Getaway

Reema Rao-Patel

Anyone who owns a car in the city is aposer. I never said that to anyone, but it was a conviction that I clung to. Hearing the ring of doors closing on the train as a cue to run, squeezing through only to be pushed

The Wayne Literary Review: Escapism

up against someone ’ s overfilled backpack, and accounting for extra time to transfer from train to bus when traveling east-west was all a part of authentic city living.

We did have a car – a peacock blue Chevy Equinox that a nurse once made fun of when Jay picked me up after surgery. Oh, there is no way I’ m missing thatblue. I defensively reminded everyone that the car was a mandatory work perk. The Chevy remained street parked on Evergreen with last season ’ s mud still caked on the outside and a lingering new car smell on the inside.

So, when March 13, 2020, rolled around, I complained to myself as usual about how packed and balmy the bus was, not realizing it would be something to miss. After that last ride, we locked ourselves at home in a panic and stowed our transit cards away on the nightstand next to our passports and the car keys. We traded our precious freedom for the confines of our apartment – navigating endlessly between the kitchen, living room, bedroom, living room, bedroom, kitchen, bedroom.

The next weekend – had it only been a week? – Jay said, let’ sgo for a walkin the same tone, he might’ ve said let’ sgo to Paris; Ialready boughttickets in. We had not ventured out for a leisurely walk yet. The only time we left the apartment was to pick up staples from the over-priced corner bodega, armed with hand sanitizer like mace and bandanas haphazardly tied around our faces in lieu of masks we couldn ’t find anywhere. The bandana constantly slipped and tugged at the wisps of my hair that got caught in the knot. I saw police patrolling the neighborhood, sternly telling people to keep walking, no lingering or sitting on the park benches allowed anymore. Suddenly the crisp, open air felt overwhelmingly stuffy.

Ineedto be on my own, I said and grabbed the keys roughly. Ineed togetout, like out-out. By the time I got to Evergreen, I had forgotten where the car was parked. Both sides of the street were fully lined with cars that hid the peacock blue. I searched up and down haphazardly; more panicking than looking. Someone must have looked out their window and thought, poorgirl, this is whatone weekoflockdown willdo toyou. Three minutes out on the street, but thirty minutes in my head.

The Wayne Literary Review: Escapism

When I found the car, I fell into the driver ’ s seat, and salty tears filled my cupped hands. Crying was now a daily occurrence, but most of my tears rang out the unanswerable questions and indescribable fears inside me. These tears were different; they shed weight. I found the car, yes. But I also found space in a place that was not the bedroom, kitchen, or living room --a space to feel, a space to physically and emotionally move within the all-encompassing stillness of the world.

Justkeep driving anywhere, I repeat. When the hyphenated lane lines begin to merge into one, my disjointed thoughts, too, become an unimportant blur. Right now, I do not think; I simply feel. Along the lakeshore, blue skies and green water spread so far that it feels like it is washing into the car. The skyline becomes drenched in honey at dusk, and the orange hues slowly trickle down my own arm perched on the window. In the dark, we do not know where the highways end and the sky begins, streetlights sparkling amongst the stars – the vastness in stark contrast to the overbearing tree-lined streets at home.

Without a destination, the motions of driving turn rote. But its effect does not. I am addicted to movement and the changing sights around me. In these moments, life is living and breathing again. –

Of all the roads we took, we never ventured to the suburbs. Even with its seemingly free, wide-open roads, its settled-down stillness was magnified by people shuttered inside their homes. I found it stiflingly quiet.

Mom and Dad live in the suburbs. Just an hour southwest on 88, a road I would take for our monthly dinner ritual. But now, I had not seen them in over four months. When can we seeyou? Mom asked every week. Every time, the question stretched our time apart longer and the distance between us farther. Even over the phone, I could hear her voice echo in the house. I imagined their quiet street, now primarily empty nesters, and felt a pang of guilt.

I resorted to the car, but this time with a destination. We can

’ tmeet athome, butmaybe we can meetsomewhere outside halfway?That evening we pulled up in the parking lot of a taped-off neighborhood playground. The lingering rain left everything slick and muddy.

The Wayne Literary Review: Escapism