Written with the prompts:  Teletubbies, c’mon, tug at my sleeve, the big lie, awareness, Joe liked to torment me, harbor, push, father, took me a long time, yellow, smells like chicken soup, Bailey Island

“C’mon,” Joe said, tugging at my sleeve, hastening our progress as we attempted to maneuver through the crowd.  I felt overwhelmed with an acute awareness of the people around me—the smell of chicken soup splashed on the necktie of the man next to me, his amber eyes and yellow hair, the mixture of sweat and lilac cologne of the woman behind me whose elbow unavoidably pressed against my shoulder blade, every one of these dozens, no hundreds, frantic to make it onto a ship.  Joe held our three-year-old son, Nathaniel, who had taken on the role of Teletubby, a computer monitor hidden in his abdomen.  It was Joe’s idea, a way to smuggle a device across the harbor, out into international waters.  I’d been against it, but I was overruled.  

“If they discover it, they won’t blame the boy,” my father-in-law had said.  “Stop worrying about that.”

“And they’re not going to discover it,” Joe said decisively.  “They won’t.”

Big lies, I thought silently.  Joe tormented me with these lies, gaslit me, made me feel crazy for worrying .  My own mother was more pragmatic.  “You know,” she said.  She paused.  “Say it with me.”

“I know,” I repeated.  “I know.”

“Yes.”  She gripped my hands.  “Imagine the end of the journey.  When you’re safe on Bailey Island.  You must visualize that, you and Nathaniel, safe on Bailey Island.”

I closed my eyes.  “Nathaniel, Joe, and I safe,” I repeated.

“You and Nathaniel,” she said emphatically.  I opened my eyes and stared into hers.  She nodded.  I understood her meaning.  It’s taken me a long time to understand.  If it hadn’t been for Joe’s misplaced loyalties, we wouldn’t need to run.

The ship was in sight.  But I was thinking of the island.  There is a peach orchard there near a lake where my mother’s sister lives.  I imagine picking peaches with Nathaniel.  The peaches are red and fragrant.  

The crowd began to disperse, and a path opened up.  I darted in front of my husband and easily lifted our child from his arms.  We were running toward the boat, our footsteps pounding on the wooden pier.  

I can taste the peaches.  I have held the vision.

The boat welcomed us aboard.  I turned, but Joe was lost in a sea of faces.  Maybe he would join us, maybe he wouldn’t.  The purser escorted us to our cabin.  I slipped Nathaniel’s sweater off.  The screen on his tummy emitted the songs of red-winged blackbirds while a grandmotherly woman hosting a cooking show sliced peaches for a pie.  The ship was moving.  There were no windows, but I could hear sea lions barking.  We were safe. 

Photo by Job Vermeulen on Unsplash