by Jean Austin
“Woah,” Jimmy says as I show our boarding passes to the receptionist. Yeah, I’m with Jimmy. The lounge is like something out of a movie. Plush leather chairs are grouped around marble coffee tables. Large screen televisions cover the walls. The carpet is a thick pile and noticeably softer beneath our shoes than the tile in the airport. The lounge could easily seat a couple of hundred people, with lots of discrete sectioned-off areas resembling antique bookshops, libraries, senate offices, mansions. Dark burgundy walls and soft down-lights, ornate cornices and paintings of European castles leave us in awe as we step into another world.
The buffet is filled with salads, cold meats, European cheeses, fruit, tiny pastries, chocolate cake, muffins. Jimmy looks at me in disbelief. A couple of waiters watch us as we walk in, smiling, ready to serve.
“You can have anything you want,” I say.
“Anything?”
“Anything.”
Jimmy’s eyes go wide and he starts toward the buffet.
Jilly says, “I want anything.”
“Me too,” I say, feeling an immense sense of relief. I drop our carry-on bags by one of the tables and join Jimmy at the buffet. To my surprise, he hasn’t started with the desserts, instead he has some freshly sliced ham, a ring of pineapple, and a roll.
“And drinks?”
I point to the lady waiting behind the bar smiling politely. It’s a quiet night for the staff, and they seem pleased to have a young family genuinely enjoying themselves in the lounge.
“Oh, boy,” Jimmy says. “Dad would love this place.” As those words slip from his lips, he cringes. I doubt he understands what actually happened between his father and me, and we haven’t really talked about it in anything beyond basic details such as Daddy was naughty, but Paul is his dad, and he loves his dad. Jimmy’s response is entirely natural. As for me, I’ve got to stop thinking of Paul as the antichrist.
“Yes, he would,” I say, not wanting to dampen the moment for Jimmy, and I leave it at that.
I settle on a salad. To my surprise, the leafy greens are covered in a stunning vinaigrette, with candied walnuts and picked bell pepper thrown in for good measure. I’ve never eaten a salad that’s so refined. In the back of my mind I can hear some British celebrity chef talking about how the various elements have been finely balanced to compliment each other—and my imaginary commentator is right.
“I could stay here forever,” Jimmy says, heading back to the buffet for seconds. Jilly devours some poached pears in a light caramel sauce.
“More.”
“Yes, more,” I say, surrendering my maternal instincts for a while.
I’m watching the display showing the status of various flights, waiting for ours to flick over to boarding, when a stewardess approaches me.
“We’re ready for you, Ms. Hallam.” Her accent is German, which gives our surname a regal sound.
“Time to go, kids.”
She offers to help with the luggage but I decline politely, swinging my bags over one shoulder and hoisting Jilly onto the opposite hip. The stewardess leads us down the escalator, saying, “We board families with children first to make the process smoother. If there’s anything you need, be sure to let your flight attendants know.”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling like a celebrity.
We board the plane alone, with no one else on the skybridge. I’m liking business class already.
“Are you a pilot?” Jimmy asks as we step onto the plane, and a woman in a pantsuit crouches before him.
“Yes. I’ll be flying you to Germany tonight. While you’re sleeping, I’ll be busy looking at dials and watching instruments, making sure you’re safe.”
I’m on the verge of tears. To have gone from being betrayed by Paul one day to being cared for by strangers the next is overwhelming. These people don’t know anything about me, and I know the cliche—it’s their job, stupid. Maybe I’m being overly emotional, but no one’s paying them to be friendly. That’s their choice, and one I appreciate.
We take our seats in business class. Each of the seats resembles a half-cocoon, with a shell stretching around the back. Jimmy is genuinely intrigued by the design—it’s like nothing either of us have seen before. We have two seats next to the window, and a third across the isle. Jimmy jumps in the seat next to the window. Jilly tries to fight him for it, but settles for being allowed to stand and look out the window as Jimmy gets comfortable.
I stow our bags and stake my seat across the aisle. A steward offers me a glass of champagne. Ordinarily, I’d decline, but tonight—bring it on.
Jilly copies her brother, watching him with keen interest as he puts on his headphones, arranges a portable screen, and brings up a movie. One of the stewardesses crouches down beside Jilly, helping her with her headphones and talking with her affectionately.
“You have beautiful kids,” she says to me, smiling before she moves on down the aisle. As much as I appreciate her kind words, I’m living a lie. Beneath the thin veneer of my smile is a hollow heart. I’m a coward, running from my problems, trying to hide from the heartache and challenges of a custody battle. Oh, I could do with more champagne. Being in public, though, is enough of a deterrent to keep me sober.
I sit back and watch the safety demonstration, feeling numb. I’m in luxury. I’ve been pampered, spoiled. I should feel elated, but I’m deflated. The kids are excited, still caught up in the adventure.
I’d like to think I deserve better than Paul. Truth is, like him, I’m guilty of allowing our relationship to slip into the mundane. Our love became stale.
The airplane taxies, turns, and accelerates down the runway, lifting smoothly into the air and whisking us away to Europe. Still living in a fantasy, huh, Emma? If Prince Charming can’t sweep you off your feet, you’ll find a substitute in business class.
Our love was a lie. We used each other. I wanted the stability, the continuity, the nice house in the suburbs, pretty clothes, perfect family. Keeping up appearances was important right up until the point where I pulled the trigger. In my deluded mind, the neighbors had to see a success next door—a marriage that was a model of perfection. Well, that illusion was shattered with four well-placed shots. As for Paul, I’m not sure what he wanted out of our relationship. I guess his wants changed over time. Maybe he felt just as trapped as I did. I thought he wanted to be loved, to be admired as a husband and a father. Am I being too hard on him? Am I unfairly reducing his entire life to one bad mistake (assuming it was only one). No, this wasn’t a one night stand, it was an affair. I saw enough to know they were enamored with each other. Would he have eventually left me for Helen? Would she have taken him in with the kids in tow? Was she in love, or just in lust?
I’m exhausted—in every sense of the word. The kids are glued to the screens in front of them.
“Mommy’s going to get some sleep, okay?” Neither of them hear me, so I reach across the aisle and tap Jilly on the arm, signaling for her to get her brother’s attention. Reluctantly, they both remove their headphones.
“Mommy’s going to have a nap. If you need anything, wake me up, okay?” They both nod, and simultaneously slip their headphones back on, recommencing Operation Ignore Mom.
There’s a blanket and a pillow, and to my delight, the seat has an electric motor that shifts the padding until the seat is perfectly flat. The business class bed is narrow, but the cocoon-like shell at the back of the seat cuts out a lot of the ambient cabin noise. Within minutes, I’m asleep.
“Mommy?”
My eyes flicker open. The lights in the cabin are low. What seems like seconds to me has been hours.
“Yes, honey,” I say, seeing Jilly holding onto the armrest of my seat as the plane shakes softly beneath us.
“I’m going to sleep now, okay?”
“Yes, that’s okay, sweetie.” Jilly curls up in her seat. Jimmy’s already fast asleep on his flat seat-bed. Jilly peers at me briefly over the armrest and waves. I wave back, and we both go to sleep.
/> “Good morning, Ms. Hallam,” a kind voice says. Sunlight streams in through the airplane windows. “We’ll be landing in an hour. Would you like some breakfast?”
“I’d love some,” I say, sitting up and adjusting my seat. The kids are already awake and glued to their screens. Jilly gives me another wave, unable to contain her excitement. Cattle class to Billings, Montana would have garnered no such delight. I suspect she’s also enjoying the novelty of the independence she’s gained sitting on the other side of the aisle. Jilly desperately wants to be a big girl.
Breakfast is delicious—bircher muesli and roasted peaches in a natural yogurt. Even the kids eat it, which surprises me, but I suspect they’re enjoying being pampered.
I complete our transit cards for arrival. Even though we’re flying on to Sarajevo, we need to clear customs in Germany. All too soon, the plane descends and the kids are staring out the window at this strange, exotic land unfolding below them. I catch glimpses of farmland as we bank. Jimmy swaps seats with Jilly, allowing her to sit by the window as we come in for landing. I can see the delight in their eyes.
As we descend, the pressure in my ears increases. I don’t think too much of it until Jilly starts complaining, then crying, then screaming. I get out of my seat and try to comfort her. “Open your mouth, honey. Stretch wide. Try to yawn.”
“We’re on final approach,” a stewardess says.
“Swap seats with your sister,” I say to Jimmy. In hindsight, I should have swapped with him so I could sit beside her, but the stewardess looms over me, intimidating me into quick action.
“I need you to take your seat,” she says with stern authority.
“It’s okay, Jilly,” I say, taking my seat and loosening my belt so I can lean across the aisle. “Hold my hand. Squeeze my hand, baby.” Poor girl. She’s in real pain. To her undeveloped mind, it is as though some malicious force is needling her, inflicting pain. She can’t understand why. She can’t deal with it. Tears stream down her cheeks. I can see the stewardesses looking at me from their rear-facing seat on the bulkhead—yes, I know, this isn’t exactly a safe landing position, but I need to comfort my daughter. The head stewardess seems to understand that. Still, Jilly screams in pain.
The wheels touch down with a fright, jarring passengers and plane alike. That’s it for Jilly. That’s one too many threats to her tiny mind. She unbuckles herself and rushes across the aisle to me, to the visible concern of the stewardesses. I grab her, holding her tight, and she buries her head in my shoulder, bawling. I had no idea she’d react like this to the landing, but I should have thought about it more. Of course she was going to be distressed. She doesn’t understand what’s going on.
“It’s okay, Jilly. Everything’s going to be okay.” I dread the thought we have to go through this again on the flight to Sarajevo. The only small mercy is we would have done this three times to get to Montana. Six to get back from there.
The plane comes to rest at the terminal.
“I don’t feel so good,” Jimmy says as I get our bags from the overhead compartment. I don’t know what to tell him. There’s nothing I can do for him at the moment.
“Hang in there,” I say, still trying to settle Jilly. It’s been a long flight for the kids. Time zone changes are making even the smallest things difficult to endure.
Customs is packed. Several planes must have arrived at once. Too many people. Too few customs agents. Broken passport scanners. Worn, smelly carpet. Wonderful. We stand in line, slowly creeping forward through the zigzag human maze from hell. The air conditioning is either off or overloaded, and the heat gets to me. I’ve got Jilly perched on my hip. She’s clinging to me, still overwhelmed by this strange new world. After almost an hour, we’ve wound our way to the middle of the hall. The line behind us snakes out of the main room and back down toward the concourse. Ahead of us, customs agents eye passengers with suspicion before inevitably stamping their passports and moving them along.
“Mom,” Jimmy says as we inch forward with our bags. “I feel sick.” I touch his forehead. He’s cold and clammy, which given the heat in the vast hall, is quite a feat.
“Excuse me? Hello?” I wave, catching the attention of a customs official. He glances at me, and keeps walking. “Hey. I need some help here.” They must think I’m trying to cut the line, but I’m not. Jimmy isn’t well. “Excuse me.”
A woman comes over with a scowl on her face. Her features are hard set, while her short cropped hair gives the impression of someone in the military. She walks up the outside of the line as it weaves back and forth, approaching us as we stand in a bend, about to disappear back into the heart of the hall again.
“My son. He’s sick.”
She looks at him, at Jilly, and then back at me before speaking in broken English, “You must keep going. Clear customs.”
“Yes, but my son. He’s sick.”
She points at the front of the line some eight rows ahead, saying, “Clear customs first.” With that, she walks off.
“But…”
Jimmy looks up at me. I don’t know what to do. The line has moved on. Behind me, a crush of men and women long to move forward. Grumpy passengers peer at me with distain, wanting to creep on—as though the next five feet is going to make any difference.
I grab our bags and wheel them on. Jimmy vomits. Bile cascades over the carpet, catching the pant leg of one of the passengers and splashing over the base of a stanchion. I’m beside myself with anguish. I crouch with Jilly still on my hip, madly searching within my shoulder bag for a wet wipe.
“Oh, Jimmy.”
“Sorry, Mom.”
“It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.” I wipe his mouth with a tissue and fuss with the sick mess as it soaks into the carpet, trying to mop it up into a disposable plastic bag. Jilly rocks on my side. I’m trying to do everything at once. Tears fall like rain. Passengers step around me, filling the gap in front of me. The customs officer comes back. I’m bawling.
“My son. He’s sick. I’m—”
She says something in German, holding her hand out and signaling for me to stay where I am. She rushes off, leaving me frustrated and powerless. More passengers push past, bumping into me and knocking one of our bags over into the vomit. I’m distraught. Nothing is helping. Mentally, I’m coming apart.
A woman in a pantsuit takes down the strap between the stanchions, opening the customs walkway to me.
“Come,” she says. She’s not in uniform. From the authority in her stature and the confidence in her voice, it seems she sits above the mindless officers herding cattle around me.
“Thank you. Thank you,” I say, sniffing back more tears. She grabs my bags and leads me down the side of the hall to the front of the pack. We walk along the empty space between the mass of tired, worn out passengers and the handful of customs officials waiting to process their paperwork. The woman speaks briefly in German to the couple at the front of the line, and they step back, making room for us.
“Next.”
I’m flustered, madly searching through my bag, unable to find our passports, tickets and custom’s declaration.
“It’s okay,” the woman says, bringing our luggage up next to us. “Take your time.”
She and the customs officer talk in German, and he nods, smiling at me, waiting patiently. I find the documents and hand them to the officer.
The officer is young, with crew cut hair and a chiseled jaw.
“Happy birthday,” he says.
“What?”
“Your birthday, it’s today, right?” He points at my passport.
“Ah, yes,” I say, stunned. With everything that’s happened, I’ve lost track of dates.
“I hope you have a happy birthday,” he says with stilted English, stamping our passports and handing them back to me. “Next.”
We head on through customs. I’m in a daze. I’m not sure what time it is in America, but I suspect it’s still the middle of the night, and even after a good sle
ep on the plane, I feel disoriented. I lose track of the kind woman in the pantsuit. Passengers bustle around me. I peer through the crowd looking for her. At a guess, she’s in her mid-fifties, with grey curly hair, but I can’t see her anywhere.
“You’re from America?” someone says behind me. I turn, and there she is. I look for a nametag, wanting to give her the courtesy of addressing her by name and thank her, but there’s no tag. If it wasn’t for her, I’d be stuck in that line for another hour.
“Yes. North Carolina.”
“Welcome to Germany. We’re not always this strict.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“It is my pleasure,” she says kindly, crouching before Jimmy. “Feeling better?” He nods. Now we’re out of the customs hall, a cool breeze descends from the overhead vents, providing relief.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“Just another passenger,” she says, standing up to face me.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“But—back there.”
“They hold nothing over you.” Her voice is kind, encouraging. “These structures—all of this. It’s important, but it is here to serve us—we are not here to serve the machine.”
I’m dumbfounded.
“Look at you. Look at who you are. You’re a woman—a mother. You are second to no one. Never let anyone tell you otherwise. If you need to go to the front of the line—go. If you need to care for your kids—do whatever it takes. They’ll understand. And if they don’t, that’s their shortfall, not yours.”
She looks at a police officer walking past with an automatic machine gun slung over his shoulder. Dark shirt. Shiny badge. Big ass gun on his hip. Taser. Handcuffs. Starched uniform. Polished boots.
“Their bark is worse than their bite,” she says. “Never forget, they are here for us—not the other way around. Appeal to reason and reason will answer.”
“Who are you?” I ask again.
“I am you—a woman—a mother—a wife.”
A tall man walks up behind her.
“This is my husband, Jacob.”
