"I'll be in San Francisco tonight," he said. "United Airlines
Flight #946. I'm sorry it'll be so late. I don't arrive until 12:34 A.M.
Will you pick me up?"
She listened to his words, their cacophony a jumble of incomprehensible phrases
that she didn't quite seem to understand ... couldn't understand ... given
his callous, entirely unconcerned attitude over the last two years. After
all, he'd all but disappeared, leaving her to pick up the financial and emotional
pieces that their unhealthy coupling had wrought. "How can this be happening?",
she thought. "Why could he POSSIBLY want to come out here now, after all
this time?" Granted, he'd been threatening to fly out for over two years,
but, his words had always been a whole lot louder than his actions. What
would compel him to make good on THIS promise, as opposed to all the others?
Nevertheless, she dutifully wrote down the flight details, her hand
uncharacteristically shaky. After all, hope springs eternal, right?
"I'll be there," she whispered, not wanting him to appear in the middle of
the night on her now-peaceful doorstep. As she listened to his voice, she
was surprised at the surreal, almost detached feeling that had come over
her. Instantly numb, she was frightened, not wanting to get wrapped up again
in all of the negative emotions that she'd tried so very hard to recover
from. Even given her fear, though, she was hoping beyond hope that this
long-overdue meeting would be the salve they needed to soothe the wounds
they'd inflicted upon one-another over the last years of their marriage.
"Perhaps we CAN be friends," she mused, her faith in and memory of their
"good years" together reaching far beyond what some would consider reasonable.
"After all, I loved him enough to marry him, and, we DID have some beautiful
times together. I can at least give us this one last chance at salvaging
a remnant or two of that love and friendship."
It had been almost three years since she'd left him standing in a doorway,
bewilderment in his eyes and a surprising inability to see the truth of their
shattered relationship as it lay on the ground at his feet. July 4, 1998
was 'Independence Day' in more than one sense of the word. She'd driven away
in a moving van, tears welling up, not daring to look back for fear that
his charming manner and sad eyes would lure her back in to the madness that
was their marriage.
She'd made her way west that day -- towards salvation -- and towards an unsure
future that, if nothing else, held the promise of days and nights free of
the alcoholic and drug induced haze that had clouded his vision and cast
that selfsame cloud of misery over her entire view of the world. She'd left
all that she'd ever dreamed about (house, dog, etc.) in the rearview mirror
and set out alone on a hope and a prayer, knowing that whatever lie ahead,
it couldn't possibly be any worse than what she 'd just left behind. She
believed that the grass could be greener . Sprinkling the remaining seeds
of her serenity over herself, she drove in to the night and prayed for
rain.
As the minutes on the road became hours, she lost herself in the remembering.
Broken promises scattered the landscape of their relationship for as far
as the eye could see. Nightmarish, Twilight Zone recollections flashed across
the inside of her eyelids with every blink, reminding her that nothing had
ever changed ... nothing would ever change ... and that she'd made the best
choice in her quest for self-preservation by leaving now, with at least a
sliver of her sanity still intact.
Driving in to the setting sun, she grew stronger with every passing mile-marker,
praying that the journey would give her the strength she needed to travel
to a better place within her Self. Almost three years later, she still hadn't
developed the film that she vowed would serve as a reminder of her trip in
to Wonderland. Eye to the lens, each shuttersnap offered a glimpse at a kind
of solitary redemption coupled with the promise of a future filled with unknown
wonder and strange beauty. Desert cactus, red horizons and scorpions among
them, the pictures also spoke volumes of the wasteland that her heart had
become.
But, now, a last chance to redeem themselves (and their humanity towards
one-another), their long-overdue divorce looming darkly on the horizon, he'd
requested that they meet "to talk ... because we have unfinished business
... because I still dream about you ... because I still miss you ... because
nobody has ever loved me the way that you did ... and because I'll never
love anyone the way that I love you."
So, here it was. Ready or not, this was their chance at some closure that
might be a bit more kind than the words they'd exchanged in anger and confusion
as they both struggled to remain standing amid the rubble of their marriage.
They'd both caused one-another pain and pointed the big, bad finger of blame,
but, perhaps this just might be their once-in-a-lifetime opportunity ...
a second chance to part with gentle words. A chance to give voice to unspoken
regrets. A meeting that might allow them the emotional healing they both
seemed to need.
4,000 miles away, he'd soon be streaking towards her at over 600 miles an
hour. She wondered if he'd be kind enough to slow down upon final approach
or simply knock her over with his landing gear as he skidded down the runway
and back in to her now-healthy life. "Maybe he HAS changed," she mused, wanting
to remain positive and recalling his words as they echoed in her ear only
yesterday.
"I'm clean now. I was so messed up before ... I was being controlled by
everything and everybody but me ... but, that's different now. I'll prove
it to you, Coree. You'll see. I'd really like to see you. Will you meet me
at the airport?"
And, so, at 12:47 A.M., she waited outside of the baggage claim area for
him. Her head was heavy with unhealthy memories, her heart was bursting with
hope for a last chance at salvaging something akin to understanding, and
her eyes were gritty with the salty remnants of her still-frightened, codependent
tears. She turned up the radio and closed her eyes, trying to lose herself
in the music. Instead, she found herself opening them every few seconds,
searching the nameless sea of strangers for a familiar face.
At 1:37 AM, when he still hadn't appeared outside, she started to get concerned.
Had he missed his flight? Had she written down the flight information correctly?
If they'd somehow missed one-another, why hadn't he called her cell phone
by now? She checked the window on her phone, ensuring she hadn't missed his
call. Then, cell phone still in hand, she swung out of her car, made sure
to lock the door, and made her way cautiously in to the now nearly-empty
terminal.
Her eyes slowly adjusting to the too-bright glow of the overhead fluorescence,
she almost didn't recognize him -- off in the distance -- as he stood framed
in the glass doorway of the United Airlines Baggage Claim office. He looked
so OLD ... so tired and unhealthy ... that she almost couldn't believe he
was the same, strikingly handsome man she'd fallen head-over-heels in love
with a mere 7 years ago.
He turned, seeing her enter the terminal, an indecipherable look on his face.
Raising her arms in a shrug that asked -- from 100 yards away -- "What's
up? Where have you been? Is everything okay?", she felt an almost forgotten
tingle at the base of her skull that spelled D-A-N-G-E-R in big, red letters.
Pushing the heavy, glass door open with his free hand, he lumbered out in
to the wide expanse of the baggage claim area, lost his balance, muttered
something intelligible, and all 6'4" of him tripped over his feet while his
mouth tripped over something "convincing" to say. Managing to steady himself
with his cane, he moved quickly towards her and, by way of a greeting, said
(a bit too loudly) "My wallet's gone."
Alarm bells rang loudly in her head as he repeated the same line again "My
wallet's gone," and punctuated his too-slow speech with the addition of
"$1,700.00 dollars, my ID, my bank card ... everything," and again, "My wallet's
gone."
His pupils were the size of dimes, no hint of that beautifully vivid, blue
ocean in his eyes that she'd sold her soul for, and she felt herself drowning
in their vast, dark expanse as she struggled to stay afloat on his
still-turbulent sea.
He didn't say "Hi! It's so good to see you! Thanks for picking me up! By
the way, you're not gonna' believe this, but, I can't find my wallet!"
He also didn't say "It's so good to be here! I've been looking forward to
talking with you. I have a little problem, though. I can't seem to find my
wallet!"
Instead, he completely overlooked any type of civil, long-overdue greeting
and replaced it with an accusatory, bewildered "my wallet's gone," as if
by some mysterious misfortune of fate or sinister black magic spell his wallet
had simply *poof* disappeared. He stammered over his words, her heartbeat
rang in her ears blocking out whatever nonsense he might be spewing, and
they made their way to the baggage claim office to file a lost and found
report.
She was unable to meet the eyes of the counter clerks as he explained to
them -- for what was more than likely the 100th time in the last hour --
that his wallet was gone. She was embarrassed to be with him ... KNEW that
they knew how messed up he was ... and wanted to shrink down in to herself,
the perfect picture of an emotionally battered, codependent wife with her
hands more than full of her own too-heavy baggage. She wanted to pretend
she didn't know him.
When they handed him the form to fill out, without a moment's hesitation,
he slid it across the counter to her, and, out of habit, she picked up the
pen and began filling in the lines for him.
Epiphany.
"I'm taking care of him again!" (the bombs began to drop one-by-one)
"I'm bailing him out without giving it a second thought ... only minutes
after seeing him for the first time in almost three years!" (screaming in
her head, now)
"He's too drunk/high (whatever) to write, and I'm giving the desk clerk MY
home phone number and address as a point of contact! "(she shut down the
noise inside of her brain before her head exploded)
He forgot his copy of the claim form on the counter. (she didn't pick it
up)
Making their way to her car, she walked slightly ahead of him, unsure of
what to do, and he mumbled something sarcastic about "Nothing ever changes,
huh?"
"I didn't say anything, Ricky", not wanting to start an argument.
"Yeah, but, you're thinking that nothing ever changes. Still the same old
shit, huh?"
Biting her bottom lip, she kept her mouth shut, wanting to give this the
chance that she thought it deserved. "Just one last chance to make amends,"
she thought. "He'll be sober in the morning, then we can talk."
Meeting her car at the curb, she opened the door, turning to help him with
his baggage.
He lost his footing, ran his luggage cart off the curb and drove it in to
the side of her car, mumbling an apology and making a comment about having
packed too much. It was only then that she noticed he'd packed 5 or 6 bags.
5 or 6 bags?! How long had he planned to stay? What was he running from?
Did he REALLY lose his wallet? Who was supposed to pay for his hotel room?
What am I doing?!
More alarm bells ringing in her head, she looked up at his tired face, meeting
his unfocused, now-unfamiliar eyes.
"I don't think I want you in my car," she said.
Easy as pie, that translated in to: "You're unhealthy, and if I let you get
in to my car, I'll be breathing your air, and it'll make ME unhealthy, and
before I know it, I'll be dying again, and I'll get weaker and weaker, until
I no longer have the strength to stand ... and I deserve better than that."
He looked confused ... but, only for a moment. Then, it dawned on him.
She wasn't his victim any more.
Just as a matter of course, she asked, "You're loaded, aren't you?", wanting
to dispense with the asking so that she could get on with the business of
dealing with his answer.
He'd come over 4,000 miles to apologize for having made her life a living
hell.
He'd come over 4,000 miles to prove to her that he'd changed.
He'd come over 4,000 miles to be the man that he desperately wanted to be
and that she desperately wanted to remember him as, and he appeared on the
scene high as a kite and angry at the world (and her) for having to stand
by and witness his slow-motion self-destruction.
She asked him again "Are you loaded?", just to make sure.
In reply to her query, he repeated her question "Am I loaded?", with an
incredulous, mocking look on his face. Then, he simply said, "Nope." and
immediately added on it's heels, a bluff:
"Go ahead and go, Coree."
"Okay", came her reply, and she simply walked around to the driver's door,
opened it, closed it, and started her car, dropping it in to gear and pulling
away without so much as a backward glance.
Two minutes later, at 1:53 A.M., as she accelerated on to highway 101, she
called her roommate on her cell phone so that he could talk her out of turning
around. By the time she made the Bay Bridge, she was breathing easier and
looking forward to tomorrow's sunrise. When she finally eased on to highway
4 and started in to the homestretch, she actually found herself laughing,
a vivid picture dancing in her head that refused to go away.
There he was, battered and broken on the ground, his self-inflicted wounds
far too deep for even the most experienced triage, and, instead of screaming
for help, he could only lie there, bewildered, and mumble "Hey?! Where did
all this blood come from?!"
Flight #7253 arrived in Richmond, Virginia at 6:21 P.M. Eastern Time on March
13, 2001.
On board was a stranger that she thought she used to know.
Nobody greeted him upon his arrival, but, should you happen to pass by the
Richmond International Airport, look closely. If you're lucky, you might
still be able to see the skid marks left behind as he crash-landed in to
his life.
© Coree M. Burnett
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