Her friends were as anxious for her to come home as we were. They love her, and she loves them. The bonds high school kids form can be thick, the individual cords and strings among them growing together from years of shared experience. This core group, this bubble of boys and girls, some of whom are now as tall as trees, have been feeding upon each other for years. Three of them went to preschool together, one is a cancer survivor. By middle school they were hounding each other with inside jokes from jazz band and choir, and even now the mere mention of The Monkey’s Paw can induce nightmares, not from the story, but regarding their former teacher.
As the sun starts to set along the tree line at the end of our street, kids begin to arrive for a bonfire in our backyard. We socially distance some chairs in a semicircle, and drop the mosquito net around the table and chairs under the gazebo. Hand sanitizer sits next to the paper plates, there are bowls with chips, popcorn, fruit, and s’mores supplies, each with a cup or tong. These kids have been playing it safe since March. They have had limited contact, zero vacations, zero school dances, zero band or choir concerts, only a few are doing high school sports camps. They are careful, they are respectful, they are desperate to be together in the same space even if all they do is sit around a fire pit and play on their phones.
At some point a deck of cards and a Monopoly board game make their way outside and the food gets cleared off the patio table. The laughter is palpable, the smiles are genuine. Some wear masks, others do not, but keep their distance and are respectful of their friends. They know who has a grandpa living with them, who’s going to visit great-grandma in the morning. But for now, for tonight, for three hours, they are free to be kids, to relish the fading summer days as a new school year looms ahead, one that begins remotely, online and impersonal, where they attempt to form new bonds through video screens and chat boxes and the laughter comes with lag time.
My kitchen table overflows with laughter of another sort. It is the one brought about by glasses of our favorite wine, beer, or a shot of something stronger as a few moms and dads stay behind after their “student drivers” arrive. Like our children, we too have been separated. Our past bonds are just as strong, formed through years of Back to School nights and volunteering for Field Day, watching our children grow together as individuals and as friends and as part of a community.
Conversations ebb and flow with the relaxing rhythm of waves upon a beach. From details of our experience with the girl, the hospital, the doctors, and where we are now, to life for all our children amid this social isolation. The emotional and mental health needs of ourselves and our kids during this coming school year cannot be ignored, and we plan together in our small bubble to ensure more nights like tonight.
And throughout those hours, while the wine flows and the laughter increases, the questions are still there. Does she realize the finality of what suicide is and the devastation it brings on so many in an ever expanding circle? Does she grasp the heaviness and finally feel the weight of that decision? Will she go forward to fill what’s still missing with something unhealthy or destructive? Will she be easily manipulated or used? You can learn ways to deal with your anxiety--things to do like going swimming, taking a bubble bath, doing a yoga class--but what about the deeper issues? The ones that go to the heart of who she is, the self-portrait, the one depression shredded. She is still searching for her place in this world, searching for love and affection from the outside as all teenagers are. Once we fix her self-portrait, will it be strong enough to withstand the pressures from society? The mixed messages about body image, and sex, and love?
She knows she is loved by her friends and family, by her “bonus parents” sitting here as she laughs outside. The adults in our bubble love her like she is their own, as I do their children. I plan to attend their college graduations, their weddings, their baby showers, precisely as they plan the same with my children. That’s how our bubble functions, whether we are in a pandemic or not, whether we are in a crisis or not.
But the most inspiring part of this evening wasn’t simply having all these teenagers in my backyard, finally having that moment together that they so desperately needed and deserved, nor was it witnessing the girl revel in all the people who truly cared about her, it was the boy. At 13, he’s unwelcome with the high schoolers, but he didn't have a friend over of his own to do gaming, or more accurately yell at the game for being unfair. For the first time, my son didn’t go hide on his computer in the basement, or immerse himself with YouTube. He saddled up to the table next to me, and watched, and listened, and laughed. And while we made fun of his quarantine hair and how he looks like a forgotten homeless child from the 70s, he learned how all these adults love and care for the children in our bubble, and that includes him.
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