the salt lake sea

Through the whitecaps of thoughts tossed in the roughness of fever and capsized bed sheets an idea bobs like a beacon. I can call him home. And in that split second I believe that is true. So true I can smell him. Then reality hits me, no, no I cannot.
I think: I can call my mom, no I can't, that is too much to ask of her...too much driving, and I don't even know if I work or not....
I can call his mom, no, no that is too much to deal with...and again too much driving, too hard of directions to give...

And I return to what I was telling myself as I feel asleep last night: I can do this. I can't possibly feel as bad as I think I do...

I start running down the list of possible help and alternative plans, discounting them by either too much to ask of some else or I can't do that to Beach. 

I can call him home. 

No I can't. 

I know exactly what his day looks like. I know the details. And I know the way those details make his face look, the way he stands, one pant leg of his thick camel colored trousers falling over his boot, the other accidentally tucked in. I know the way he holds an overdue cup of gas station coffee and rubs his jaw, now thick overgrown with hair... I know that right now there is an early morning mad dash commute that started at 5 am into Grand Junction Colorado to get more forms in a frantic attempt to pour the last pour today to stay on schedule... I know the trailer he is sleeping in doesn't have a working heater.

I also know I am not alone here treading water in this sea of sickness. All over the valley there are sick moms 'playing through'. It is as if the ancient sea never reseeded. 

I show up at pick-up and the young single coaches ask what I'm doing at gym. The short answer is I'm a mom. This is what we do by definition. The longer answer is I'm a mom who lives the wrong direction from all the other moms, on the wrong side of town, in an un-pretty little house, without a teenage driver at home to help. And for now I am situationaly-single, and all the other wives in my flock are sick too.

The phone rings around 7:30 am. The voice is familiar but at first I can't place it until he announces himself "Misty, it's Andrew....can you help us with Sophie..." A husband reaching out into the extra wife pool for help for his own drowning family.  And just like that I am handed a life-preserver. I'm getting the help I need to make it through my day cleverly disguised as helping someone else. 

This I can do. 

The day's list is as follows: with Quin's help (as dispatched by BC) jump BC's old Chester the Molester van, meet some creep wanting to possibly want to buy it, straighten out the construction checks with the bank, rescue Soph-Soph from school, feed and supply ninjas, don't lose a 15 yr old on his possible last day in town under my supervision, drive gym taxi, work (?), stall 1.5 hrs then drive back across town as the birthday party taxi, feed 15 yr, & last but not least drink wine because the beer is all gone.

Before 8 am the phone rings again. It is BC's mother, knowing how sick I was yesterday, calling to check on me... No, but thank you I'm feeling better... which when I think of how the ripples of kindness and support radiate it doesn't feel like such a lie. 

Today really is all or nothing.