Sleeping Tigers

by Robinson, Holly

  We were so far into the flight that we must have been hovering somewhere over the deepest canyons of the Pacific. But I didn’t panic or pray, either. I stared out of the window as the the plane lurched, sank, recovered, and sank again.

  We were flying above the clouds, a bouncy pink, wooly mat, and the wings of the plane were tipping this way and that. The tiny flaps on the wings opened and closed like fish gasping out of water. We might crash, or we might not. It wasn’t up to me.

  There was no way to know if this was another tiger sharpening its claws, ready to spring for my life, or whether the beast would once again yawn and go back to sleep until next time. For there would be a next time. That was one truth we all had in common.

  I rested my head against the seat and pictured the pair of egrets that Cam and I had startled out of the tall yellow grass near the hot springs. If the plane crashed, that was how I wanted to imagine my soul fleeing my body, freed at last to circle the heads, the lives, of everyone I’d ever loved. I would watch over them all.

  But we didn’t crash. There was a cackling sound over the loudspeaker, something in Chinese, and then in French, and then, more jubilantly still, in English, as the captain announced, “Our small difficulties have been resolved.”

  The rest of the journey was uneventful. I slept, ate, and read a pile of magazines, catching up on world news. San Francisco, it seemed, was still there.

  After the sprawling chaos of Hong Kong, San Francisco looked like a toy town from the air, with its rows of neat colorful houses lining the hills. When I was finally walking down the long airport hallway to customs, I felt as though I were floating. That out-of-body sensation stayed with me until I was through the gate and into the terminal.

  Then, when no one appeared to greet me, I felt just how solidly my feet were on the ground, how heavy my backpack was on my shoulders. I struggled out of its straps and rested the pack beside me. I was too tired to walk another step.

  Instead of moving forward, I stepped to the side of the hallway out of the crowd, dragging the pack with me, and rested my back against the wall. I would wait a few minutes and then get a taxi home. Obviously, none of my messages had made sense to anyone; either that, or I’d gotten the arrival time wrong. It could even be a different day entirely. I had completely lost track of the calendar.

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to create space in front of me, a field instead of a crowd, a stream instead of a hallway. It didn’t work. I was too keyed up.

  I opened my eyes again and let in the crowd, the noise, the close smell of too many bodies in one place, everyone rushing to be somewhere else.

  I saw them before they saw me. Karin came first, her mass of dark curls flying as she walked, pulling Ed by the hand. He was talking, trying to calm her down, his eyes on her back.

  Then my mother appeared, just a few steps behind them, her bulk dividing the crowd like a rowboat separating weeds, her blue eyes alight, her step quick behind the baby stroller. Paris was in the stroller, her feathery tufts of blonde hair caught up in a pink ribbon.

  Their eyes searched for me everywhere, until I stepped into view and held my arms open to them all.

  Acknowledgments

  Every writer needs a muse. I am lucky to have so many. Nobody has taught me more about independence and perseverance than my elegant, clever mother. My husband Dan, too, has taught me a great deal—about the nature of creativity and the value of luxuriating in love between bouts of hard work. It’s amazing, really, what software engineers and writers have in common.

  Our children—Drew, Blaise, Taylor, Maya, and Aidan—have shown me that there really is such a thing as unconditional love. They are all passionate, creative, intelligent, witty people who ought to be the poster children for anyone wondering whether parenthood is worthwhile.

  Richard Parks, my gallant and loyal agent through many years, submitted this novel to publishing houses in its original form many years ago. His belief in the book, and in me as a writer, gave me the courage to revise this book and publish it on my own, and to publish other books in more traditional formats.

  And, finally, my wise and loving LIW—Elisabeth Brink, Terri Giuliano Long, Ginnie Smith, and Susan Straight—thank you, thank you, for always being there, whether I wanted to fix a sentence, whine over a rejection, or celebrate a publication.

  If you want to be a writer, open your heart to the muses who surround you, and the words will flow.