One
One
Twenty years later ...
Florida is hot.
It is an instant sunburn, a fever that will not break. Despite years of traveling here, zipping up and down the Eastern Seaboard for dozens of different milestones and on infinite spring breaks, Ellie has never gotten used to it. The humidity is enough to suffocate her, or to at least make her feel constantly short of breath. Ellie’s parents swear the tropical dampness is good for their aging joints, like free medicine they don’t need to run through Medicare. Ellie isn’t so sure. But then again, her parents, both in their early eighties, still take walks most mornings, around and around their condo community as if on a carousel, the rising temperatures hardly enough to make them break a sweat. Back home in New Jersey, Ellie, on the other hand, has worked out less than a dozen times in the last year, which is probably part of the reason why her back and her chest are soaked and that delicate strip beneath the underwire of her bra is currently a damp slick.
She’s dripping, and she hasn’t even gotten off the plane yet.
“You can ease up on the armrests,” Jonah points out while peering down at Ellie’s hands, clenched for dear life on those slender plastic strips. He casually taps the porthole-like window beside him, the shade pushed up even though, due to her fear of heights, she’s asked him a dozen times to keep it closed. His knuckles drum the double-paned glass (an extra layer of protection, Ellie knows, so that if it cracks, they won’t all get sucked out of the plane and spit helplessly into the stratosphere). Beyond the window, the world is a diorama—strips of black pavement, patchworks of brown and tan and green, dollhouse-size houses and buildings, cars as small as insects. “You’re all right, Ellie,” Jonah says, even though, of course, she isn’t. Neither is he. “Just look.” He taps the glass again, his attempt at kindness, despite the circumstances. “You can already see the ground. We’re almost there.”
Great.
Ellie has always been a bad flier. Even though she’s flown this exact route—Newark to Orlando, and Orlando back to Newark—innumerable times in the last two decades, she’s never grown used to the experience. The too-tight quarters. The comically sized bathrooms, which seem to her to have been designed for paper dolls rather than humans with actual bodies. The sound of air rushing past the plane, like flying with a blow-dryer pointed at your ear. The blatant fact of being surrounded by more than one hundred strangers and everyone just breathing . To Ellie, buying a plane ticket is like purchasing a panic attack, then fastening herself into a gas-fueled bullet and self-electing to shoot herself high into the sky. Wheeeee! At least on all those other flights, some happy gift was always waiting for her on the opposite end. A sunny vacation. A chance to return to the comforts of her home, rested and relaxed. But this trip? It’s like someone has drawn a straight line to connect destination A with destination B, and then lit the paper on fire with a thousand matches.
“ Gooood afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, just a little message from the flight deck.” A man’s voice chimes through the overhead speakers. “Letting you know we’ve officially begun our final descent into Orlando. Shooould be on the ground in about another ten minutes. Weather in Orlando, clear skies, good visibility, temperature a steamy eighty-one degrees. Been a pleasure having you with us on this Friday morning. Hoooope to see you again on a future flight.”
“Why do they always do that?” Ellie asks Jonah, her posture as straight as an arrow, her entire body stiff, as if in survival mode.
“Do what?” Jonah is seated comfortably, his gaze turned away from Ellie and cast instead on the seat-back television. He’s spent the entire flight like this—his tree-trunk legs casually splayed, his fingers dipping in and out of a bag of pretzels, as if he were home hanging on the couch watching football and not being dangerously catapulted through the clouds. But then, this is part of it, isn’t it? The simple fact that they’ve always been so different. “What did they do?”
“Make it sound like they’re not sure how things will end,” Ellie continues.
Jonah sets his snack in his lap, tilts his head at her as if she is a complicated math problem he struggles to understand. His yellow-flecked eyes narrow in question.
“You know,” she says, “we ‘should’ be on the ground, or we ‘hope’ to see you again.” The sweat erupts through her pores, like hot lava bursting from a volcano. She feels her breath quicken, her inhales and exhales happening too fast, as if someone has given her lungs the wrong batteries. “Why don’t they use firmer language? We ‘will’ be on the ground, or we ‘will’ see you again.”
“Come on, Ellie.” Jonah reaches above her, twists her small, cylindrical air-conditioner vent open. It releases a rush of cool air. “They’re not foreshadowing a crash.”
Ellie drops her head back, inviting the arctic blast onto her damp skin. “Was that thing working the whole time?” she asks, rolling out her neck. “I tried it at the start of the flight. It was jammed.” She lifts her face. “I’m so hot.”
“You probably tried to twist it the wrong way.” Jonah smiles, knowing Ellie always does things like this. Give her a book, and she can provide you with an in-depth analysis. Give her a light bulb, and suddenly she doesn’t know her left from her right. “Also, you’re wearing a cardigan.” He turns his attention back to the TV, flips to a sports broadcast. “Probably not a great choice, right?”
Right, Ellie thinks, though not about her wardrobe. Unfortunately for her—for them both, really—right now, this seemingly basic statement can apply to just about everything.
How have they arrived here? Not to these specific airplane seats—16A and 16B, just like always—but to this precise moment in their lives, the one where, despite years of intimacy, they’ve begun to feel like strangers who also somehow know each other quite well. Marriage doesn’t make much sense. But then again, neither does strapping yourself into a vinyl seat and spending two and a half hours racing through the air while you nervously consume crackers and an early-morning plastic cup of bad white wine, like a guest at a bizarre cocktail party. Both things, if handled the wrong way, can turn out to be reckless.
Ding. Ding.
The overhead seat belt lights flash, a reminder for them to prepare for whatever destiny awaits them on the runway. Ellie tugs the nylon strap tighter around her waist. She doesn’t know what will happen down there. She only knows she isn’t ready for it.
After wrestling with the cramped overhead compartments, and then standing elbow to elbow with a line of strangers as they inched their way up the jet’s narrow center aisle, like prisoners walking some airline-sponsored plank, Ellie finally exits the plane.
She spills out of the accordion passenger bridge—the harsh humidity already sneaking in through gaps in the jet bridge—with a rush of other travelers, half of them donning Mickey ears and wide smiles and matching family shirts. Johnson Family Vacation! Happiest Vacation on Earth! Most Expensive Vacation on Earth! People like this sort of thing, anything to show they are a unit. Ellie always wanted to do something like this when Maggie was small—coordinated patterns at the holidays, complementary travel gear—but Jonah always rolled his eyes anytime she mentioned the idea.
Ellie navigates past the gate, already packed with other travelers ready to board the exact vessel she’s just left. She races to catch up with Jonah, who is several feet ahead, oblivious to the fact that Ellie, a slower walker with shorter-than-his legs, trails behind him, weighed down by her travel book bag. Not a purse or a small duffel or even a cross-body. A book bag, like it’s her first day of elementary school, or like she’s suddenly taken up hiking. It’s the one she started to use for trips like this years ago, when her daughter was young and required so many things, but that Ellie has never quite gotten around to swapping back out. Now, as she walks (sprints?), the navy-blue canvas rucksack bounces on her back like a fussy toddler intent on kicking her, over and over, just above her rear end. Ellie doesn’t even know what is in the bag. Wallet. Snacks. A book, like she might have the clarity to read on this trip. The contents don’t matter. Ellie knows the bag is a waste. So far, the only thing it’s provided her with is a ripple of new muscle aches.
The underarms of her tucked-in favorite white T-shirt wet (she shoved her taupe cocoon cardigan in her backpack—at least the bag’s been good for this), Ellie adjusts the straps while she walks, loosening their death grip on her shoulders and the chafing sensation they keep instigating in her armpits. Jonah’s wide stride places him several paces ahead, like a Thoroughbred. This is what he’s built like, anyway. Concrete muscles. Strong limbs. His body all well-placed indentations and lines. What a sham. He rarely even works out (she can’t talk much on this point herself), his whole shape just false advertising. It’s like he was born this way, as if he’s some Greek god or charming cartoon prince. Ellie gave birth almost two decades ago, and she still has the loose pouch of skin to prove it. Infuriating.
Regardless of his body shape, Ellie follows him across the airport’s patterned carpet. It’s clear from his stance (sure, certain) and his pace (confident, quick) that he knows every inch of this place. Where to find coffee. Bathrooms. A bottled water. Ellie should know these things, too. She’s traveled here just as frequently as him, though honestly, she’s never fully paid attention. This has always been Jonah’s job—to know where they’re going, where to find certain things. And isn’t this just marriage? One person in the driver’s seat, the other person staring out the window, bouncing along, pleased to be enjoying the ride.
Ellie hustles past a stretch of glass-enclosed hallway. Jonah’s head—all thick, chestnut hair accented with silver strands, like tinsel on a tree—mixes in with the heads of strangers. She keeps moving forward, thinking about how she’s spent years—decades, really—just happily, obliviously, following along behind him.
“I talked to her,” Jonah announces when Ellie walks out of the bathroom. He slides his phone into the pocket of his jeans—good denim, a medium wash, an age-appropriate cut—which he’s paired with classic low-top sneakers (no socks) and a nice salmon-colored T-shirt. Jonah passes Ellie back her book bag, which he offered to hold when she joined the snaking line of other women, all desperate to pee and wash their hands and peek in the mirror (she foolishly touched up her simple makeup, like it mattered, ran a slick of bare shimmer over her lips), anything to feel human again after their respective flights. “She’s meeting us at the baggage claim,” he continues as Ellie slides the bag back on her body.
For a moment, they stand here, a parade of people walking past in every direction, and look at one another, the weight of the weekend ahead suddenly settling on their shoulders as uncomfortably as those backpack straps. They both inhale deeply at the same time, like a pair of synchronized swimmers dedicated to pulling off the same routine.
“Ahh!” Someone bumps into Ellie from behind, the person’s head glued to his phone. “What the—” she shouts, but it’s a waste of breath. He doesn’t even apologize or acknowledge her—women her age really are made to feel invisible sometimes—and rushes off in the direction of his gate.
The moment between them interrupted, Jonah pulls up the handle of his sleek wheeled carry-on—the only thing he’s packed—with a quick and efficient snap. “Coffee?” he asks, already turning to take a step.
A few minutes later, their plastic cups of cold brew in hand, and they are inside the airport’s monorail, shoved in between strollers, crying children, stressed-out families, and the solitary business traveler who keeps looking around, perhaps considering how he’s ended up here—in the vacation destination and T-shirt capital of the world—dressed in a black suit and tie. Beside Ellie, a little girl dressed in a made-in-China princess costume bounces up and down like a windup toy.
“I’m Elsa!” she keeps exclaiming to anyone who will listen, accidentally whacking everyone around her with a plastic wand.
Her mother smiles down at her daughter, snaps a quick picture on her phone. “Sorry,” she says to Ellie in that way mothers sometimes apologize for their children, even when they aren’t necessarily doing anything wrong. “It’s her first time.”
A memory. One of their first trips down with Maggie. She was a toddler—two or maybe two and a half—her pale, chubby thighs exposed from the bottom of that adorable pink dress and kicking around in all directions like a puppet as they wheeled her stroller up and into that same glass-enclosed train. They weren’t heading off like all the other tourists to one of the overpriced theme park resorts, but rather to stay with Ellie’s parents, who had recently sold their home in New Jersey to her and Jonah ( Too much space for us! Those winters! ) and resettled themselves in the Sunshine State. Midway through the brief, two-minute monorail ride to the next terminal, Jonah had reached out and squeezed Ellie’s hand. “I’m really happy,” he said, his face—more than fifteen years younger then—a wash of raw emotion, his eyes misty. “Just really, really happy.” Ellie was happy—satisfied—then, too.
Back in the present, “Elsa” smacks Ellie in the thigh with her wand. Sorry, her mother mouths as the train comes to a stop.
“Please stand clear of doors and hold on to handrails,” an automated voice announces overhead. “The doors are now closing.” Through the glass, the scene is a hybrid of the tropics—palm trees, thick green grass—and industry. The train slides into the terminal. The electronic doors glide open. “Please exit and follow the signs to Baggage Claim B.”
“Maggie!”
Ellie and Jonah both call out her name the minute they spot her. She stands near the baggage carousel, a giant slide of metal that circles around and around but as of yet remains empty. She nibbles on some snack—trail mix or dried fruit or something of the sort, Ellie assumes—her long, sun-kissed brown hair stretching down her slender back. She is a natural beauty, the type who makes people pause to take a second look. It’s already May, nearly the end of her semester. Sometimes, when they go weeks or months without seeing each other—Ellie hates how long they go without seeing each other now—she forgets just how striking.
Ellie, instantly disregarding her strained muscles and her ridiculous bag, dashes across the terrazzo floor and throws her arms around her daughter. She nestles her face in the girl’s—the young woman’s —hair, breathing in her scent: rosemary shampoo, a hint of lavender lotion on her skin, and then just the scent of her , this musky, familiar smell she’s always emitted. Ellie can’t help herself. She begins to sob.
“Mom!” Maggie pulls back. She may be an adult now, a thriving college student and self-proclaimed “Vermonter” even though she’s been at Middlebury for less than a year, but when face-to-face with her mother, she becomes a disgruntled, perpetually mortified teenager all over again. “Pull it together!”
Jonah walks up from behind Ellie, gives Maggie a quick hug and a kiss on her cheek. He rumples her hair, just like he did when she was five. Maggie smiles. Apparently, this sort of affection from her father is still fine. “You look good, kiddo,” he tells her and picks up her bag—a patchwork number that looks like it belongs in a museum exhibit about Woodstock. “How was your flight?”
Naturally, Ellie’s bag is lost, or at the very least caught in a battle with punctuality. Beside her, Jonah and Maggie, both of whom have their carry-on luggage, stand and impatiently wait. Apparently, Ellie is the only one who felt she required her bigger baggage (as if there isn’t already enough of it to claim at the moment). She can’t help it. This is just one of many symptoms of all those years she felt so responsible for everyone, always making sure the three of them had every possible thing, this forever maternal urge to overpack.
“I’ll go ask someone again,” Jonah decides, and Ellie can tell he’s annoyed by this inconvenience, as if Ellie has planned it, like she was dying to have her things lost.
Annoyed and likely looking like a mess, Ellie watches as Jonah approaches some TSA employee whom she can already tell doesn’t have a clue. Maggie follows behind her father like a shadow. She wears a long white cotton skirt, its hem trailing the ground, a faded tank top, and a tan fisherman’s sweater (she must have slipped it on in a still-cold Vermont this morning) tied around her waist. Like always, as of late, her feet are covered by those ridiculous Jesus sandals. This is Maggie’s look now, her vibe (oh, to still have the luxury of such self-indulgences as a vibe, whatever that even means), something to go along with her total protestation of eggs and gelatin. Apparently, according to her daughter, Ellie’s love of fizzy grapefruit seltzer and certain baked confections is the sole reason there’s a hole in the atmosphere.
“He said we should head to that window down there,” Jonah says with a frown as he walks back toward Ellie. “We can fill out some paperwork. They’ll call us when they find it.”
Before Ellie has a chance to have a complete and utter mental breakdown over this announcement, something thuds heavily behind her. They all turn. Her black hard-shell suitcase—badly scuffed and half-unzipped—tumbles onto the conveyor belt. Jonah immediately turns back toward the TSA employee to give him a wave— It’s okay! —like the man cares. Ellie doesn’t want to wait. She bends down, grabs the handle, and tugs.
“Damn it!” she exclaims, knowing instantly that she’s tweaked it, the one unruly muscle in her back, which she ruined years ago during childbirth.
“Mom!” Maggie scolds her mother as she nibbles on her dehydrated vegan snack. Her yellow-hazel eyes— Jonah’s eyes—narrow with judgment. “Your energy!”
Jonah crouches down, helping Ellie with her suitcase, which is splayed open, half her possessions on the filthy floor. Why, of all the bags, did they need to check hers? As if she—an unremarkable suburban mother, looking like a stock character of a typical late-forties woman on a film set—might be hoarding guns or drugs or exotic animals in her luggage instead of menopause medication and a few extra light layers in case she gets chilly at night.
Jonah zips the suitcase, positions it upright. “Do you need a hand?” he finally asks.
Do you need a hand? She mimics him in her brain by way of her most sarcastic tone, not because what he’s said or done is wrong but because this is modern marriage—the constant internal tug-of-war of wanting to be an independent woman and yet still longing for your husband—with all his visible muscles, like some kind of real-life Gaston—to carry your bag.
“No, I’m fine.” Ellie’s back is already seizing up, like she’s been tased. “But thanks.”
Jonah and Maggie lead, navigating toward the wall of automated doors. Near one of them, a man in a slightly wrinkled dress shirt and slacks holds up a sign. The Baker Family , it reads.
“That’s us!” Jonah shouts. He waves at the man with one hand and uses the other to slide a pair of classic black sunglasses from his T-shirt pocket and over his eyes.
Yes, Ellie thinks, hustling behind once again. But not for long.
From the corner of her eye, she catches a glimpse of a digital clock overhead. 11:11 a.m. There’s no time left for wishes, though.
In front of Jonah and Maggie, the airport’s automatic doors open and then close and then open again.
“Ready, gang?” Jonah asks over his hulking shoulder.
Ellie nods. And then, without a word—and already knowing it’s too late to turn back—for the last time in her life, she walks with her family beyond the glass exit and out into the oppressive heat.