Chapter Thirty-Nine
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
There was a work conference, a three-day trip to Boston. When she’d booked her flight weeks earlier, Lee had not anticipated her mother dying. “You can cancel,” her manager said. But Lee wanted to go.
Jamie drove her to the airport. He had to drive Lee’s car because his own was in the shop—he’d had a wreck, he said. He’d accidentally drifted into a barrier exiting the freeway.
“Well, my eyes were closed,” Jamie admitted.
“What? Why?” But a memory floated: Jamie staying late at JJS after Bill died, running lap after lap even when he didn’t have track. How he nearly crashed into a tree until Lee called out his name, shouting, What were you thinking, didn’t you feel the grass?
Lee drew a sharp breath. “You can’t do that anymore, understand? Jamie, I’m going to be pissed if you ever do it again.”
“You sound like Mom.”
“You think I care if I sound like her? You can’t do it. You have to promise.”
“I won’t,” he said, sounding amused.
“I don’t know if I believe you.”
“Really,” Jamie said. “I mean it. I got sick of it. Besides, it’s annoying having the car in the shop.”
They didn’t speak after that. Jamie turned up the radio and Lee sat with her arms crossed.
She lowered the window even though she knew Jamie didn’t like it—the air-conditioning was more efficient, he said.
They arrived at the airport and she retrieved her bag from the trunk.
“I promise!” Jamie hollered out the window after she had already begun to walk away, and she thought then that she did believe him—he flashed her a grin, the same clean joyous expression they used to share as children, and she had to stop herself from screaming that she loved him.
“You better !” Lee yelled.
She went through security. The airport seemed to Lee the same all the time, regardless of season or hour; as a child, she had believed there was a certain population who lived at the airport, so much did the people, their patterns and colors, all appear the same.
Shortly after Lee boarded her flight, a woman in a blazer and loose slacks arrived in her row and took the aisle seat.
She nodded at Lee, and Lee nodded back. The tacit agreement had been struck: neither would attempt to converse unless absolutely necessary.
They would be polite with the other’s space and considerate if one needed to use the restroom.
They would hope the middle seat remained unoccupied, and if it did, each would consume only their half of the space.
Lee loved the etiquette of frequent travelers.
It was as if they were engaging in the same dance all over the world.
Except that a moment later, the woman spoke. “I like your outfit,” she said.
“Thanks. I like yours too.”
“Where’d you get that shawl?”
“It’s my mom’s.” Lee had found it in Joan’s closet, a large green and blue cashmere square with a flying zebra in the middle.
Her phone pinged, and she grabbed it. She saw the messages were from Marc.
I’m in the Palo Alto office this week , he wrote. Tell me when you’re free. Whenever you want.
Yes , Lee wrote. Thank you.
Are you sure you’re OK? I’m worried about you.
I’m fine , Lee wrote. She and Marc had gone to dinner last night.
They’d been seeing each other the last few months—he had been gentle and caring when she’d told him Joan’s diagnosis.
He had offered to come with her to Boston, to book a ticket on the same flight, in which case he would have been next to her in the middle seat.
Their arms would have been touching; he would be speaking in her ear.
There would be a warm body instead of this empty space.
Though space could be nice too. Lee could put anything in that gap: her bag, her shawl. She could raise the armrest and spread out a little more if she liked.
I miss you , came the next message.
I miss you too , Lee typed, and then after another second she deleted it.
She sighed and shut her phone. This had always been her problem, when she could see an end point to anything, a relationship, a job, a place: sometimes there was an alternate track which looped back, but usually not.
How stupid I am, she thought. How silly and immature to keep tossing things away all because I let something get in my head to the point where there’s no return.
But Lee knew she wouldn’t change. She’d keep doing it this way, she’d keep trying new things and different people until she felt how she thought she should.
And if it was too late for certain milestones at that point—if she ended up an old spinster, as Joan had once hinted threateningly—well.
She’d just go to the café each evening and sweep the floors with Jamie.
Lee put away her phone. To her left, her neighbor perused a magazine.
Lee found herself with the rare urge to talk, to have a pointless and meandering conversation.
If she were at the Satisfaction Café, she’d be asking for an hour of conversation right now, a bowl of dumplings or a slice of lemon cake.
Lee looked out the window. She realized the plane was already on the runway and accelerating.
When had that happened? She hadn’t even noticed they were moving.
They were rising now, the plane at a sharp angle against the sky, the trees and buildings and streets rushing past. Lee pressed her face to the glass.
Somewhere below was Jamie, driving back to the café, past the place where Joan’s ashes were buried, the plot next to Bill’s.
And now the plane was higher, over the bay, and somewhere in the area was Marc, and then maybe the next man she would meet, and the next.
She squinted to see if she could spot the big lot overrun with grass and wildflowers that had once been Falling House.
Joan spoke in her head: I’m glad you took the shawl from my closet. Aren’t planes so cold? These bright colors always look better on young people, anyway.
It looked great on you, Mom.
Why are you staring out that window? Don’t you know the glass is dirty? I hope you cleaned it before touching it like that.
I’m trying to see something I recognize. Maybe I’ll spot something or someone familiar.
Well, there’s no point in doing that now, Joan said. Don’t you know? From up here, they all look the same.