutes, crashing and letting a handful of tears fall past my ears to the floor. Then I stood up and went on as if the whole weekend was my responsibility and there was only me to do the work. Because, if we're honest, that's approaching true.

I wake up from my nap in the hammock. Dad left me with a single admonishment: be sure to talk about it with Russell and Amanda. That responsibility feels more oppressive than a full weekend at camp. I put it off until the hour I leave, but I follow that fifth commandment. I hate it. Neither of them know what to say. There probably is nothing to say.

I thought she would put it off, that I would get to choose my day. This trip is quickly becoming about losing control, not gaining it.