Airplane Rides (13 page)

“You think they take it personally?”

“I think parents always take it personally. You don’t think
so?”

“One of these decades I’ll have to ask them,” I replied.

“It’s been a difficult period of time for me and I was rarely
sure that I was making the right choices.  Leaving Robert was something I
toiled over for years until finally I realized how my indecision in itself was
unfair to him. Leaving Trent was not as difficult.  But what shook me was
having to acknowledge that these were both fine men and that this was not an
issue with them but rather it was about me.”

“So you beat up the people who love you with a series of
divorces only to hit them with the really big news that you’re now a lesbian?”

“In a way exactly.  Not to mention the reality that I am not
prepared to go through life with people categorizing me as gay.”

“Do you feel that the time you were married was wasted?”

“Sometimes, but it’s not like I think about it as being way off
track.  These experiences were probably very necessary.  I do think it was
unfortunate that I made the same mistake twice, marrying Trent.”

The doctor took some time to herself, reflecting on our
conversation and taking in the healing nature of the clouds.

“I think it ironic that you are so burdened by the impact of
your search for happiness on the people around you,” I stated pulling her back
into the airplane. “Almost as ironic that you feel like a coward.”

“Why is that?” the doctor asked.

She turned to face me head on, her eyes fixed on mine, awaiting
my response.

“Because I see you as courageous with an admirable sense of
responsibility towards your own happiness and an understanding that it’s a
prerequisite for bringing happiness into the lives of others. You just said
that. And every time you have been faced with the decision between the
uncertain path to happiness and acceptable complacency, you have consistently
chosen the uncertainty.”

She looked at me warmly.

“You have a lot to say for a guy that looks like he just pulled
an all-nighter.”

“So you’re saying you’re not attracted to me?”

She smiled at the playful advance and gave away her thoughts by
glancing down at my left hand.

“No, I’m not married,” I said, beating her to the question. 
“There’s no woman crazy enough.”

“You’re one of those guys?”

“I used to be,” I replied.

“But you’re not anymore?”

“I told you already.  A new tree.”

“So you’re ready to face your uncertainties at the risk of
disappointing the people around you.”

“That presumes there are people to disappoint,” I responded, my
smile an attempt to distract her from the reality of the statement.

She turned again to the window, politely ignoring the
transparency of my expression, lost in her own thoughts or perhaps reviewing
mine. We had been talking for over an hour and Las Vegas, like all of my
one-night stands, was far behind me.  I did some thinking of my own about what
the good doctor had said.  Perhaps my montage of empty moments spent alone with
strangers was somehow necessary.  In the distant clouds I thought I caught a
glimpse of happiness on the horizon and for the first time in years, I looked
forward to landing.

The doctor returned from her thoughts and turned towards me.

“Exactly when did you decide to turn over this tree?” she asked
with perfect bedside manner.

I had to smile at the truth.

“Somewhere around 5:00 this morning.”

AA Flight # 569
New York (JFK) to Los Angeles (LAX)

I wasn’t quite sure when it happened, but my perspective began
to change. It was unexpected, yet welcome just the same.  The sobering images
of present-day issues for whatever reason started to affect me in ways they
hadn’t ever before.  I was finding it difficult to hide behind my cynical view
of a biased and sensationalistic media, expert at pulling the strings of our
emotions. It was undeniable that no matter how crafted the headlines or
selected the video clips, corporate America had been overrun by thieves, wars
had been waged and children were dying.  No longer was it inconsequential,
simply because I hadn’t been the victim.

I wasn’t confused about these wrongs and my place in the world
as it related to them.  Never once did I think to go give Bernie Ebbers a
proper wedgie or dedicate the remainder of my life to hunting down Arthur
Andersen pseudo-fiduciaries one-by-one like Clint Eastwood in Hang ‘Em High.  I
didn’t think I would be much good at setting up refugee camps in Croatia or
negotiating a revised Second Amendment to fully contemplate to right of
teenagers to bear arms in high school. That clearly wasn’t me, but it wasn’t
because these things didn’t matter.  They did.  And when viewed without the
benefit of a few cocktails, a pair of dark sunglasses and the detached
insulation of a first class ride, they were devastatingly overwhelming.

Like the victims of more newsworthy crimes and injustices, many
of my seatmates were left doing their best to pick up what pieces remained of
their own shattered existences.  The situations were always heartbreaking and
frequently without logic.  Many conveyed their stories with survivor
perspective, yet the silence between their sentences would tell me they
remained paralyzed in the question of “why me?”  Sometimes, however, it was
different.  Sometimes I would find a person doing their best to crawl out from the
wreckage, reminding me that moments of happiness are fragile, while still
inspiring me with their perseverance.   On my way to Los Angeles, my vision
clouded with exhaustion and preconceived expectations, I almost missed one of
these precious few.

It was a trip I had been making so frequently over the prior
few months that it almost took on the routine of a morning commute.  It was the
first flight out, and I was dressed for the workday I would face when I
landed.  I did my best that morning to produce a lighter-toned ensemble,
avoiding the dark stereotypical Wall-Street uniform that would give me away in
the Californian business community.

It would be a long day, but then what else was new.  I had set
a 5:30am alarm and planned on working straight through a dinner meeting at
Toscana, so I brought limited reading material and had hoped to close my eyes
for a few hours.  A flight attendant took my suit jacket for hanging, and I
settled into the light gray leather seat next to the window.  I was flipping unenthusiastically
through a trade rag when my row mate arrived.  She was a slender older woman
with shoulder-length silver-blond hair.  She gave me a polite silent half smile
as she put an oversized straw tote bag in the compartment above and sat down
next to me, hands empty and apparently content with only her thoughts for
company.

Already bored with the newspaper, I began to play the game in
my head where I judge a book by her cover.  She wore tan pleated trousers, a
lightweight sage wool blazer that was accented with yellow stitching, and a
white button-down shirt.  Her shoes were simple black loafers, and she wore a
black belt to match.  No jewelry of any kind adorned her, other than a small
silver and turquoise butterfly that was pinned to the lapel of the blazer, an
ornament that suggested a Southwestern connection.  The game ended quickly,
however, because the uncooperative morning sunlight was shining directly
through the window, nearly blinding me and all but washing out the view from
her chin up.    I reached for my sunglasses, realizing in the morning haze that
I had left them in my suit jacket from the day before, a mistake that would
cost me another $250 before I stepped foot out of LAX.

In the twelve seconds that my game lasted, I hastily wrote off
my seatmate as a Southern Californian, returning home from a weekend visit with
East Coast family she had abandoned for the sun years before but felt compelled
to keep in her life.

Satisfied, I closed my eyes to avoid the sunlight, figuring it
was as good a time as any to try to rest. Having resisted a first cup of
coffee, I hoped that I would be able to return to sleep, retrieving an hour or
so from my restless night, unencumbered by the caffeine that otherwise
propelled me through the day.  My prayers were answered thanks to the rhythm of
the wheels on the concrete taxiway, rocking me to sleep before we took off.

I was only asleep for three quarters of an hour, but it felt
like much longer.  The airplane seat kinked my body as if I had been hibernating
in a cave for the length of a winter.  The sound of the breakfast cart stirred
me from my rest.  The job was finished by the over zealous woman who pushed it.
She fixated on my blinking eyes and gave me a gummy smile.

“What’s the story, morning glory?” she sang. “Coffee?”

She held the pot forward in a gesture of universal sign
language in case my ears had not caught up with my blinking eyes.  I gave her a
nod and reached across my seatmate to accept the cup.

“Thank you,” I said in a voice an octave lower than my own.

Before I could get off another word, she and her cart were off,
singing to the person behind me, and leaving me without the sugar I would have
otherwise requested.

I adjusted the window shade to cut off most of the sunlight
that was pouring through from the south.  I sipped the hot coffee, cautiously
skimming drops off the top with my upper lip.  I noticed the woman again, and
was better able to see her face.  She was extraordinarily well-featured, and it
was easy to imagine her face twenty-five years earlier.

Perhaps an actress or a model, as was often the case on the New
York-LA route, I speculated, taking a closer look on the possibility of
recognizing her.

The lines around her lips and eyes placed her in her late
forties to early fifties, and her hair had taken on a gray where I am sure it
had once been blonde, but it still looked soft and healthy. Her skin was
flawless, sporting a tinge of bronze, which I expected was one of the many
benefits of her Southern California lifestyle.  It was her eyes that captivated
me, however, inviting pools of blue, kind and humble, the only contradiction to
her otherwise very striking assembly of features.

The woman did her best to ignore my visual dissection, rubbing
her hands and shifting in her seat.  I sensed that I was making her
uncomfortable but consciously overstayed my welcome, forcing her to finally
turn and face me.  It was the first direct view I’d had into her eyes, and they
were even more mesmerizing than I had suspected.  Her expression begged me for
the reason why I stared.

“What do you see?” she pleaded, without uttering a word.

It wasn’t my place to answer, and so without retreat I took
another sip of my coffee, looking at her as if I had known her for a very long
time.

Far more gracious than I, she put end to the uncomfortable
moment of silence and forgave me, breaking the ice with the first of many words
spoken between us.

“That sun was a bit glaring,” she said in an appreciative tone,
giving a slight nod to the window shade I had closed.

Her voice caught me off guard, shattered my earlier assessment
and made me feel foolishly presumptuous.  It was that of an angel, a beautiful
English angel.  For my own momentary enjoyment, I imagined I was sitting next
to Julie Christie in Heaven Can Wait, and she was looking into my eyes
searching for the man she had once loved.

I had been very wrong about who I expected her to be, and was
inspired by the possibility of hearing her speak again.

“What brings you to Los Angeles?” I asked, legging in with amateur
questions, but keeping my gaze focused on her as though I had asked something
of considerably greater importance.

“Friends. Sent a ticket for holiday,” she replied in an oddly
strained tone.

Immediately I knew she was speaking of a safe harbor rather
than some leisurely visit.

“Staying with them long?” I asked.

“About a month, I suppose.”

“They must like you,” I said, smiling to suggest I thought it
plausible.

“Yes, well they are good friends and they are letting me stay
with them for a while,” she said with emotion, touching the brooch with her
right hand for reassurance.

“Good friends who send airplane tickets and butterflies,” I
said, demonstrating my abilities as an observer.

Aware of her own transparency, she averted her eyes and once
again shifted her position. I wondered what she was fleeing from, and listed
the possibilities in my mind: a messy divorce, the loss of a child?  I found
myself wanting to comfort her, to tell her that I would happily deliver her
safely to her friends, away from whatever it was that haunted her.  I found
myself wanting to explain that I was ready to help.

I extended my hand gently to her and told her my name.  She
smiled, trying to recover from her discomfort.

“My name is Lillian,” she replied, accepting my hand with her
own.

“Been having a tough time?” I asked.

Lillian paused and studied my face with her kind blue eyes,
looking into my soul for an ounce of decency.

“Just trying to get a new start,” she replied simply.

“The old start didn’t work out as planned?” I pushed.

“It turned out to be quite difficult, actually,” she said,
glancing away to conceal a hint of humiliation in her expression.

“Feel like you should have known better?” I asked, keeping my
eyes on hers as they slowly melted into a glassy shine, enhancing the
brilliance of the blue behind them.

I held on to my coffee as she spoke, cradling it carefully with
both hands as an expression of the care I would afford to her.  By the end of
her story, I would be holding her hand in the same way.

Lillian was originally from London, where she was married to a
man named William.

“He called me Lilly,” she said, smiling at the sound of the
memory as only she could hear it.

Lillian loved him dearly, and together they began painting the
canvas of what should have been.  William was from a family of means and held a
position at a London investment bank.  Lillian was the editor of a small
neighborhood paper, an underutilization of her skills perhaps, but an
appropriate way station en route to the motherhood she hoped for.   William was
killed in an auto accident on the evening before his 35th birthday.   For
Lillian it was a day that blended into the next, and then the next.  Days then
weeks then months of walking aimlessly through their Knightsbridge home. 
Friends and family tried to pull her from her despair, but it was futile.   It
was a year before she returned full-time to her position at the newspaper. She
refused each of the romantic possibilities presented to her.  A predator’s
dream, Lillian was alone, heartbroken and rich.

On her 38th birthday, a friend took her to a restaurant where
she met a man named Voron.  Voron was of Russian descent and Lillian was
immediately struck by his awesome presence and the visual contradiction between
his angelic face and jet-black hair.  Voron was the first to make her smile,
and later was able to reignite the darkened embers of her womanhood.  None of
her friends had known much about Voron, but Lillian had woken from her slumber
of sadness and that was all that mattered. A year later they wed in a quiet
ceremony in a small abbey in Surrey.   As part of the marriage plan, Voron
suggested they start completely fresh. Lillian sold the London home and
together they took up residency in a country home 140 kilometers outside of
London.   With her new husband, new life in the country and new happiness,
William stopped haunting her daily thoughts.  Once again, Lillian was among the
living.

The country home was originally the manor house of a larger
estate to which most of the town land had belonged hundreds of years prior.
Purchase of the home was big news in the small community.  The manor house had
been neglected for almost half a century and restoration was a sizable effort. 
Determined to reclaim her life, Lillian purchased the home with the proceeds
from the London sale and poured her other funds into the repairs, a financial
arrangement Voron had conceded to as a way of letting Lillian feel she retained
control of her affairs.  The arrangement was not without convenience, Voron
admitted, noting that most of his funds were tied up in various illiquid
ventures.

Friends visited a few times and marveled at the beauty of the
country setting and how happy Lillian seemed. But the visits tailed off and as
one intimacy was blooming, the others in her life were drying up.  Lillian
still hoped to be a mother.  Unsuccessful, Voron comforted her, delicately
suggesting she recognize that her childbearing years were behind her.  Within
two years, Lillian was all but cut off from the rest of the world, spending
most of her days without leaving the property, tending to Voron and selecting
fabrics and color for the restoration effort.  Her gardens blossomed into rows
of children, and completion of the manor house became her career.  Comfortably
isolated from the unhappiness of her past, and five years into her new
marriage, Lillian turned to the very patient Voron for assistance in the
management of her affairs.