It’s never a bad time to check in for pineapples, even if they are a bit overzealous with the hyphenation.

In February, Mr. Piper and I had the opportunity to camp out at a friend’s house and do some adventuring on Maui. We’d planned to spend 7 weeks in paradise, finishing up Tarot Academy 3 and researching a new book idea while hanging out in the surf and sunshine, making friends with sea turtles, and eating pineapples. Lots and lots of pineapples, which are basically my favorite.

(Fun fact: you can grow your own pineapple at home, even in a Rubbermaid tote! But it takes about 1-2 years to bear fruit.)

A rare sighting of the author at work. If the main character loves piña coladas, it totally counts as research, right?

When we left Colorado that day, our biggest worry was that the pipes would freeze and burst in our absence, or that we’d somehow screwed up the mail hold forms and all those catalogs of shit we never order and scammy credit card offers would be lost forever. Tragic!

But by the time we landed in Hawaii, I’d forgotten about all that. We reunited with friends we’d missed. We wandered beaches and watched humpback whales from a distance, then saw them up close when mamas and babies alike swarmed our boat. We ate sun-warmed pineapples plucked straight from the field and had our fill of fresh fish—a rare treat for us landlocked Coloradans. I got swallowed up by the ocean and spit back out again, covered in so much sand I looked like a breaded chicken cutlet. One day, our friend dove down to the bottom of the sea and lured an octopus out to play, and when I held it in my hands and felt the otherworldly touch of this strange, incredible creature, I fell in love.

(Fun fact: octopuses have three hearts and blue blood!)

Even when we were working, it was hard not to feel light and happy and care-free. I lost count of the rainbows that graced our skies. I was incredibly grateful for every moment we got to spend in that beautiful place.

Then came the news.

The world was already changing, of course—much faster than we realized. Nestled in our happy little bubble of sunshine and pineapples and friendly creatures from the deep, we hadn’t even heard the word “pandemic” yet. But in a matter of days, our conversations shifted from which beach we’d like to explore next and which locations would show up in the new book to why all the stores were out of hand sanitizer and toilet paper, and what would happen if we got stuck away from home for the foreseeable future.

Granted, there are worse places than Maui to get stuck (even without hand sanitizer) (or toilet paper, for that matter).

But we weren’t prepared to work remotely for the long haul, and we didn’t want to be away from home if things got complicated, especially if we needed any medical care. As the news became more dire, so did my fears. Did we have enough toilet paper back home? That seemed to be the question on everyone’s minds, and I just couldn’t remember whether we’d ordered that final case of cottony goodness from Amazon last month before all the craziness began or whether we were down to half a roll and a balled-up sock. What if the shelves were empty by the time we got back to the mainland? What if they started implementing domestic travel restrictions? What about the water supply? What if we had to grow our own food in Rubbermaid totes on the balcony?

If a pineapple takes two years to grow, just imagine how long it would take to grow a cheeseburger!

This is the blessing and the curse of the writer’s brain.

A wild imagination to fuel every story, whether it ends up on the page for your entertainment or just rattling around in my head like a trapped animal looking for weak spots and peeing everywhere.

I will spare you a lengthy recap of my myriad anxieties, but in the end, as the COVID-19 case counts skyrocketed and markets took a nosedive and our family in New York went into quarantine, Mr. Piper and I decided to cut the trip short. From there, it was a scramble of hours-long hold times and website crashes to change our flights, and that was just the beginning of our adventure.

We managed to get back to the mainland on an overnight flight, but once we hit our connecting point of Las Vegas, things got dicey. They’d already shut down the Vegas strip, but the airport was packed. Since we were traveling on two separate airlines, we had to collect our bags from the Hawaii flight, then go back through the check-in process for the Vegas flight. That’s when we learned that a member of the air traffic control staff had tested positive the day before, so they had to shut down the tower. All inbound and outbound flights were being manually sighted, so over 50% of flights had to be cancelled. By some miracle, ours was still scheduled… with a 5-hour delay. But we wanted to get home, so what else could we do?

Mere minutes after sending our bags along the conveyor into the mysterious bowels of the airport, we were told our flight was now delayed 11 hours, with no guarantees it would take off at all.

If I was ill-prepared to work remotely for the foreseeable future, you can imagine how excited I was about the prospect of sleeping on the Vegas airport floor during a freaking pandemic.

Fortunately, a saintly customer service rep took pity on us and was able to get us on another flight going backward across the country into LAX, and then onto Denver from there. We leaped at the offer and hoped by some miracle this woman could continue working her fae-goddess magic, track down our already-checked bags from the doomed flight, and somehow get them on the new flights so they’d pop out in Denver right along with us. But at that point, I didn’t care if I lost my hair dryer and swimsuits and the 3 remaining rolls of toilet paper and seven instant oatmeal packets we hastily stuffed into our suitcase before we left Maui.

I just wanted to get home.

I wanted to brush my teeth too, but alas…

The German air force showed up at security.

This was just the beginning of a line that wrapped around behind us, soldiers numbering well into the hundreds.

We were surrounded. And not getting through that line anytime soon.

I asked the friendly neighborhood TSA agent (who was standing directly below a video monitor that read: Do not make jokes at the security checkpoint. Security is no laughing matter.) whether the Germans had come to save us, and he replied, with a slightly raised eyebrow, “They were stationed nearby. They’re being called home.”

I felt a bit like Sam and Frodo when they realize the elves are leaving Middle Earth, but I didn’t want my sentiments to be mistaken for jokes at the security checkpoint, so instead I just said, “Why?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head, sighing heavily as he checked my ID and signed my boarding pass. “But deep in my gut, I know something real bad is coming.”

On that ominous note, he left his post. Seriously. Just walked away. Probably to report me for making that joke about the Germans, which wasn’t really a joke in the first place.

Fighting our way through the humorless security checkpoints and the Germans, who were a little bit terrifying but also laughing (in German, of course), we made a mad dash for our new flight, oral hygiene be damned. There were very few people on the plane, some wearing masks, most removing those masks in order to partake in the airline’s complimentary selection of sodas, coffee, and juice, thereby rendering the mask both useless and ridiculous. We made it to LAX for another dash to the Denver-bound flight, observing the same odd lack of commitment regarding masks.

Our flight arrived in Denver without issue.

By some miracle, that fae goddess back in Vegas made sure our bags arrived too.

There was snow on the ground in Colorado, and I shivered in my thin sweatshirt and slightly sunburned skin as we waited for our ride, wondering just what the next few days would bring. An accident on the highway delayed our drive home by another hour. The sky was bleached of all color. After passing through 5 airports in 24 hours, I didn’t even want to think about how many germs were crawling on us.

But, as we opened the door to our home and stepped inside, I took a deep breath, let it out slow. We made it. Our pipes had not burst. Our toilet paper and pantry were both pretty well stocked. We stripped naked, dropped our clothing into the washer. Began the tedious process of disinfecting everything in our bags. Did one quick shopping trip to fill in some of the gaps, finding mostly everything we needed.

The news continues to terrify.

I can only imagine the army of germs that have invaded our bodies and belongings. Mr. Piper and I are still self-isolating, monitoring for symptoms. I flinch at every sniffle in my nose and scratch in my throat. I worry about our supplies, about the supply chain in general. I worry about needing medical care of any sort. Mostly, I worry about everyone else—our elderly parents in New York and other vulnerable members of our society. Children who aren’t quite sure how to process this and know only that their parents are anxious. Healthcare providers, postal workers, delivery drivers, and food service workers who continue to serve on the front lines of this pandemic. Small business owners, my fellow authors, and all those who don’t even have the luxury of worrying about toilet paper.

Writing continues to save.

Aloha!

Despite the grim headlines and the imagination that often kicks into overdrive, I am endeavoring to acknowledge my fears and make peace with the uncertainty right now. To just be grateful that I have a home and food and Mr. Piper, that our needs are more than met. And to turn, as always, back to my writing. Readers often tell me my books offer them an escape; the message always encourages and humbles me, but here’s a confession: I write for my own escape too. It’s in the lives and complexities of characters and the creation of other worlds that I find solace.

In those worlds, I know how to fix things.

It’s snowing again in Colorado. Three of our neighbors have tested positive for COVID-19.

Last night, I ordered a case of pineapples from Maui.

I miss the octopus and the baby whales. I miss the strange birdsong and the sound of the ocean and the feeling of warmth and security that comes with being on a small island in the middle of the Pacific, however fleeting it was.

I miss the children of our friends, who greeted us daily with giggles and happy chatter and hugs. I don’t know when we’ll be able to visit them again.

But I’m glad to be home.

I’m ready to write again.

Be well and be good to one another, my friends.