Chapter 3 #2
“This is so beautiful.” I step into the room and struggle to take a full breath.
I’ve been in my share of airport lounges, some of them objectively swankier, but this one is unique somehow.
The atmosphere is otherworldly in a way I can’t articulate.
Welcoming, soothing, but with an underlying vibe of uncanny valley I can’t shake. It doesn’t feel quite real.
First of all, I’ve traveled in and out of Burbank Airport enough times to know this lounge does not exist on any airport map available to the masses.
It’s possible this is a private lounge they don’t advertise to the public, or even garden-variety frequent flyers.
But this seems unlikely given the lost potential for profits to be made from such a place.
Second, it’s completely empty of other travelers.
It’s still very early in the day, but it’s one of the busiest travel weeks of the year.
Even if it’s super exclusive, the place should have at least a few bleary-eyed celebs and hedge fund jerks looking for their complimentary coffees.
Or mimosas, depending on how challenging their holiday celebrations have been.
Third, and most important, my gut tells me something is off, and that is a feeling I’ve learned to ignore at my peril.
What I don’t feel is fear. Things may seem strange or “wrong” somehow, but I am not in danger. I’ll let this be enough for now.
“You look white as a sheet, dearie.” The Ticket Agent pats my arm like she might her niece’s. “Let me get you a fresh coffee. It’ll set you to rights.”
She glides off toward the polished mahogany bar and emerges a few moments later with a brimming stoneware mug rather than a flimsy paper cup.
In the other hand, she has a plate with a sesame seed bagel filled with bacon, egg, and cheese.
My default American breakfast with healing powers far beyond Michelin stars.
How she knows that this simple breakfast is my ultimate comfort food, I don’t know.
She gestures to one of the open tables and I join her.
She places the mug and plate in front of me.
“I added just a dollop of caramel to the coffee. You look like you could use the extra boost.”
I accept the cup gratefully. I’m usually a strong black coffee sort of person, but I have been known to add a square of chocolate to sweeten it when the mood strikes.
Something more complex than table sugar that will play off the rich coffee notes instead of masking them.
I take a sip of the coffee and try not to groan from pleasure.
It is, without reservation, the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had in my life.
This is no garden-variety grocery store coffee.
“Where did this come from?” I sniff the cup, trying to parse its origins for myself.
I’m usually able to nail down a coffee’s origin with reasonable accuracy—a sort of coffee sommelier—but this one is hard to place.
It seems to have the complexity of beans from Ethiopia and the bright, clean flavor I associate with Costa Rican varieties.
She sits with me, having fetched a mug for herself. “It’s a blend of my own, dearie. I keep a bit here for caffeine-related emergencies. And, not to boast, but I make my own caramel too.”
“Boast away. You’re in the wrong business.
” I clutch the coffee mug possessively to my chest. “You should be running a coffee empire. I could introduce you to some people.” I take a bite of the bagel sandwich and don’t even try to conceal a groan of pleasure this time.
Ambrosia fit to accompany the caramel-laced nectar.
She chuckles. “I’ve had a great number of careers in my lifetime, and this is where I belong right now. But thank you for the compliment. Now tell me what on this green earth has a lovely young lady such as yourself crying at my ticket counter before dawn.”
Despite my usually reserved nature, something about this woman has caused my inhibitions to lower, which should, all by itself, cause me to raise my shields.
But it all comes tumbling out of my mouth in a tear-laden confession.
My mother’s insistence that my life is somehow inferior or broken because I haven’t yet attached myself to a man hits particularly hard, especially because I have felt lonely lately.
Miraculously, this grandmotherly woman doesn’t seem fazed by my trauma dumping.
It’s a nice change. Whenever I’ve tried to confide in Robin, she never lasts more than about two minutes, after which she tries to one-up me with a tale of her own misery or tells me to buck up and work on my online dating profile. Which I don’t have.
I even confess my Michelin desires, which I never do.
And in doing so, I realize that the job I’ve dreamed of for so long now feels less like my fifteen-year plan and more like a childish whim of an eight-year-old who dreams of being an astronaut.
What harm is there in telling her when those goals and aspirations seem as far away as a moon landing is to that starry-eyed third grader?
The Ticket Agent clucks her tongue sympathetically. “Oh, dearie, that’s a lot to be getting on with. No wonder you didn’t know where to go.”
The caffeine and protein have begun to enter my bloodstream, and I am beginning to feel more human.
And more aware that not ten minutes earlier, I had a very public meltdown.
In front of this very nice woman who probably isn’t paid nearly enough to put up with such nonsense.
“I am so sorry I panicked on you. How idiotic of me.”
“How inappropriate of you”—Robin’s voice echoes in my brain.
That woman really is incapable of leaving me alone. She’s managed to imprint herself in my inner voice . . . which is something I’ll eventually need to unpack with a therapist when I get around to hiring one.
“Dearest Sabrina, you never need to apologize to me.” She reaches across the table and pats my hand the way a mother would do. The way I’ve wished countless times that Robin would do. A tingling warmth washes over me. Is this how most people feel around their mothers or other maternal loved ones?
“Thanks.” I usually am one to shrink away from being touched by a stranger, but I don’t move my hand. I also don’t remember telling her my name or showing her my ID. We hadn’t gotten to that point at the ticket counter. She seems so familiar, but I can’t place her at all. “Do we know each other?”
“That doesn’t really matter, dearie.” Her insightful eyes search mine. “You’re at a crossroads in your life, and you need a friend to help you find your path.”
A friend. Do I have any of those? A few pals from high school or culinary school?
Perhaps. But we don’t really keep in touch.
Other than that? It’s mostly colleagues.
And while I might be able to call in some favors to help me land another job, it feels like I need more than my next job at the moment.
“I suppose I do, but I’m not sure how you could possibly help. ”
“I’ll wager I can help more than you think.” An unmistakable glint of mischief twinkles in her eyes.
Have I found myself in the clutches of some mischievous fairy? “But why would you want to? What’s in it for you?”
“Helping people is my job, and I get the satisfaction of knowing I’ve done it well.
That’s reward enough for me, dearie. Now tell me if I’ve got it right: You’re out of work, and on top of it, you’ve been working toward a goal your whole adult life, and now you’re questioning if you really want it.
Or if, indeed, you’ve sacrificed too much for something that may not ever happen despite all your years of hard work. ”
Statistically? Very unlikely to happen, actually. But I don’t say that out loud. I simply shrug my agreement.
“Well, that is an uncomfortable place to be.”
“Have you ever felt this way?” The question is an impertinent one, but perhaps this stranger and I are beyond those sorts of boundaries. At the very least I’m not likely to see this woman again, so I don’t have to wear the embarrassment too heavily.
“I’ll say this: I don’t think a being lives as long as I have without some measure of regret.
Regrets just take on different shapes and colors from person to person.
The things we do, the things we wish we’d done.
More common than anything else, the countless things we wish we’d done just a bit differently.
We all have them and they’re all a cross to bear.
The trick is keeping those regrets small and learning how to haul them around with as much grace as we can manage. ”
“Wise. I’m not sure how good at grace I am, though. Tall and awkward is more my thing.” I cross my arms over my chest like a Kevlar vest, realizing I left my own comfort zone behind about a half hour ago.
She stares into her mug a long moment before meeting my eyes.
“I think you’re graceful enough in the ways that matter.
There isn’t a single person in this world who doesn’t find themselves in a situation like yours at some point.
If not, it’s because life has been far too easy for them and the right decisions have been handed to them at every turn.
Or else far too hard, and life has denied them the privilege of choice.
You’re fortunate enough to be in the middle, Sabrina. ”
I’d not thought of it that way. Here I sit in a comfortable airport lounge faced with any number of choices, each one ready for me to select it from the proverbial hat.
Some are probably good. Maybe even great.
Others might be disastrous. But they are all mine to make.
But what if I make yet another mess of things?
“You’re right. I just need to pick a city and make the most of it.” I set the mug down on the table with a resolute thud. “I can do this.”