Chapter 26
I rumble awake in a seated position, my forehead pressed into the plastic rim of a window.
Every blink chafes my eyeballs. My corneas are dry as a cocktail napkin. As the napkin in front of me, actually, crumpled next to a small cup of ice, melting amber with the last sips of . . . Diet Coke, obviously. My dry tongue confirms the aftertaste.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have begun our descent into Zurich. Please turn off all portable electronic devices and stow them until we have arrived at the gate. In preparation for landing, be certain your seat back is straight up and your seat belt is fastened . . .”
“You slept for six hours, sweetie. You must’ve needed it.”
Mom? “Mom!” I exclaim, my eyes tracking her face. “You’re here?”
She grips my wrist. “Of course I’m here.”
“Where are we?” As I push my tray up, locking it tight, I spy the laminated top of a Delta pamphlet shoved in the seat pocket before me. I slide my gaze around, searching for clues. I scan my body, noting the pink crewneck sweatshirt and black yoga leggings, more Nikes.
“Oh, you and your existential naps.” She pats my hand with hers, and I stare at them, resting together.
Skin on skin, mother and daughter—and I can’t help notice that hers look so young—impossibly younger than the last time I really looked.
Not a dark spot, hardly a blemish. Supple and smooth.
Not cinching in places with age, around every vein and divot.
They look younger than my own hands at forty.
I make a mental note to buy hand cream, then spin some quick math.
She’s fifty-one here. Not sixty-five.
She turned back the clock with me.
But of course she did.
Everyone did.
In a black hooded sweatshirt, ruffled at the shoulders, she adds with a bounce in her voice, “Tomorrow, we’ll wake up to the Matterhorn.”
The snowflake.
This trip.
We’re doing it.
My first time to Europe.
Not with Reid, not with any man, but not all by myself, either.
With her.
Everything about it feels perfect.
When I pivot again to face her—really look at her—I gulp down the sentiment suddenly lodged in my throat.
At school, in the neighborhood, in our community, I have so many friends her age, this age—late forties, early fifties. With kids the same age and tandem routines, intersecting birthday parties and sports, you reach a point when most everyone seems like a peer, within a couple of decades.
It’s also true that I have lots of beautiful friends, inside and out.
But none of them rivals this woman in front of me.
My mother, my queen.
Her hair is chestnut, with caramelly highlights, always round-brushed, falling to mid-chest. Her green eyes pop against glossy skin, almonds above shapely cheekbones.
Her mouth is a strawberry, always hinting at the mischievous.
Her complexion is flawless, but in a way that looks just her age.
She’s never had a single injection or invasive procedure.
Sunscreen, facials, and skin care. That’s all you need, she always swore. Defying the years with natural ease, that was Mom.
In my late thirties, I first started to wonder if my own frequent Botox sessions disappointed her.
She had set the prime example for natural aging, after all—and I went and froze my forehead anyway.
If it bothered her, she never let on. I wiggle my eyebrows now, and it’s refreshing to feel them move again.
I frown. I smile. Lift my fingers to my expression lines.
I almost reach out to touch hers.
“You’re so pretty, Mom,” I hear myself say, the observation nudging me out of my trance. “Look at you.”
I wonder: Have I ever told her how much it meant, to have a mother who loved herself as she was, enough to let the years do their time, to age with raw beauty and grace?
How much it rendered me secure and okay, growing up, and even now, in ways I could hardly articulate?
Even though I chose to age differently than she did, dabble at the medical spas, does she know how much I respect her and adore her?
“Oh, stop,” she resists. “Eleven hours on a plane never did anyone any favors.”
“You are, though,” I say. “You’re stunning.”
She leans into me. “So are you. Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”
I smile. “I can’t believe we’re doing this. Together? This trip?”
What’s the date? Where are we staying? What is our plan?
How long are we here?
Is this happening?
The unknowns sizzle like Pop Rocks inside my brain, but I fight to settle them and savor the sweetness.
I reach into a giant Louis Vuitton travel tote—nice—at my feet.
I root around for my phone as, thankfully, Mom leaps into her announcement mode like the former teacher she is, prepared as always and ready to share today’s lesson plan.
“We land at 7:05, take the train to Zermatt, and then our transportation”—she shimmies like she has a secret—“will take us to our hotel. It’s a car-free town, which makes it so special. Trains and gondolas and electric cars will get us everywhere we need to go. And tomorrow . . . we ski!”
Chills prick at my spine, my gaze snapping to her right knee, replaced five years ago, when she turned sixty. Rather, replaced—let’s see—nine years from now. She needed the surgery and extensive rehabilitation after a freak fall during a hike up Saddleback Mountain, a tumble twenty feet over rocks.
She hasn’t skied since.
Even with the go-ahead from her surgeon, she insisted she’d done her time, skied all the miles she needed to, even if she’d never made it to the Swiss Alps. She’d say it with regret in her eyes.
The Matterhorn always felt a bit mythical to us both—almost too far, too enormous, too spectacular.
And yet, it was a fairy-tale symbol that actually existed on earth, beckoning to be conquered.
If we could tackle this summit, what couldn’t we do?
From our earliest trips to Disneyland, my mom would call it our mountain.
Back when I was a teenager, I dared to believe we’d experience its magic together—before life rerouted me with diapers and day care and dreams that changed, and her knee shattered.
“One day,” she used to say. But the day never came.
Until now.
We were making it to the Matterhorn.
Thanks to my cosmic rewind.
I beam with pride.
“I can’t wait to ski with you, Mom.” You gorgeous young thing.
As our pilot steers the plane into landing, I swipe, tap, scroll through my phone, brushing up quickly on everything a girl can learn while in airplane mode.
My breath catches.
It’s my birthday.
March 15th.
I’m twenty-six today.
Spring skiing like we’ve never done it before.
The grandness of it all, the meaning, the gesture—I crush my eyes shut and push this memory, this version of everything, into somewhere I’m certain is permanent.
I also learn quickly via a flurry of recent emails that I start a new job next Friday.
Sure enough, I’ve been hired as an assistant to Amber Allister, CEO and founder of Amber Allister Designs—rising interior designer to watch of Newport Beach, California.
She’s reimagining and distinctly elevating California coastal luxury living.
In me, she sees promise, ingenuity, drive—and, according to one email, that thing you can’t teach.
I’m finding my way—back to myself—even as the road winds.
I smile.
A snowflake never falls in the wrong place.
That old saying—true, maybe, in this balloon more than any before it. Mom and I finally reaching this peak together. Me, somehow finding the same professional calling, despite the unbelievable detour. Snow falling right where it’s meant to be.
As our airplane wheels meet pavement, I grab my mom’s hand again, pilfering glances at this young her. The slope of her nose, the softest of crow’s-feet, regal lines of laughter gracing her cheeks.
She’s such a woman, I think.
I admire her.
Maybe I even envy her.
And I admit to wondering—I really do—if there’s a world in which maybe I don’t need quite so much expensive dermatological maintenance.
Could I ever be quite so brave? To chill and let the chips fall?
To open both eyes and just . . . age? If those beautiful genes are my future, could they ever be enough?
I’m not sure, honestly, but there’s no doubt: I want to be more like her.
Eternally renowned for my inability to pack light, I stand on the icy curb next to my huge red suitcase. The easy train ride, with one quick transfer, led us from the airport to the picturesque railway station here in Zermatt, Switzerland.
“Should we get in line for the bus?” I point to the string of people waiting for the next shuttle.
Mom shakes her head with a smile. “Come over here.”
I follow her, rubbing my hands together, regretting not stashing my mittens in the ole carry-on.
Just as she halts, though, magic awaits. A cherry-red carriage, plucked from a fairy tale, drawn by two silky black horses, pulls up and stops in front of us. Right there in the icy street sits an actual horse-drawn carriage.
“Is that—” I point a finger.
“Happy birthday, Sutton.” She side-squeezes me. “If you’re going to travel on your birthday with me, you know it’s going to count.”
I rest my head on her shoulder, profoundly touched, aching with how much I’ve missed her in my recent escapades.
I should have been reaching out more—in my grand balloon-hopping adventure and present day.
I’ve let our connection slip into rushed phone calls, full of quick updates or last-minute babysitting requests.
I didn’t see it as distance until now, and I vow to make this the end of it.
In her twenties, a girl wants her mom.
In her thirties, a woman needs her.
At almost forty but twentysomething all over again?
Well, there isn’t even a word for it.
“I’m speechless,” I manage. “Thanks, Mom.”