Through Her Eyes

by Ava Harrison

  The light trickled in through the shades pulled up haphazardly in Park’s room. His tall, lanky body stood only a few feet away. I smiled at him, and he smiled back at me as I made my way further into the room.

  “Your mom let me in. What are you doing?” Parker stood in front of the far wall of his room. His hand lifted as he poked something on the wall.

  “I’m plotting all the places I’m going.”

  “What do you mean?” I tilted my head to the side to get a better look, but I couldn’t make out what he was doing. I took a few steps closer.

  “This summer when you’re at camp, my parents are going to take me to Europe with them. It’s our big summer adventure. It’s going to be unreal.”

  From my new position, I looked again at the wall, which was no longer blocked by his stance, and noticed a large map taped to it. Red, green, and yellow pins were spread across in no particular pattern.

  “So, what’s all this mean?” I gestured to the map.

  “Green is where we’re going, Yellow is where I want to go. Red is where I’ve been.”

  “Wow, you’re going to all these places in Europe? Your parents are so cool. Mine just ship me off.” And that was the truth. Ever since Owen died, there was no room for me in their house, their lives. Not that there ever really had been.

  “One day, Aria. We’ll go together. All these places, all these adventures, they will be ours. You and me, kid.” My heart crushed to my chest at the reference . . . kid. That’s all I would ever be to him . . . Owen’s kid sister.

  “Good afternoon passengers. This is the pre-boarding announcement for flight 595 to London Heathrow. We now invite those passengers with small children, and any passengers requiring special assistance to begin boarding at this time. Please have your boarding pass and identification ready. Regular boarding will begin in approximately ten minutes time. Thank you.”

  Swiping the tear dripping down my cheek, I make my way to the plane. Before I get on, I head over to the woman smiling brightly behind the boarding counter.

  “Good afternoon. How can I help you today?” She smiles brightly at me as her fingers lightly tap on the computer in front of her.

  “I know this is a strange request, but I wondered if you wouldn’t mind sending this out for me?”

  “That’s no problem at all.” Reaching across the counter, I hand her the postcard. My movements are hesitant as an aching feeling grows in my chest. I wish I were able to say goodbye in person, but this will have to do. She looks over the image of the lights of the Brooklyn Bridge glimmering against the backdrop of New York City.

  “It will go out tonight.” The corners of her eyes crinkle as she turns around and glances at the mailing address and postage. “Should be there tomorrow.”

  “Perfect. Thank you so much.”

  When they call first class, I move toward the jetway. With each step I take, I watch my feet hit the dull, grey pathway leading up to the plane. The continuous clatter of my rolling bag’s wheels squeaking against the floor echoes in the narrow corridor as I make my approach. Once on board, I make it to my seat, but like some cosmic comedy, fifteen minutes later everyone is directed to deplane . . . mechanical issues. I wonder if this is divine intervention. Maybe I’m wrong to run away. Maybe I should face what troubles me.

  My heart thrums to the beat of my steps as I exit the plane. My gaze looks past the seats and in the direction of the airport exit. The hair on the back of my neck stands on edge. Maybe I shouldn’t be going. Maybe I should face my fears. My body turns toward the exit and with slow steps I begin to head away from the gate. From the corner of my eye I see a couple embrace and my stomach drops. No. I have to leave. Reluctantly I sit and my knee begins to bounce uncontrollably as I continue to take in the room around me. Airports are like no place else in the world. Joy, fear, trepidation, and in my case, sadness, fill the room.

  Everyone has a story.

  I look over and see a young girl. She appears to be about four years old. Her chestnut hair is pulled up into two lopsided pigtails, and she bounces up and down in her seat. Our eyes meet, and I see hers light up with excitement. They twinkle a delicate shade of green that reminds me of a child’s watercolor painting. The emotions radiating off her could be contagious, but I don’t feel the same way she does. For the first time in forever, I feel something other than the sadness that has been burdening my heart. My feelings match her eyes—green with envy. I’m jealous of a little girl. Her life is so innocent and she has yet to feel real pain.

  “Our apologies for the delay everyone, but Flight 595 to London Heathrow will now begin the boarding process. We’ll start with our passengers with small children and anyone needing special assistance followed by our first class passengers.”

  And just like that, my fate is sealed.

  A new adventure.

  A new beginning.

  Seated in my cocooned bubble, I lift my head from my hidden nook and pop up to look around. The Virgin Atlantic plane reminds me of a spaceship. Futuristic seating and neon pink lighting runs throughout the length of the interior. In the front of the plane, they even have a full service bar. Seems a bit silly to me, but to each his own. Moving my eyes to the entrance of the plane, I watch a steady stream of passengers entering. A cute waitress dressed in a red, seventies style dress guides the excited passengers to their seats.

  I feel robbed of the excitement.

  Reaching into my purse, my fingers touch the cold surface of my phone. I need to turn it off, but before I do, guilt creeps upon me. I really need to send Sophie a text.

  I know I’m being selfish for making you worry. I know you want to be there for me, and I really appreciate it. I promise if I need you, I’ll call. Love you.

  Acidity burns in my stomach. The fear of the unknown claws at me. I have a basic idea of where I’m going, but all in all, I’m fucked. Park and I planned this trip. Well, he planned it. He’d already been everywhere so planning our adventure was a no-brainer to him. All I did was buy a few more pins and stick them securely in the map. That was my contribution to the big trip. My way of claiming the places I dreamed to go. Places we could witness together for the first time.

  As I settle back in my seat, the white noise of passengers talking hums in the background. Pulling the shade up, I glance out the window and notice rain has started to fall down the pane. This afternoon when I left, the sun poured brilliant rays of burnt orange across the city, and now it’s as if the heavens are crying for me. My hand clutches my chest. My heart thrums heavily. It feels like it might explode. The flow of the oxygen I’m inhaling feels restricted as the plane’s tires move. I want to grab for the oxygen mask and breathe in heavily, but I know that’s just crazy. It would get me a one-way ticket right off this plane, and I need this. I need to get away.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We’re currently number one for takeoff.”

  His words become a distant noise as my pulse picks up. I share a glance with the passenger in the seat across from me. White knuckles. She’s as scared as I am. Great! If this plane bumps up and down, I won’t be the only one screaming. She digs inside her purse, pulls out a little white pill, and places it under her tongue. Traitor.

  My stomach drops as the weight of the moment hits me. I’m doing this. I’m really doing this. My hands become sweaty, and I clench my fists. My eyes shut out the outside world, and I try to take calming breaths. My foot taps as I wait.

  We begin to take flight.

  Park.

  As if my soul is tethered to his back in New York, my emotions pull and snap. The strength I’m trying to hold onto comes crashing down. I’m suffocating. Silent sobs join the moisture caressing my cheeks. I clench my eyes shut to stop the onslaught of emotions that threaten to expel. I hear his words as clearly as the day he spoke them.

  “Ari, as my friend Everest always says . . . stay in the present, don’t live in the past. Be strong. Be you.”

  When I’d first heard
those words, they’d angered me. Once again, Everest was interfering in Parkers life, and mine. But now I had no choice but to heed his words.

  Inhale.

  I. Can. Do. This.

  I can be strong.

  Even if I have to do it alone.

  Twenty-seven days since I spoke to Parker

  38,880 MINUTES SINCE I said those horrible words to him.

  We have arrived at Heathrow. London. I made it. I pick up the phone and begin to dial, but the ghost of my words makes me stop. Shaking my head, I begin to place it back in my bag, but not before I look one more time at the picture of Park. I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes to think. When I reopen them, I turn my phone off.

  My heart pounds as I reach overhead to grab my bag and make my way off the plane. With each movement I make, the fluttery feeling in my stomach gets worse. I walk through long corridors and brightly lit hallways. Each twist and turn makes this seem more real. A whiff of an airport restaurant filters through my nostrils, and my stomach turns. How do I get out of this airport?

  I pick up my pace and search for the baggage claim because I know I can find a ride from there. I make my way through the cavernous room. There is no reason to pause, as I didn’t even check a bag. All I have for this adventure is a small rolling carry-on. Packing light is key when your journey is not planned. How do you even know what to bring when you don’t know where you will be? Hell, I don’t know where I’ll end up. London isn’t my final stop, merely my layover. Pretty great layover spot if you ask me. I figure I’ll stay two nights and see a few sights, using Parker’s stories as my guide.

  The cab ride into London is everything I expect. My cabbie is a complete gentleman, and he doubles as a tour guide and historian. By the time we arrive in Mayfair, I’m officially an expert on London and know its complete history. I also know the hottest bars, the most classic places to drink tea, and all the best restaurants.

  The driver turns down the street and pulls up to the legendary Brown’s Hotel. Wow! I think as I take in the façade. It drips with English elegance, which makes complete sense, as it’s the oldest hotel in London. My lips turn up for the first time in twenty-four hours. By habit, I reach for my phone in my purse, but before my fingers grasp it, I decide against it. Nope. No phones. Shaking my head, I decide I’ll shoot Sophie a text later. I’m too tired and drained to deal with any questions she might reply with.

  A young man in uniform reaches for the door. I admire his elegant gray suit. Smart. My eyes move upward, and I take in his matching top hat. To an American seeing this for the first time, he could have easily passed for one of the best-dressed men on Savile Row. As he opens the door and welcomes me, I’m completely taken aback by his pleasant and friendly demeanor.

  “Welcome to the Brown’s Hotel. Will you be checking in?” I nod my head at him and my lips part slightly.

  “May I help you with your bag?” He walks toward me, his hand outstretched.

  “No, I have it, but thank you so much.” Making my way through the doors, I head towards the front desk. There I’m greeted by a giant smile and a name tag. Mary it reads and she’s the definition of hospitable, beaming at me from behind the counter.

  “Good morning. Welcome to the Brown’s Hotel. How can I be of service to you today?

  “Hi. Good morning. I have a reservation under the name Bennett.”

  “Yes, Miss. Bennett. I have your reservation for a queen room for two nights, is that correct?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Let me grab your key. If you need anything—dinner reservations, a car—please let me know. It would be my pleasure to assist you.”

  After she hands me my key, she names the services the concierge can help me with. My body relaxes as relief courses through my veins.

  Opening the door to my room, I place my belongings on the carpeted floor and make my way inside. I throw myself onto the queen size bed sitting in the middle of the room. My eyes run over the lush surroundings as I settle in. This really is perfection. Parker was right. Park . . . Shit! As my body begins to sink into the mattress, I realize just how exhausted I’ve become.

  I’m drained, weathered and beaten.

  I lost myself somewhere and this trip is my chance to find it, being tired is my cross to bear.

  So, what’s the first thing you do when you’re trying to find yourself when in a foreign country and staying at a luxury hotel? Break open the mini bar. Oh, who am I kidding? I’m a classy girl. I reach for the phone.

  “Room service, please.” My fingers tap anxiously on the table as I wait to be connected.

  “Hello. May I please have a bottle of Bollinger? One glass—”

  “There will be only one of you?” she inquires.

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “So, first things first. We go to London, kiddo.” Park smiled at me. At seventeen he was finally filling out to match his tall frame. He was so handsome, I only wished he would see me as more than his best friend’s little sister. While he’d grown into his looks, I wasn’t much to look at. I was way too tall and skinny at fifteen to be considered attractive. Gangly, like a giraffe. I had no shot at Parker looking at me the way I saw him look at other girls.

  “We’ll stay at the Brown’s Hotel.”

  “Not the Ritz?” I winked at him.

  “Nah, Aria. The Brown’s, it’s right down the road in Mayfair. Only seconds from Bond Street, but it has this classic charm. You will love it. I can already see you sitting there at The English Tea Room. All prim and proper. So you.”

  “What are you trying to say, I can’t have fun? I have a stick up my ass?”

  “No, of course not. Just, this place is right up your alley, that’s all. Don’t get so sensitive. You know I love ya.” My insides warmed.

  “You’re like the sister I never had.” And then they froze. My breath came out heavy as I swallowed the lump in my throat.

  “Okay, Park. The Brown’s it is. High tea at four o’clock. I’ll wear an ostentatious hat to match the giant stick up my ass.” I stuck my tongue out at him and hoped that would take away the uncomfortable feeling hanging in the air.

  Shaking my head, I walk across the room and into the bathroom . . . the loo. I’m in England, after all. Fifteen minutes later, while barefoot and wrapped in only a towel, a soft knock sounds through the room. I pull the towel a bit tighter and make sure it’s secure before I reach out to open the door. Naked and dripping wet is not the impression I want to leave on the room service guy.

  An older gentleman in a black suit steps into the room. When he walks past me, he barely glances my way. I want to thank him for leaving me with what little dignity I have left which the tiny towel only covers. He makes his way further into the room and efficiently sets the bottle in a bucket of ice. The desire to give him a big kiss as he uncorks it and pours me a glass floods me.

  Champagne . . . finally.

  After he finishes and shuts the door behind him, I pick up the glass.

  “Cheers to myself.” Sighing deeply, I lift it to my mouth and feel the bubbles as they caress my throat. The crisp smell tickles my nose when I swallow. The champagne infiltrates my body and proceeds to drown out my thoughts. They have become a soft hum. Through the reflected glass of a large, ornate mirror across the room, I catch a glimpse of myself. Exhaustion reflects back at me. Complete and utter exhaustion.

  I wake a while later with a jolt. A faint ray of light peeks in through the sheer draperies adorning the windows facing Albemarle Street. The champagne must have gone straight to my head. I peer at the clock and notice it’s already three o’clock in the afternoon. Shit.

  I almost slept the whole day away. For the life of me I don’t know what to do with myself now. Straightening my clothes that are now wrinkled from sleep, I decide to leave the confines of my room and see London. I just wish I wasn’t alone. Fabulous . . . It’s been a whole two seconds, and I’m depressed. This trip is supposed to enlighten me and pull me
out of my misery. It’s meant for me to atone and then find my happiness again. Instead, I’m sitting around being sad.

  I decide to spend the next few hours taking in the sights. I walk through Bond Street and then hop a cab, continuing my trek around London until I see Buckingham Palace. Unfortunately, I slept through the Changing of the Guard, but even viewing the grand structure leaves me completely breathless. It’s awe-inspiring.

  Timeless.

  Like a typical tourist experiencing London for the first time, I have to visit everything, including Big Ben and Parliament. My heart tugs in my chest as I remember all the times Park and I got stuck driving around in circles back home because we’d missed our exit on the highway. We would always quote our favorite movie “Look kids . . . There’s Big Ben . . . Parliament . . .” We would laugh for hours. My eyes fill with tears at the memory, but I wipe them away.

  The glimmer and flair of Piccadilly as the sun starts to set for the day is like being home. It reminds me so much of Times Square at night, of the time I went to see Wicked with Park for my eighteenth birthday. Thinking of him makes my heart hurt. Would he forgive me?

  I’d been selfish, stubborn, and blind. Not having Parker is my fault. My shoulders drop forward. I should have fought for him. At the end of the day, that’s all he wanted. That’s all anyone ever wants, to know someone would fight for them. God, I hope deep down, wherever he is, he knows I’m sorry. The only thing that keeps me sane is that tiny sliver of hope.

  I suck in a breath as sadness coils in the pit of my stomach. Thoughts of home hurt too much. I can’t allow myself to go there. There will be a time I’ll have to deal with my emotions swirling inside me, but I’m just not ready. Right now, all I’m ready for is to drown myself and my emotions in a drink. It scares me how often my thoughts turn to that vice. Must run in the blood? I’m nothing like my mother, and I’ll never be.

  Searching for a bar, I make my way down Oxford. I pass through the Marble Arch to a little street called Seymour Place. The street is eerie, as the day has now turned to dusk and it’s completely empty. To think, this is just steps away from the buzz of Edgware Road. My skin pricks, and my neck tenses as I take in my surroundings.