Finding Alice
by Cary Kinross-Wright
Image: “Twister” by Jean Wolff
No one was surprised when my cheerful façade crumbled, leaving a hyperventilating snotty mess in the corner of the Crested Butte CrossFit gym. Snowflakes danced in the glow of streetlamps outside, while I sat with my head between my knees, the warm hands of my friends resting on my back. When I looked up, I saw the best of me reflected in their beautiful faces, and I promised myself I would figure out the riddle of an existence without the man who had become the center of who I was.
My husband and I rarely fought. Instead, we built walls of perceived wrongs until we lost sight of each other. Several weeks before that emotional collapse, hollowed by the loneliness of us, I’d packed up Maya, Makoya and Puck (two howling cats and one ninety-pound dog) and driven five hours to our second home in Crested Butte, Colorado. For the first time, I questioned whether the bond we’d built over seventeen years would hold.
Perhaps I have a faulty circuit in my brain, but suddenly the most urgent thing was to explore, to find an adventure; something that would allow me to ignore the state of my marriage. The animals presented a conundrum. That evening, I sat in the soft leather chair in front of the fireplace, lips stained the purple red of California Zinfandel, fingers manic on the keyboard of my laptop. Maya purred, her clown face resting against my stomach, unaware of the plan taking shape.
I had never set foot inside an RV. Or towed anything. Until my second glass of wine that night, I am quite certain I never considered going anywhere in any type of mobile “home”. But by the time I nudged Maya onto the floor, I’d rented a nineteen-foot Airstream for May, outlined a detailed itinerary, and booked a towing 101 lesson. I’d figure out how to fit one person, two cats and a dog in there later.
* * *
May. It’s 5:30 a.m. on the first day of our Airstream road trip and I’m rethinking my rule against day-drinking. At 4:00 a.m. my Volvo warned—with flashing orange lights—it was experiencing a “CRITICAL HYBRID SYSTEM FAILURE”. I am ignoring this. At 4:30, I spent forty-five minutes lining up the hitch, thwarted time and again by fractions of an inch. At 5:15 I bent the Airstream bumper by running into a fence at five miles per hour. As I drive toward Loveland—a mere hour from Denver—my hands are white, glued to the steering wheel. Every time a semi passes—frequently, when one is traveling well below the speed limit—the shift in the air launches the trailer sideways and my heart into my mouth.
I arrive hours early, pulling off to the side of the large gravel parking lot. As I wait to meet Rick, the towing instructor, my thoughts vacillate between: “You can do this!” and “This is the most idiotic thing you have ever done!” The cats are traveling in the Airstream, in hopes they will enjoy travel more if they are free to roam. Apparently not. They have already peed on the bed, presumably out of sheer terror. I open my phone and start a shopping list:
Better backup camera?
Waterproof mattress pad
More wine
Rick arrives, a grizzled man with a kind, weathered face and a paunch that strains his shirt buttons. He reminds me of my stepfather.
“Girl, I’ll teach you everything you need to know. Don’t you worry,” he says.
I believe him.
Rick talks nonstop, but I like him anyhow. His lessons give me the confidence I need.
On turning: “Wait… patience… don’t turn the wheel until your body is in line with what you’re turning around.”
On backing up: “Steer toward the end of the trailer you want to push the other way.”
On navigating traffic: “Take a deep breath and remember you’re bigger.”
On life: “Girl, you got this.”
* * *
By the morning of the second day of our trip, the limitations of our cramped living quarters are becoming apparent. Puck’s collapsible crate lives up to its name and I wake to see two sad blue eyes peering out from what is supposed to be the top. The cushions I arranged under the crate have shifted so he is partly submerged between them. Once I excavate him, I disassemble the bench and contort my body to reach the litter box I constructed to fit beneath the seat. Puck’s day bed only fits in the entrance to the bedroom, so I repeatedly leap over him. He and I cannot pass each other in the narrow galley; we take turns backing up.
Ignoring indignant glares from all three animals, I brew coffee on the small square of open counter, wedge myself onto the bench, and prepare for the day. After Puck and I have a quick run, I go through the checklist to ready the trailer for travel. Hitching up is as painful as the day before. I’m thankful it’s still early. No witnesses. By 8:30 we’re on our way.
I’m trying not to notice the wall of black clouds on the horizon, but as we crest the pass leading into Wyoming, they unleash a raging hailstorm. Soon I’m hunched over the steering wheel trying to locate highway lines. I’m talking to myself, but my calming voice is not working. I’d pull over but I can’t see the turn-offs. I imagine the cats are now peeing on my pillow.
We exit the hailstorm only to encounter high wind warnings on I-80. My arm muscles are fatiguing from my death grip on the steering wheel. The cats have surely graduated to pooping on my pillow.
I’m exhausted by the time I pull into the questionably designated RV “resort” near Rock Springs, Wyoming. It’s raining, everyone is hungry, and it will take me at least an hour to set up. When I’m nearly done, I notice a hissing sound, distinct from the pinging of raindrops on aluminum. Slowly, I look down. The right Airstream tire is flat as a pancake. I lean my head against the wet metal and start to cry.
* * *
Against the odds, our adventure survives the chaos of those first two days. My learning curve is steep and bumpy. I learn to accept the sometimes dubious but always kind tips from seasoned RV-ers; that the sight of a single woman pulling up in an Airstream triggers the inherent need-to-help in nearby men; that their wild hand gestures and shouts of “Right! No, other way! Okay, now right! Straighten out!” are not helpful; that it is best to politely decline their assistance; that the guy who rented me the Airstream neglected to tell me many things.
Me to the couple in the Airstream next to me: “Excuse me. What are those feet under your Airstream?”
Man, confused: “Those are the stabilizers.”
Me: “Do I have stabilizers?”
Man: “You should. I can show you how to operate them.”
Me: “That would be amazing.” Adding sheepishly: “I thought the trailer rocked a lot.”
The Volvo’s hybrid system miraculously recovers. I don’t run into any more fences. I become proficient at backing up. Occasionally I line up the hitch in one try. I release my death grip while on the highway and stop flinching each time trucks pass.
Puck and I spend our mornings exploring trails. In Park City, Utah, we watch the sunrise stretch from a bench at the top of Flying Dog Trail. In Bend, Oregon, Puck finds the last one-foot patch of snow and tries to bury himself. I giggle all the way down the Tiddlywinks mountain bike descent. In Sun Valley, Idaho, we navigate a snow-packed hillside, slightly lost, nine miles from a trailhead. It rains. Then it snows.
CrossFit gyms in each town welcome me into their community. I sweat and high-five other athletes as we grind through the “Murph” Memorial Day workout. I narrow down the many coffee shops to my favorites and find the best bakeries and the coolest breweries. Evenings, I sit outside the Airstream with Puck, a glass of wine and my book. Maya and Makoya peer out through the screen door with wide green eyes. I treat myself to fancy dinners and take myself to see the new Wonder Woman movie.
My grief follows me like a shadow. I cry every day. I scream my anger into the wind.
But I also find peace. Moments of joy. Reminders of the person I forgot I was.
My heart is nomadic, and it falls for the Airstream life. I extend our trip until I must bring the Airstream back for the next renter. By the time I pull into the storage area, I know two things: I will try one more time to salvage my marriage and I want my own Airstream.
A part of me understands these two things are not compatible. My husband wants me around more, not less. I don’t know if I truly believe we can reconcile the divergent paths we are taking. I love him and want him in my life. I’m not ready to acknowledge he needs me to be someone I’m not, can never be, and don’t want to be.
* * *
I extend my hand across the divide between us. We have too much good to give up on, I argue. We’re better together. We love each other too deeply. He agrees. He does not apologize. We’re both so raw that it takes us months before we lapse into the easy comfort we used to have together. When we get there, it is the happiness I remember. Maybe this time it will last.
I bring up the idea of a custom Airstream renovation over post mountain bike beers and pizza at the Hot Tomato Café in Fruita, Colorado. “You could build your Sprinter Van and meet us in cool locations,” I tell him. He’s been researching a Sprinter Van. “It would be fun.”
“I have a better idea,” he says, “I’ll tow your Airstream with my Sprinter Van.”
We burst out laughing at the mental image this evokes. We laugh the way we used to, me snorting occasionally, which only doubles us back over, tears running down our cheeks. We clink our glasses and toast our road-tripping future.
The stage is set. I research Airstream renovators and decide on one in Santa Barbara. The owner, Nate, is excited about my vision and we begin looking for a suitable old Airstream. When a 1973 25’ Land Yacht becomes available in Texas, he sends his buyers to inspect it. Soon I am the proud owner of a rusted-out Airstream with orange and green 70s décor. Nate and his team gut it and within a week all that remains is an aluminum shell. A blank canvas.
“You need to name her,” Nate says.
“Alice.”
“You can think about it, I didn’t mean right now.”
“I don’t need to think. Alice was my grandmother. She’s the reason I love to travel.”
“Alice it is then.”
Over the next eighteen months, Alice comes to life. I take another trip in a slightly larger rented Airstream the next summer, and know I’ve made the right decision.
My marriage unravels completely in early 2019. We reach another impasse. This time I look hard in the mirror. For the first time in years, I see the woman staring back at me. She is kind and giving. She is smart and funny. She is good enough. She is strong enough. She is so much more than this.
In that mirror, I see a woman who will never stop loving her husband and never regret a moment of their life together, but who finally understands she cannot fix this. Separation is the only path forward. I struggle with the loss and the unknowable future. My husband is shocked, then hurt and angry when he understands I want to stop the roller coaster of our marriage. I wonder every day if this is a decision I will always regret. Yet I know we cannot go back. I guide us through a mediated divorce. There are no arguments. We have been tremendously fortunate.
For the six months from February to July 2019, my grief eclipses all light. My friend convinces me to adopt a runt border collie puppy, so my family expands by one rambunctious white and black blur named Zoey. She and Puck give me a reason to get out of bed. The three of us take long aimless walks. Every morning as the sun’s first rays streak across the horizon, I beg to feel something, anything. Most days I end up on the kitchen floor, back against the wall, a hand in the fur of each dog, my mind full of static.
Unable to comprehend the complete loss of him, I send emails and texts, laying myself bare: I will always love you. I’d like to be in your life if you’ll let me. We are so good together. We could travel as friends. There are no rules that say we can’t still have a relationship. I hold on to a thread of hope that once his anger subsides, he will come to the same conclusion.
He does not.
That summer, I find a reason to pull myself off the floor: Alice is complete. She is painted a gray blue on the outside. Inside she is cool wood, white walls, and warm light. She has a built-in dog bed and built-in kitty litter box. She has an amazing kitchen and spa quality bathroom, a desk and a lounge chair and a custom screened deck built into her side. She is a sanctuary.
As I prepare to pull out of the driveway for our first adventure in Alice, I think of her namesake, when Grandma squared her shoulders—shoulders bowed by grief after Grandpa killed himself—and decided she would go on living. Through my tears, I watch the sharp edges of the night sky begin to soften. There is a hint of promise in the coming sunrise. I shift the car into drive and whisper, “Thank you, Alice.”
Cary Kinross-Wright is an ALM degree candidate in creative writing and literature at the Harvard Extension School. Her essays have appeared in Thin Air Magazine and Months to Years. She has reinvented herself many times, having been a chemical engineer, venture capital investor, endurance athlete and coach. She currently lives in Chamonix, France with her two dogs.
Jean Wolff has had group and solo exhibits in various galleries in New York City and internationally. In addition, she has published 167 works in 114 issues of 62 magazines. Born in Detroit, Michigan, she studied fine arts at the Center for Creative Studies in Detroit and at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor, receiving a BFA in studio arts. She then attended Hunter College, CUNY in New York, graduating with an MFA in painting and printmaking. She is now part of the artistic community of Westbeth in Manhattan.