Later I give him a gentle hand massage to remove the last vestiges of cotton wool and adhesive. We have been supplied with small brown bottles of toiletries, and I have a different “lotion” from the hotel in Calgary. I ask Jack to select which one he likes the smell of. “Ugh,” he says to the first, (lavender and peppermint) and “oh this one’s OK!” to the second.
The day is bright and sunny. Shortly after breakfast, the phone rings. Brown Owl picks up the receiver. I listen to the one-sided conversation, trying to guess who it might be. Housekeeping? Kitchen? Nursing staff? Nope. “It was the police!” she exclaims with bemusement. “Where do they think we are going? He asked me whether we are all ok.” We are.
The medical staff also call us every day and run us through the same series of questions regarding our health – physical and mental. How many people are in your room? What is your relationship to Brown Owl? Do you have any Covid symptoms? I suppose for those unlucky enough to have contracted the virus, the answers might change, but for us, they are the same, every day. I have responded to people’s questions about our relationship in various ways, using various words, such as “wife”, “partner” and (notably) “husband”. The Red Deer taxi driver assumed we were sisters. I saw no point in enlightening him.
One of my dearest friends, (let’s call her Chestnut), sends me a message through WhatsApp. My sim still isn’t working. She says she was very disturbed by my post the previous night and wonders why it was removed. I message back, explaining the inflammatory nature of the post and that Brown Owl had removed it, but that I am planning to revive my blog. I’m kind of relieved my words have been received by somebody who cares.
Today is a day to reconnect with our people in the outside world. Brown Owl and I have a long conversation with the Kitty-cats 3, who had spent some time with and formed a relationship with Our Tormentor and their little Mouseling. These Kitty-cats 3 are empathic and generous. They confirm some of what we have gleaned about our Tormentor’s anxieties and loneliness. I begin to feel a shift in my outrage. A speck of sympathy begins to slide into view, intersecting with the hurt. It must have been awful to be in Adelaide, without family or friends, no support, and in lockdown. I am glad the Kitty-Cats 3 were able to offer them comfort and company. My parents were also welcoming and helpful to them.
Wizard answers the phone and we all get to chat with my parents. They have dropped off another package (this one from Brown Owl's parents) and they have been working in our garden trying to ensure that something is still growing there when we get out of quarantine and home again. I’ve been colouring, but my fingers are also itching to get into our garden again!
Our days are spent doing the following activities, performed at least once, by at least some of the family members and in various orders:
- Breakfast
- Bey blading (Wizard’s passion)
- Yoga (today I join Brown Owl for the first time)
- Throwing around balls
- Wrestling on the bed
- Lunch
- Watching youtube videos
- Playing merge dragons (that’s just me)
- Reading
- Cluedo
- PE with Joe
- Ultimate Beastmaster
- Bey blading
- Playing airports (the international flights are all coming into quarantine, according to Wizard)
- Dinner
- Showers
- Troll Hunter and Bey Blade episode
- Reading
- Sleep
So, we are busy. We have other games and many puzzles to work on as well.
The phone rings again in the early afternoon. Brown Owl answers. It’s Chestnut. I am so glad to hear from her. I lie down on Wizard’s bed (the closest one), and we talk. Our conversation is drawing to an end, when I thank her for messaging me this morning. We both know that with no privacy in our rooms, talking about this might be tricky, and I’d thought that was why she has avoided bringing up the subject.
“Yes, well I read your story before I went to bed last night, and I must say it left me quite disturbed,” says Chestnut.
As we discuss what has happened, I realise that Chestnut believes Our Tormentor is something I am struggling with internally. I begin to giggle at the idea that I’ve been so careful to veil and protect and excuse, that my readers are unable to understand what I’ve written about.
I’m sure it is my attempt to use an inclusive pronoun (they) that has contributed to the confusion.
Our Tormentor is a real person. We have never met face to face, and I hope we never do. I believe this person to be too obtuse to understand, let alone empathise with how their behaviour has impacted upon us, but there are other people they met and befriended in our absence, who may well leap upon an opportunity to scratch open and infect our wounds. So I’ve tried to be careful.
The tight knot that sits between my diaphragm and my rib cage begins to dissolve into bubbles, and I feel suddenly happy. I keep giggling. It all seems so absurd.
The burden of unbelief, the burden of believing I will not be understood, the burden of believing I am responsible, that I am incapable, that I am dirty, uncaring, destructive; the burden of believing there is no way other than to bear this burden, the burden of loving my family and trying to keep us all safe and well whilst battling Our Tormentor’s attacks has weighed heavily for months.
“Just block her,” advises Chestnut. “She’s not your friend.”
I can let that burden go.
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