The Winter of Our Disconnect (8 page)

“WTF, Mum!”

Oh God. I hate it when he uses bad abbreviations.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he repeated crossly. “Let
me
do that.”

At that moment, I was so moved by his unexpected affirmation, I practically found the strength of ten menopausal mothers. To me, it meant Bill was in it for the long haul. Metaphorically and otherwise, that took a huge weight off my back.

In the end it took all we had—and he’s a six-foot-one fifteen-year-old with shoulders as broad as an ax handle—to wrangle the TV out of the back door, into the klieglike glare of the midday sun, across the grass, and under the orange tree to the suffocating blackness of the shed. Somehow or other, Bill balanced it on top of the other set, crushing the boogie board and an index finger (mine). He covered it lovingly with a blanket and trudged manfully back inside.

 

 

From my perspective, the next two weeks passed—or wafted, really—as if in a dream. “That’s because it was so dark you couldn’t
see
anything, Mum,” Anni reminded me tartly. But even so, Blackout Bootcamp proved to be one of the most serene and transforming periods of my entire adult life. A cynic might say it had something to do with the fact that the lights were off but nobody was home. There was a kernel of truth there, no doubt about it.

Sussy did indeed move out entirely—taking her suitcase and her MacBook with her. “I really think it’s time I spent more time with Dad,” she explained again earnestly, and not entirely convincingly. I wasn’t happy about it. But she probably did need to spend more time with her father, whom she’d tended to see only sporadically in the last few years. He lived in a country town about an hour’s drive south, but had a pied-à-terre just down the road, where he stayed during the week. And if Sussy really believed that home was where the MySpace was, here was a perfect opportunity to test the hypothesis.

I tried not to feel “blocked”—to use the language of social media—but I wasn’t always successful. There were many times over the years when I’d felt reduced to a kind of glorified service provider to my children, but this was taking it to a whole new level. I told myself it would be a learning experience for all of us, and kept combing through
Walden
for consolation. “A man is rich in proportion to the number of things which he can afford to let alone,” I read. Yes, but not your
daughter
, I couldn’t help thinking.

Although they were more subtle about it, Anni and Bill also took a fugitive approach during these early weeks of tepid milk, hot sheets, and ice-cold showers. (It had been a shock to discover that our gas-powered hot water system required electricity to ignite. When I figured this out on the second day—there had been enough reserve hot water to see us through the first—even I started to wobble. If the weather hadn’t been so sultry, The Experiment might have dried up there and then.) There were
a lot
of sleepovers at friends’ houses. Less predictably, there were a fair few incoming sleepovers as well.

The kids had plenty of friends who’d been back and forth like blowflies to Europe and North America. But nobody,
nobody
had been on a power trip like this one—not intentionally and in their home. The Harry Potteresque lanterns weren’t the only draw card. So too was the opportunity—if you can believe it—to play board games. I hadn’t anticipated that Blackout Bootcamp would have such strong novelty value among the been-there, done-that crowd.

The first night without power, Sussy, Maddi, and I kicked it off with a round of ImaginiFF. And
they
initiated it. (“Imagine if we could turn on the fan,” Sussy quipped.) I tried to remember the last time any of my children had asked me to play a game. Not counting mind games, it had been years. Sure, we’d played poker and Yahtzee when we were on holiday with other families—especially at Rottnest Island where, like Gracetown, the lack of technological amenities was world class. And of course I’d played lots of games with them when they were little. (Like a good feminist, I’d taught them that the player who gets stuck with the Old Maid is the winner.)

But everybody had grown up to be so damned competitive, I’d purposely steered away from anything that involved winning and losing. They still arm-wrestled most mornings over who was going to ride in the front seat of the car. I certainly wasn’t about to take my life into my hands and play Monopoly with these people. The Experiment would mean we had less choice about whether or not to cooperate—like that Hitchcock film where the people are stuck in the lifeboat and they all have to pull together or die of exposure.

A few nights in, Bill’s friend Pat slept over. It seems he’d had a huge fight with his parents and his brother about computer time. LOL! “Did Bill tell you we have no power here?” I asked cautiously. “Fine with me,” he’d growled. “I’m over it.”

The last time Pat and Bill had had a sleepover, Pat had brought his desktop computer along with him—strapped to his bike like a large child. This was not unusual. The friendship was really a foursome: two boys and two PCs. No matter how often Bill explained it to me, I could never quite figure out why this was necessary—like, if they were playing games, couldn’t they just take turns?—but it was something about battling each other in real time. Frankly, it sounded a lot like being married.

This time, Pat brought a toothbrush and a book instead. “Wow. Pat can read?” Sussy hissed. (She was home on weekend furlough.) That night, I went to say goodnight and found the boys sitting up on Bill’s bed, side by side with their Coleman lanterns and their books:
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban
and—get this—
The God Delusion.

So Dawkins was wrong after all, I reflected as I tiptoed down the hall. There really
is
a God.

 

Peaceful, almost Zen-like atmosphere in house today.

Duh. No one home.

Seriously—the quality of the silence has changed. It’s thicker, more meditative. The buzz is gone. It’s good.

Cleaned fridge and found two gel eye-masks buried under a drift of pecorino. Gross! Made chicken curry for dinner. Girls (Anni, Maddi, Suss) returned around eight p.m. and screamed with laughter to find Bill and self eating it on verandah by kerosene lamplight. “Creepy!” they cried. (A: “Mum, this is the dorkiest idea you ever had.”) But dutifully took up their lanterns and went inside.

Snuck down hallway later to find all arrayed in A.’s bed surrounded by lanterns and mags. Suss reading novel titled
No Fat Chicks
. Others discussing “fear of intimacy.”

Bedrooms terrifyingly slatternly at present but thankfully cannot see much detail.

 

 

 

Wrote column in longhand, just like this diary. Painful to hand and head, big-time. Harbor no ambivalence whatsoever re: MS Word. It rocks. Sigh.

Bought bunch of new pens, notebooks as treat to self. (Sharpie ultra fine points, permanent, and spiral bound nbks with sober but elegant black covers.) Spent foolish amount of time trawling well-lit, climate-controlled aisles of OfficeWorks. Can see myself starting to abuse stationery if not careful.

Keywords wish list (i.e., stuff I wanted to Google today): 1—natural diuretics, 2—“French justice minister” AND pregnant, 3—Perth New York airfare cheapest, 4—cause of death, HD Thoreau.

Read every blessed word of newspaper.

Bill rode bike to Vinnie’s and just called to ask if he could stay the night. Evidently The Beast still roams, seeking whom he may devour.

 

 

 

Have totally settled into
Walden
-worthy routine now. Spent morning at South Beach, snorkeling, snoozing, and rereading Thoreau. Home for grilled cheese cooked in frying pan. (NB: Have discovered how to make toast over an open flame. Spear bread with long fork, wave in circles over gas ring. Avoid observing self in rangehood.)

Definitely eating strangely, out of all routine. Today: ½ almond croissant, 2 mangoes, 1 cheese sandwich, 1 glass wine, 1 grapefruit soda, 1 Kit Kat. Thoreau would gag. He did have some pretty odd cravings himself, though. “I caught a glimpse of a woodchuck stealing across my path,” he wrote, “and felt a strange thrill of savage delight, and was strongly tempted to seize and devour him raw; not that I was hungry then, except for that wildness which he represented.” Interesting. Felt much the same way about the Kit Kat.

 

 

 

Near 40° today—same for tomorrow. Cannot Google “metric converter” for precise Fahrenheit equiv but know it’s over a hundred. (Weird how after twenty-three years of metric I still feel this need. “Ten kilometers? Yes, but what’s it really?” I always want to know.)

Taking many walks, despite heat. V. strange without iPod. Normally have certain podcasts for certain routes. (
Wait, Wait Don’t Tell Me
on Lefroy Rd heading west.
This American Life
on Dog Beach, etc.) Unplugged, am trying instead to focus on surroundings. Taking new routes so I have something interesting/new to observe. Figs, e.g. They are everywhere in this neighborhood! Am trying one from every tree I pass. Thoreauvian? Maybe. Fattening? Definitely.

Hair issues continue to challenge. Have experimented with low-tech straightening—i.e., combing wet bangs straight back and pinning them as if skull were a giant roller. Sad really.

Do look, as feared, like bag lady. But at least have acquired good tan. So perhaps a glowing bag lady ...

 

 

 

Tension.

Fought with A. about dishes, credit-card charge for overdue books, and general princessy attitude. Returned home from clubs last night at TWO A.M. Silently handed her and friend a lantern and stalked back to bed. (“Sorry about my FREAKY HOUSE, Laura!” she called out.) Always blaming The Experiment for everything undone, disorganized, and dysfunctional in her life right now. Literally ask myself on a daily if not hourly basis where I have gone wrong. Powerlessness? Don’t get me started.

 

 

 

Bad night: hay-feverish and disturbing dreams. I want my, I want my, I want my NPR!

Explained to B.’s coach about The Experiment and was startled/ slightly freaked out to see his eyes misting over. He gave Bill a lecture about how fortunate he was to be having this experience ... how he would remember it his whole life AND BE GRATEFUL TO HIS MOTHER (my favorite part). Said he would love to do the same at his house. Bill dumbstruck. Looked at me with something bordering on respect.

Anni apologized for yesterday and we did a big, cathartic clean of her room. (“Simplify, simplify, honey. Like, why have a dozen empty cans of Diet Coke when two or three will do?”) Said she’d told friends about The Experiment and was surprised how many thought it was cool.

Did laundry by hand, btw. Surprisingly pleasant (just a couple of summer tops and underwear—can’t imagine doing linens or, God forbid, B.’s football stuff). Remembered my grandmother’s washboard and how she washed her “smalls” in the kitchen sink every morning and hung them out to dry first thing. Felt v. virtuous and carbon neutral, pegging it all out like some fifties housewife. Shame about the hair though.

 

 

 

NEW KITTEN!!! Decided we needed a handheld toy after all. Hazel! So adorable. A. & B. picked her out of lineup from Cat Haven. She is afraid of Rupert, even though he is about as fierce as a Persian rug.

Eleven p.m. Girls talking and reading by candlelight, in clean, aired room, not glued to Facebook in zombie-ish oblivion to surrounding chaos. They are tired—as they should be at this hour—not wired.

 

 

 

Have decided dishwasher is hugely overrated. Not really a timesaving device—more a time-delay device. Its function surely ¾ aesthetic— i.e., removing dishes from view. A dark kitchen does the same job instantaneously.

 

 

 

How to manage time (drop-offs, pick-ups) without cell phone? First attempt today, as needed Bill’s help to pick up bed. (Offered him queen-size bed to compensate for loss of TV. Will have literally no room to swing a pug in there now, but whatevs ...)

Complicated logistics! Me at ABC in Perth, B. in Fremantle. Devised plan for B. to take bus and then train to Subiaco, where would meet him at station at 3:30 p.m.

V. anxious, as plans like this usually need a dozen texts back and forth to confirm, rejig, reconfirm, and re-rejig. (“Missed bus,” “Can’t find SmartRider,” “OK to meet fifteen mins later?” etc. etc.)

And guess what?

Bang on time. When I saw his head appear in the crowd on the up escalator, practically punched fist in air (but knew that would make him go down again!).