One of my New Year’s resolutions this year was to finish all the laundry by Sunday night. I didn’t accomplish this resolution, not even once–until coronavirus. I accomplished it for the first time a couple weekends ago, at the end of our second week of staying-at-home, other than to get groceries and take walks. I felt good about accomplishing my New Year’s resolution, finally. Maybe this was petty of me–it took a worldwide pandemic for me to finish the laundry? But these are challenging times for us all. I decided to just let myself feel good–even great–about it.
My husband Glenn and I have been cleaning much more than we ever did before coronavirus. I’m pretty sure the virus isn’t hiding in our house, as we started staying in as soon as the first cases hit Houston. Still, it makes us feel safe to clean, as if by restoring order at home we are helping dampen the chaos so prevalent now everywhere.
Saturday night I even found myself folding pillowcases–something, I admit, I’ve never done on a Saturday night. I was setting them into a neat stack by the bureau in the master bedroom, where I keep them–when I heard a squeench-squeench coming from the kitchen. Squeench-squeench. Squeench-squeench.
What was that? It was Glenn doing something. What? Glenn is always up to some unexpected project he surprises me with–building a bluebird box, reorganizing the pantry, creating a special mixed drink or dessert. When he goes off on his own and doesn’t announce what he’s doing, he’s almost always doing something that brings me happiness. I don’t even ask him what he’s up to anymore, because I’m conspiring with him. I don’t want to ruin the surprise.
Maybe it’s something with the fridge, I thought. Our filter went out recently. Maybe he’s fixing it? The squeaks got louder. Squeench-squeench. Squeench-squeench.
I folded the pillowcase in my hand and crept into the kitchen. Glenn was spraying the counter in front of the knife block.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m cleaning the counters with bleach,” he said. “We brought in all those groceries and just set them on the counters. Who knows where they were, who touched them? We’re supposed to do this.”
“Great. Good idea. Thanks for doing that. Need any help?”
“No, thanks, I got it.”
“Okay, let me know if you need anything.” I crept back into the bedroom, afraid I might break the spell if I lingered too long. This was his idea, his project, and I wanted him to have the space to do it in his own way. I loved that he was being cautious about COVID-19. I wanted to feel safe. He was helping me feel safe.
It hasn’t always been this way. The last time we were confined together during a catastrophe—Hurricane Harvey in 2017—we had very different beliefs about how much danger we were in. By day three, the water from Buffalo Bayou kept getting closer to our apartment building. We were on the third flood, but I was terrified the first floor would flood. Glenn thought there was no way we would flood. Until we did.
We worked together pretty well after that—moving all our possessions out of our apartment in a painful five-day rush and staying at friends’ homes for ten weeks as we tried to find a new place to live. But even after we found a new home we both loved, our division lingered. I was convinced mold spores from the flood had hitched a ride in our Macy’s sectional and were poisoning us in our sleep. Glenn thought I was overreacting. Maybe I was, maybe I wasn’t. Who was right doesn’t matter now, if it ever did. My point is, Glenn’s feeling of safety and my feeling of endangerment caused a painful gulf, one I hope we never have to try and bridge again. And so, as I folded the last few pillowcases, set them in the drawer, and picked up the empty laundry basket—All Done!—I relished the squeaks from the kitchen that filled the house, upstairs and downstairs. This time, we would fight the danger together. Together. I relished the word, its healing. Saying it made me feel larger, stronger, and calmer. This was the consolation I’d longed for in our last shared disaster. Whatever happened this time, I hoped we would always be together.
Elizabeth White Olsen 