Kari Tyree

It’s my favorite place to stop and look at the gently sloping hill covered in native grasses and sedges, plus wildflowers: blue muhly sage, white milkwort, and golden dyssodia.

There’s the street we’ve never been up: Larry Lee. I took it once and turned around before I saw what was at the end. Larry Lee has a “no outlet” sign on its name post, and after the blind curve it looks like there might be a private driveway. I had turned around without trying to find out.

No outlet. That’s a bit what it feels like when I think of the twins. No outlet for them, no outlet for us. Why even bother going past the blind curve? I can’t see what’s beyond it, but I know what’s there: no outlet. We will just have to turn around anyway.

I keep on walking up Highlands Drive. All the houses are fairly large. Some are enormous. They’re not brand-new, cookie-cutter replicas of each other, either. These homes are custom-built, tucked into trees, up and down hills, quiet, calm, stately. Impressive. I imagine them covered in Christmas lights. It will be nice, if all the owners aren’t a bunch of curmudgeons who don’t put up lights.

We take the long way around the neighborhood, winding and trekking with our four daughters in tow. Raelyn picks grasses and flowers for me: “love things,” as she calls them. We’ve been sparring all day. Toby trots along, tongue lolling; but I can tell he’s getting tired. It’s too long a walk for his tiny body, so I know he’ll have to ride with Shana in the stroller for most of the way.

Sure enough, a little further on, Toby has finally accepted defeat and sits next to Shana. I’m pushing them both up the steep, long hill where Joel once challenged me to run up the whole way. My reward for accomplishing it? Fifteen kisses (five of which had to be “passionate” – my requirement). I’d made it. Now I’m not sure which is harder: pushing the single Bob stroller with my 30-something pound three-year-old and a five pound dog, one strained step at a time, up the hill that never seems to end, or jogging up it alone, legs burning, thinking of nothing but kisses.

I look up and see a man running, coming down the hill on the other side of the street. He glances at me with a look of bewilderment – almost a blank expression. Either he is so tired he can’t change his face, or he is wondering what the heck we’re doing going around the loop in this direction so that we’re going up this crazy hill rather than down it. I glance behind me at Joel pushing the double stroller with the twins. He doesn’t seem to mind the hill. It’s part of the reason he’s chosen this as his normal daily route. Crazy. Raelyn lags after, showing signs of distress. I guess she probably didn’t want to leave the turtle behind, the one we saw in the gutter water at the bottom of the hill. I’d wondered if you can call animal shelters for that kind of thing: “Help! Someone’s pet turtle lost on street.”

Joel said the turtle was just up from the pond, was probably wild, or soon would be either way. He wasn’t worried. Guess I’m just a weirdo. It’s not like it was a lost dog. Anyway, the turtle seemed pretty happy.

We were back around the loop, on the way back home, passing Larry Lee again, this time on our right. No outlet. No mystery. No point going up there. It’s a waste of time. Just stay on Highlands until we connect back up with the busy road with traffic circles, which takes us back to our own little street. “There’s our house!” Shana likes to yell when it appears with its white stone and metal roof still looking too good to be true. And there we are, unloading everyone in the garage, hot and sweaty, Joel bearing both babies and hurrying into the house as they dangle, one from each arm. (They’re not truly babies anymore; they’re nearly two years old, but still we call them babies.)

It’s the usual routine: feed the crying babies, feed the girls, tuck everyone into bed. Joel reads Salamandastron out loud, stretched on the girls’ bed with a cuddling Raelyn, while I look at a cat and dog food recipe book with Shana. She asks what everything is – even titles and charts.

After I give the girls hugs and come out of their room, the babies are already quiet over in their room down the hall. They were tired. I imagine they have their little, soft bunny rattles in their clutching hands.

Instead of showering, I put my shoes back on. Joel’s scrounging for dinner in the kitchen. “Going for a quick drive. Be right back,” I tell him. He’s ok with this kind of thing, even without a reason. He gets it.

It’s getting dark outside, so I turn on the lights after I start the van. Reminds me of going for evening drives at Christmas time to look at the lights. I back out onto our street and head for the little traffic circle. Instead of going around and left, the only way I’ve ever gone, I turn right and drive up the busy road. It’s not really busy; that’s just how I think of it. It’s more of a through-street than any of the others here, and leads to town at both ends. I take a right on Highlands Drive.

This is silly, I’m thinking. But I keep going, seeing the dark trees, street, and houses for the first time from the van, and for the first time not in daylight. I keep my eyes open for deer.

There’s Larry Lee, on my left. I slow down and put on the blinker. No one knows I don’t live here, I tell myself. Not doing anything weird. Just looking. I turn onto Larry Lee and drive up the slight hill and follow the curve to the left. No outlet. There will be a cul-de-sac and I will just see it and turn around and drive back home.

The van’s lights continue to reveal smooth road before me, and no one’s private drive. The road begins to dip down again, curves again to the right, and finally forks. I know the road must loop back around on itself, because there’s no outlet. So I take the right-hand turn. To the left side of the road, on the “island” surrounded by the loop of the street, stands a low stone wall, about two feet high, marked every few feet with low lamp posts glowing with light. I can’t make it out every well, but it looks like maybe behind the wall is a garden. I see the unmistakable touch of design on the things growing there. To the right of the street, houses lit by glowing lamps and porch lights seem to welcome my gaze, confidently situated and unbothered by a stranger’s intrusion. They are modest-looking, comfortable homes. As the loop curves back around, I see a fountain lit by soft lamplight beside a little gate in the low wall around what is most definitely a garden. Do all of the homeowners on this loop keep and enjoy the garden together, or is it the work of a single person or couple? No matter. I’ve never seen anything like this before in a neighborhood. I’m coming back in the daytime to get a better view.

I take the van back up Larry Lee and wait to turn right onto Highlands Drive, signal blinking with a purposeful sound. I turn on the radio and hum as I drive back down the “busy” road, take a left onto our street, and approach home.