Layover

by Amy Andelson

  I can’t help but laugh a little to myself at what my mom would think. Disneyland is pretty much everything in life that she hates. To start with, she is afraid of fried food. I’m not even joking. Like, she’s actually scared of it. One time, when her sister (who I don’t think she likes very much) was visiting us in New York, she ordered beignets for dessert. When Aunt Mimi got up to go to the bathroom, I heard Mom say, “She should just stick them on her ass and save them the trip.”

  The other reason my mom would hate Disneyland is that she hates standing in lines. That lady won’t stand in line for anything. I think that’s why she always says she “loathes amusement parks,” and probably why I never get to go to any. That and all “the people.” The way she says people, it’s like they’re something sticky and disgusting, and contagious. No, my mom would not like Disneyland at all. Too many people, waiting in too many lines, wearing too many tank tops. Tank tops are another one of my mom’s pet peeves. She’s seriously offended by that little flap of fat right by your armpit. She strongly believes that arms, like toes, should be covered in public at all times. Even on beach vacations!

  My mom is funny like that. She has a lot of things she “firmly believes.” I guess you could say she has a lot of opinions. Like, she doesn’t believe in bottles on the table, or the word sucks, or the color pink at all. Ever. Like, anywhere. And we’re never allowed to watch TV and eat at the same time, except on Sundays, and only if it’s raining. When it comes down to it, I guess she’s really kind of snobby sometimes. Like, I’m sure she was totally a Tatiana when she was in elementary school. If she was in my class, I don’t think I would like her very much.

  “Where to first?” Amos asks.

  “Good question,” I say, and take out our map. “Well, I think we obviously have to start in Fantasyland.”

  “Naturally,” Amos teases.

  I study the layout of the park closely—we’ve got to be smart about this. “First maybe Peter Pan’s Flight, then Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, the tea cups, Alice, and of course It’s a Small World. Then we can make it to some of the real rides like Big Thunder Mountain and Splash Mountain before it gets too crowded. I’m fine skipping the Jungle Cruise, but if we hurry, we can make it to the Haunted Mansion before lunch….Oh! And then Toontown and Tomorrowland, too. Sound good?”

  “You’re the boss, Boss,” he answers.

  This really is the Happiest Place on Earth!

  We make our way down Main Street, and the air is full of butter and sugar and ragtime music. The sweet smells are no doubt emanating from one of the countless eateries, which are all called cutesy things like the Jolly Holiday Bakery and the Refreshment Corner. And a cast member is playing cheerful tunes on a small red-and-white piano to entertain the park visitors as they enjoy their snacks on an outdoor patio. We pause for a minute to listen. When the pianist finishes, a few onlookers clap politely. The pianist, clad in a red-and-white-striped three-piece suit, invites anyone who wants to take a turn at the keyboard. A young mother attempts to persuade her little boy to give it a try, but he refuses—hiding himself between his mom’s legs. I look at Flynn.

  “I dare you,” I challenge her. And she looks at me like I’m certifiably nuts.

  “Flynn hasn’t been playing piano lately,” Poppy explains.

  “Well, that’s a damn shame,” I say, nudging Flynn forward. “C’mon, we want to hear you!”

  “Yeah! C’mon!” Poppy’s revved up.

  She shakes her head and starts to walk away. “Do it, do it!” Poppy and I goad. And soon, others around us are joining in. The piano player steps aside to make room for her. But Flynn’s not budging. The chanting gets louder, and suddenly, not doing it is drawing more attention to Flynn than just getting it over with. Poppy gently pushes her toward the podium. She turns back and shoots me a look.

  “I hate you right now,” she says with a smirk, and she reluctantly makes her way to the piano and shyly takes a seat.

  “Ohmygosh!” Poppy says giddily.

  What should I play? I can see Flynn mouth to herself. Her fingers dance nervously above the keys. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. And then the notes start, tentatively at first. She looks over at Poppy and me, and we offer an encouraging thumbs-up. The song starts to gain momentum as her fingers look like they’re almost flying over the keys.

  “My favorite!” Poppy exclaims. Soon, a twinkle of recognition spreads among the small crowd as Flynn’s rendition of “Let It Go” gets louder. And then, to my surprise, Poppy spontaneously starts to sing. And one by one, the people around us join in for a Frozen sing-along. More and more people gather, and soon everyone is belting out the words—even me. The song ends, and everyone applauds. Flynn smiles brightly, and Poppy and I are ecstatic. I knew she could do it.

  Leave it to Walt Disney to cure a case of stage fright. But deep down, I know it hasn’t strictly been performance anxiety that’s kept me from the piano for the past few months. I can’t explain it, but somehow when Amos left, I had this strange realization. I was tired of having people and things taken away from me. It’s like I subconsciously decided that I would renounce everything that mattered to me before that could happen again. Maybe it’s some twisted form of control or something? But trying to control everything all the time is exhausting, and I’m tired of fighting it. Like the song says, maybe it is time to “let it go.” All of it. It felt amazing to play again.

  I look around the park—it’s weird to be back here. When I was a kid, way back when I had two living parents who were actually married to each other, my mom and dad took me to Disneyland. I think I must have been about four at the time. Weirdly, I remember being more excited about the drive down the coast than I was about our big Disney adventure. It felt so thrilling to wake up when it was still dark out, pack up the Jeep with snacks and CDs, and head out on the road.

  I remember we stopped at In-N-Out and all got burgers and vanilla milk shakes. Even then, something about the whole trip felt so precious, almost ephemeral, like somehow I knew that none of it would last. Like I had some uncanny premonition that that brief weekend trip would be the only one I’d remember with my family. My first family.

  I only have two real memories of Disneyland. The first is of all the people. It was Labor Day, so there were tourists everywhere. Even though I tried to hold on to my dad’s hand, the force of the crowd pulled us apart. I remember panicking as I searched the sea of legs, before finding my dad’s sneakers. I grabbed his thigh, only to realize that the man looking down at me was not my father at all. Just some guy with indistinguishable denim and what looked to me to be identical sneakers. Before my startle could turn to tears, my dad reached down and swept me up onto his shoulders. From that perch, I could see Sleeping Beauty’s castle in the distance. I was young enough then to believe that a real princess lived up in that tower. I was young enough then to believe in happily ever after.

  The only other memory I have from the trip I’m not even sure if I truly remember, or if I invented it from a photograph that was always on our old piano. It was of my mom and me on the tea cups. I’m wearing my favorite purple dress and turquoise cardigan, and I have a giant grin on my face. My mom is next to me, her hair blowing in the wind as we spin around and around. She has me wrapped in her long elegant arms—she’s so beautiful, and I’m so safe beside her.

  Now, all these years later, I walk down Main Street, U.S.A., with Amos and Poppy, and I feel like a totally different person. I spot Donald, Mickey, and Pluto and watch as little kids rush over, burrowing themselves into their soft plush coats. For a second, I wish I weren’t old enough to know that it’s not really Pluto. Probably just some perv in a dog suit. But still, the pure elation on those little kids’ faces is enviable. Part of me wishes I were that innocent again. I guess I wish a lot of things. But for now, with Poppy as our fearless leader, we march through Sleeping Beauty’s castle and disappear i
nto Fantasyland.

  “Let’s go!” Poppy exclaims, and she takes my hand and charges ahead. I grab Flynn’s so I don’t lose her in the crowd. I forgot how delicate her hands are. We’re practically running through the castle—our adrenaline and excitement propelling us forward. We’ve been running for three days straight now, and I wonder when we’ll run out of steam.

  Per Poppy’s directions, we head to Peter Pan’s Flight first, and slowly snake our way to the front of the line. The three of us climb into a ship. “Come on, everybody! Here we go!” Peter welcomes us, and we fly out of the nursery window to embark on an adventure, just like the children in the story. I’ve always loved this one. A world full of pirates, and Lost Boys, and Never Land. Life back at our West Village apartment sometimes felt like Never Land—Clay certainly wasn’t going to grow up, and when he was in charge, I was allowed to build forts, and jump on beds, and live in whatever fantasy I could dream up.

  It’s weird to think that Clay finally grew up. And sobered up. And that I didn’t give him—my own father—the benefit of the doubt. What if we hadn’t come to LA? Would I have just gone on thinking he was having beer for breakfast when all the while he was doing yoga, and making juice, and hoping that one day I would call him back?

  It’s ironic—I thought that the only thing I wanted was to grow up. That if I left my childhood home, I’d be leaving childhood, too, and maybe things on the other side would make more sense. But I’ve actually been doing the total opposite. I’ve been running away from growing up altogether.

  Flynn requests the tea cups next. We all settle into a giant turquoise cup, and the girls put me in charge of spinning the wheel. We turn around and around—Poppy and Flynn holding on to each other tightly—until we all start turning green. We’re wobbly when we exit, and it takes us a minute to find our footing. If only real life worked like that: just as things started to spin out of control, you could take your hands off the wheel, and everything could be just as it was.

  “What’s next?” I ask Poppy.

  “How about something a little more…” Her body sways from side to side.

  “Stationary?” I suggest.

  “Small World!” she cries. We make our way over to the gleaming white-and-gold ride, and groan at the sight of the insanely long line extending past the designated barriers. There’s a mob of Japanese tourists in front of us in matching polo shirts and visors.

  “Let’s come back later,” I say.

  “No,” Poppy protests. “It’s the ride I want to go on the most.” I know she means it. When Poppy was in kindergarten, her class performed the song during her school’s holiday recital. She drove Rosie and me crazy for months after, still singing that freaking song all over the apartment.

  “C’mon. We don’t want to waste all day waiting in line. Let’s hit up the Haunted Mansion, get some lunch, and we’ll come back later.”

  “But what if there’s not time?” Poppy says, digging her heels into the ground.

  “We’ll make sure there’s time. We’ll come back on the way out,” Flynn assures her.

  “Promise?” she asks. Her voice wavers; she’s on the brink of tears.

  “Promise,” Flynn replies.

  We pinky-swear that we’ll come back before we leave the park, and Poppy seems satisfied with the compromise. She links one arm with Flynn’s, and the other with mine, and we set off for our next adventure.

  Since we’ve got Neel’s credit card, we decide to splurge and avoid the long lines at the myriad of fried food places, and instead eat at the Blue Bayou in New Orleans Square. Entering the restaurant, we step out of the bright high-noon light and into the murky darkness of a French Quarter night. Even though we’re technically inside, they’ve created the illusion of evening with a night-sky projection, hanging lights, sound effects, and even glowing fireflies. We sit down, and it feels good to be off my feet for a moment. Despite the Pirates of the Caribbean ride sailing by us, the dim lighting provides a respite from the sensory overload outside, and I realize I’m actually starving.

  Problem is, when the food comes it is still barely edible theme-park fare. Poppy ordered pasta from the kids’ menu, and it’s the only thing that looks mildly appealing, so she invites Amos and me to share.

  “I’m not hungry,” she says, which is weird. Maybe she’s still shaken up from the Haunted Mansion? I could see how that kind of thing wouldn’t be her speed, but she seemed so excited to go. I want to cheer her up, so I tear the paper off one end of my straw and blow through it, sending the remaining paper flying at her. She barely cracks a smile.

  “Poppy, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Nothing. I’m fine,” she mumbles, but I’m not sure I’m buying it.

  Amos and I steal a quick look at each other. He senses she’s not herself, too. Amos sticks his fork into her spaghetti, takes a long strand, and then lets it dangle from his mouth. She seems unamused. Distant. I try something else.

  “Who am I?” I challenge her as I take the other side of Amos’s spaghetti strand, just like in Lady and the Tramp. She can’t help but crack a smile. Then, to her delight, I slurp up the spaghetti until Amos’s and my mouths nearly meet. His lips are so close to mine, and there is only this awkward piece of pasta between us. I find myself wanting to erase the stupid noodle, and the fake frog sounds from the restaurant, and even Poppy’s watchful eyes. For a moment, I want all the distance between us gone. I want to feel Amos’s face near mine, to remember the taste of his tongue. I want it to happen all over again.

  “Do it again! Do it again!” Poppy goads us on.

  But the noodle breaks, and the moment has passed.

  There’s no turning back now. We’re locked in, and lined up single file in a log—Flynn’s in front, then me, then Amos. I’m trying not to think about the FIFTY-FOOT PLUNGE AHEAD sign. I’m trying not to think about the queasy feeling taking over my insides. I’m trying to think, This is fun! A voice says, “Have a zip-a-dee-doo-dah ride!” as we start the climb up Splash Mountain.

  “You okay?” Flynn calls back to me.

  “You’re sure I’m not going to fall out?” I ask, my voice shaking with fear and excitement.

  “I promise,” she says. “Just hold on tight.” Of course, she and my brother told me that we didn’t have to go on something so scary, that we could start off with some of the smaller rides first. But I know they think the Haunted Mansion really freaked me out, so I want to show them I can do the big kid stuff, too.

  We start off with a small dip. My stomach drops, and I let out a yelp. Now we’re cruising through the tunnel with old-timey singing frogs, foxes, birds, and rabbits, and I’m not sure if they’re supposed to be cute or creepy. Suddenly it feels like we’ve been in the darkness for way too long. Which only means one thing. It’s coming. The big one.

  We start to go way up, the wheels creaking loudly. I tell myself it’s just a sound effect. We’re getting closer to the top and closer and closer and closer and I’m holding my breath and then…down we go! I scream so loud, and it feels so good and scary and awful and amazing. We land in the pool at the bottom, and water splashes everywhere. I’m drenched from head to toe, and as I wipe my eyes, my cheeks hurt from smiling so hard.

  Flynn and I sit on a bench in the sun to dry off outside Splash Mountain, while Poppy evaluates the photo board to see if they got a good shot of us free-falling.

  “Second wife,” Flynn says. It takes me a minute to notice the awkwardly mismatched couple getting handsy by the hot-dog cart.

  “He used to be fat, but recently got rich and lost a ton of weight,” I hypothesize in regard to the man in mom jeans and a fanny pack.

  “Surgically,” she notes.

  “Is there any other way?” I joke.

  “He ditched his first wife for the girl who wouldn’t give him the time of day in high school. They reconnected o
n Facebook,” Flynn adds.

  “She was going to be a star. But she peaked at her senior prom,” I continue, eyeing the woman with teased hair and wearing cutoffs with the bottom half of her ass hanging out.

  “Back home he has a room of collectible Disney figurines, and she has a princess complex.”

  “Totally,” I laugh.

  “And so here we are on their honeymoon,” she continues.

  She nailed it, as always. We chuckle to ourselves. “So…Clay’s sober,” I say, and it feels good to finally tell her.

  “Wow, that’s…” Flynn looks at me and takes it in. She always held out hope that Clay could clean up his act one day—even when I didn’t.

  “Yeah.”

  “How are you feeling about it?” she asks.

  “Good. I think. It’s strange, because on the one hand, I feel like he’s back, and on the other, it’s like I don’t even know him at all.” I change the subject. “So are we just not going to talk about you and the piano?”

  “We don’t have to….” She looks at me, her expression serious. “But thank you. It felt good to be back in the saddle again.”

  “Yeah, well, you looked good up there.” We hold each other’s gaze, like we’re both about to say something.