Call Me Charlie

Issue 286

You guys,

In Syros, we exit the apartment as a family at 7:55am. I am still tying my shoelaces when George opens the front door. I tell him to wait but he is ready to go now. We descend the winding marble staircase of our second-story unit, then open the big blue door as we step single file onto the narrow stone sidewalk outside. George wants to hold my hand while Layla refuses to hold Sam’s and walks three steps ahead of him. They each sport their navy Boundless Life backpacks, which contain their small Boundless Life water bottles, sun hats, and a baby doll for Layla.

Back home, neither of them are ready to leave the house at 7:55am, as planned. George says he doesn’t like school. Layla hates her car seat. They want to play just a little longer. “Ten more minutes,” they plead, which is absurd. We have to go now. “Two minutes,” I say. “How about fifteen?” says Layla, who calls out random numbers without knowing how long or short they are. I resort to threats, even though when Sam does it I tell him not to. “If you don’t get your shoes on right now, no story and no music in the car.” They wail but they don’t budge. “No TV after school then!” I say. At this point they don’t care what I take away. It’s me against them, and eventually we carry them sideways to the car.

In Syros, Layla is always running ahead. We’re located right in the middle of town, full of shops and markets and cars and mopeds. The beautiful stone and marble sidewalks, which have been here since the 1800s, look the same as the street, and we keep reminding her—begging her, scolding her, screaming at her, finally explaining death to her—to stop at the corners and wait for us. She smiles gleefully, her hair blowing in the wind. Her first taste of freedom at three-and-a-half years old.

Three minutes into our walk we reach the market and I stop worrying about speeding vehicles. We enter the bakery, which, even though it’s only been four days, feels familiar. After the first two days of what I was sure were scowls from the eatery owners at the market, we are now recognized and greeted with big smiles. “Kalimera!” we all say. (Good morning!) The kids point to the selection of cookies in the glass case. We each pick one and then call out, “Efcharisto!” (Thank you!) as we exit the shop and start our journey to school. It’s a twenty-five minute walk up, up, up, stone and marble staircase walkways. The kids tire easily—they want to take breaks. We do, enjoying bites of the delicious cookies with chocolate in their centers, and sips of water before we’re climbing again.

Back home, there are arguments over what we get to listen to and for how long on the fifteen-minute drive to school, if I haven’t already taken it away, in which case George screams, Layla cries, and I stew. If it’s a sunny day, Layla will scream that the sun is in her eyes until we turn right onto Market Street. This is the same street where I was in a car accident. I drive, always nervous that a driver will not be paying attention at some point, will not follow the rules of the road, and hit us.

In Syros, on our fifth day of school, the kids make it up the mountain for the first time without Sam or me carrying them part of the way. They get big high-fives as we enter the school playground. Their legs are getting stronger. They are getting stronger.

The doors do not open for another ten minutes, so we stand around together, watching as other families arrive. Layla recognizes a girl from her class, so we walk over to say hi, which leads to a conversation with her mom. She is also from North Carolina, and her husband is a runner, like Sam. The two of them have plans to run together this weekend. New friends, perhaps? Already?

When the doors open, I hold George’s hand and walk him inside, while Sam goes with Layla. George’s teacher spots him as soon as he approaches and says hello, her whole body smiling at him. He gives me a hug and walks straight into his classroom without looking back. I catch a glimpse of him as I pass the classroom window. He is smiling as he strides across the room.

Back home, I park in the school lot and get the kids out of their car seats. By now I’ve made apologies for yelling. George has, too. We walk hand-in-hand to the gate, and it is here that the long, tearful goodbyes begin. I make promises about the fun we’ll have after school, and any upcoming plans that might be on the horizon. None of it works. George does not want to be here. He does not want to go in.

In Syros, when it is time to pick up the kids, Sam and I make it up the stone steps in fifteen minutes. When they see us, they grab their backpacks and we walk together back towards town, the return trip much easier downhill. The kids tell us about their day and what the school provided for snacks and lunch. Burgers, fruit, and pita one day. Lentils, scrambled eggs, and rice the next.

Back home, when I pick up the kids, they do not want to get into their car seats again. There are more negotiations and threats. More arguments about what we’re going to listen to. Whichever parent picks up the kids always has a headache when they get home.

In Syros, we take breaks again for a snack or promise that when we get down the hill we’ll stop at Django Gelato. Layla jumps down the stone steps, making a game of it. She tells me to go ahead without her. I walk ahead—giving her the space she has requested, which is more than I have ever given her. When I turn around she is smiling at the distance between us. Then she comes running.

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Until next week,

Charlie