It's about that time

It was the fifth of December, 2005, at 2:50p.m. and flight 6268 from Harare to Johannesburg was about to take off. As the plane rose higher and higher I physically felt the distance grow between me and my family, the scene of goodbye playing over and over in my head.

“O.K, it’s about that time,” I mustered up. Everyone surrounded me in a claustrophobic circle; it seemed we couldn’t get close enough. I swallowed over and over, blinked over and over; breathed deep— all to keep those dreaded watery eyes away. My sisters were the worst, crying so much I had to be strong for them. I had to be strong for Mom too. “I’ll be back soon,” I told her, not knowing if it was true. They say you often leave the best for last; I definitely left the worst for last. It was Dad’s turn. Deep hug—there was that deep pain that seems to rise from your toes, punch you in your stomach, and then pour out your eyes. I looked up into his face full of pride, love, and fear; it mirrored my own. It was about that time.

I got lost staring out the window; lost in the pallid downiness surrounding the aircraft. I had always dreamed of soaring and slicing through the billows of clouds; I couldn’t quite believe it. I was put out by the fact that I sat above the wing, my view slightly obstructed. It would catch the corner of my eye and I thought it was a car trying to overtake us; I had to keep reminding myself I was in a plane. My eyes were riveted on the big grey wing, with all its movable flaps and specific design, the end of it edging upward just perfectly to create the right framework. My nose was pressed up against the glass like a little one seeing it all for the first time. My eyes traveled inward to the double panes in front of me—if I pushed really hard would they break? There were tiny little snowflakes on the windows. I had never seen a snowflake before. I was intimidated yet valiant, enthralled yet perplexed.

“Are you flying alone?” Gordon Robb asked me; I nodded. I knew his name from seeing his ticket when he sat down next to me. I never asked him his name, even though I knew what it was.
“Have you flown before, a young girl traveling by herself?” Gordon asked.
“Not since I was two,” I replied, “so no, not really.”
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Ummmm, Los Angeleeeese,” I pronounced.
“How old are you?” he asked, surprise etched in the lines of his face.
“Nineteen, tomorrow…” I trailed off.

My eyes moved out the little hole again, wandering through the blue and white expanse, a storm of clouds on my left and blue skies on the other side of the plane (I tried to glance out both windows at the same time). It was my first birthday without them all, my family, my home, and my friends. How would I do it? I wished the endless sky would answer me.
He asked me a few more questions; which I enjoyed—it helped distract me. Eventually he must have realised I was in a world of my own, so he stopped talking. Leaving home at nineteen to go and live with distant relatives was not something I had ever imagined for myself. I left with nothing to my name, one tiny suitcase with hardly anything in it besides pictures of family, some books, and one or two items of clothing. I was going to college; I was going to make something of myself—little did I know it was community college, everyone is accepted into community college—but I knew this was what the Lord wanted for my life. Countless doors had opened for this journey of my life to happen; doors opened that we could never have physically pushed open.

I wanted to go to university; this was the only way my family could afford it. Getting a visa in Zimbabwe is close to impossible—especially if you are a young white female who could potentially get married—but I got mine, in a day! Paying for the flights would never be able to come out of my parents’ pockets, but the tickets were fully paid for. I had someone to live with; they would pay for a car and the beginnings of school. It was close to miraculous, so why was it so hard?

I knew my Dad hadn’t wanted me to go, but I also knew he knew that I had to go, that this was what I needed to do. He was proud of his eldest daughter but couldn’t imagine a world without me in it; I couldn’t imagine a world without him and all of them. So we all put on that face, the one that pretends to disguise the fear, an almost smile and a glistening eye, the face that I held the entire trip.

The short flight ended. As soon as the fasten seatbelt sign turned off, everyone unbuckled and stood, grabbing their stuff from overhead compartments, even though we wouldn’t deplane for another ten minutes. Eventually, I followed the crowd down the long hallway into the airport. All of a sudden I was gripped with something—I just stood still—staring but this time not out the window; hundreds of people rushed around and they all knew exactly where they were going. I did not. I am not sure how long I stood there, wishing I had Dad to show me where to go (He didn’t always know where to go, but he always figured it out).
Dad had decided to never tell me about this American Dream. In the beginning he believed it was not for me, but over time the Lord softened his heart. Amazing Americans were brought across his path that opened his eyes to a country he thought was full of divorce, immorality and materialism—of course it is a country like that, but so are many other countries—slowly but surely his mind was changed. It became apparent he had to let me go, he needed to let me go.

Never knowing when I would return, it was done: I was let go.
Eventually, I made it to my terminal; somehow I had missed the fact that bigger airports have more than two gates, and beyond that more than one terminal. There was hardly anyone at my gate and I realized I had a good 6-hour wait before my next flight left. So with bravery renewed, I decided to explore. The Johannesburg airport was a bustle of activity and it was all mine to

conquer.

I aimlessly wandered through many different stores, looking at all the touristy African trinkets, examining each one with great detail, knowing it would be a long time till I saw anything like that again. I bought a pair of earrings—I thought I got them for a steal—twenty dollars, that was so cheap, right? I was used to paying twenty thousand Zimbabwean dollars for an ice cream (probably equivalent to fifty American cents) so I thought I had a great bargain.

I was excited to be on my own. It was a strange excitement; one mixed with apprehension too. I assume I looked somewhat like babies do sometimes; their faces go bright red and you can’t tell whether they will laugh or cry; you just have to wait and find out which response you will get. I think I chose the laugh, or was it the cry? Possibly both at the same time?

I began to grow weary as the adrenaline wore off, so I trailed back towards my gate. This time there were lots of people there. No seat for me so I sat on the floor with my back to the wall, observing people. I heard many different languages—nearly everything but English. Whole families—especially Indian families—were waiting. Moms jostling crying babies, Dads running after the stray two-year-olds. Business men were typing with furry, others at the ticket counter begging for a flight, and other poor exhausted folk sitting and watching others as I was. At least they all had each other, someone to talk to, I thought. It’s amazing how alone I felt when I was surrounded by so many people.

I had no one to talk to, no one to share all these emotions with. I had no idea if I would have anyone to share with for a long time. Dad was always the one I could take my big, philosophical or biblical questions to. Like, “Dad it there such a thing as being slain in the spirit with laughter?” Or “Daddy, how do you really tell the difference between a leopard and a cheetah?” Mom was always the one I shared emotions with; broken hearts and tears were often with her and yet I could always make her laugh. We would often burst out into hysterics of laughter at the smallest things. I had finally reached a place where I was becoming her friend, not just her daughter; now I had lost that. Late at night I would often sit on mom and dad’s bed sharing my thoughts, dreams, fears, problems; but not anymore.

“British Airlines flight 56, Johannesburg to Heathrow is now boarding.”
Two hours flew by. But I had ten more to go, and I wouldn’t get any sleep. The flight attendant walked by and asked if I wanted any tea. I giggled to myself; I loved his British accent; who knew that in the future I would be the one people that people would giggle at? I politely declined his offer of tea. That was the last time I was ever offered tea on a flight; it would always be coffee after that.

I did not sleep a wink that night; I watched every episode of Everybody Loves Raymond. I got lost in the essence of family: making fun of the ones you love, fighting, laughing and enjoying family, something I knew I had left behind. When I started to miss home, I would shake it off with false hope of the joy ahead, excitement at the new, being able to do and see things that had never existed in my world before. Things like malls, being able to drive (I couldn’t drive in Zim because there was no petrol in the country), Disney Land, the beach, college, new friends. I created a fantasy list of endless possibilities to dull the ache inside.

When that didn’t work anymore, I began to watch the little map of Africa. It was a surreal experience to watch this little plane move ever so slowly over the map they had on the screen. I felt like I was suspended in time, not moving at all, yet moving at a speed that would have taken years on land. I watched the map for hours; it was something to do, something to get lost in.

The night finally came to an end. We landed in Heathrow. I deplaned again with everyone; I knew to go to the big boards that had all the flights on them. I knew to look for Los Angeleeeese. My confidence quickly dissipated. There were at least ten different Los Angeles’ on the board; I had no clue which one was mine. I froze once again, staring, wondering how I would ever figure out which was mine. I placed my backpack on the floor and just stood there.
I missed having Dad take control. He always knew where to go, or at least was always a strong leader in the family. Where was he when I needed him?

Someone noticed my little lost face and pointed me in the right direction. I found my terminal and had a ten-hour wait. I was sleep-deprived and hadn’t had much food. (They served meals at the strangest times on the plane, 11p.m and around 3 am; I didn’t eat any of them). I meandered around, found a sandwich and magazine and tried to entertain myself. I tried to read, but I started to get sleepy every couple of minutes. I was afraid to fall asleep because I kept hearing, “Please do not leave unattended baggage; if you see any unattended baggage please report it to security.” I thought that meant I couldn’t sleep, otherwise the airport police would take my backpack. So, wait—awake—I had to and I did. Until it was time to go up in the air again.

By the time my ten-hour layover was done, I was in a complete daze. I boarded the next flight and barely remember doing so. My seat this time was twenty-three J. I had a window seat, and no one sat next me this time. I could stretch out and wished that I had had that in my overnight flight. No tea was offered this time by the flight attendants, only sodas—which I call fizzy drinks—and coffee.

The window was my friend again; hours were spent staring out of it, as the same episodes of Everybody Loves Raymond were being played. I watched them all again. It seemed I found comfort in their family. If I could play their family over and over again maybe I would be able to have mine again?

As we got closer to our destination; I saw snow-capped mountains. I was so excited; my first sight of actual snow. I wanted to jump up and tell everyone. However, I quickly realised there was no one to tell. So I turned my inspection back out there, making images out of the fluffiness and imagining how cold snow really was. Lost in my stupor I ignored the anxiety that bubbled up inside of me and let the plane carry me to my next destination. As the plane lowered, I knew it was about that time.

Umbrella

Just having woken up on Saturday morning, still with crusty eyes, we decide to go out for breakfast all in a matter of minutes. It is unusual for the both of us to be out of bed and out the door in such a short amount of time. Pulling on sweats and sweaters, I’m not even brushing my hair; we shrug on waterproof jackets. He grabs my ring, “Just making sure we’re married today.”

“You read my mind.” I said. “Keys?”
“Got ‘em.”
“Wallet? Phone?” I ask again.
“I’ve got everything, Babe.”

Hand-in-hand we head out on this morning adventure, making our way to the bakery. It’s foggy and wet, the clouds opening up now and then to dump their cleanliness upon the grey city of Chicago. Maybe that’s what rain really is, I think to myself, cleanliness. It wipes away the dust and grime, it gives new life. We have a new life, a new life together, only 6 months of marriage behind us.

We arrive at the little bakery; somewhat soggy, we shrug off our watery jackets. After ordering, we lounge in our little booth; we wait for the food to arrive both getting lost in the live movie that we’re watching through a water-stained, steamy window. The Tribune man is out there. He’s smoking and I wonder to myself, How does his cigarette stay lit with the dribble around him? How does he feel about that job? I wish I could read his mind. He walks up and down the damp street, trying desperately to sell papers to moving cars.

We observe other people coming in and out of the bakery. People are different in the city on Sunday mornings, more causal it seems, or maybe just more relaxed. The makeup isn’t as strong the smiles are bigger the hugs are longer or maybe just more caring. Most are dressed like we are, very casual. Lots of conversations are light-hearted; others feeling the same way we do: comfortable and relaxed. The atmosphere is one of a big family meal, it’s as if we all live at the bakery and have come to eat breakfast with everyone who is there.

We break out of the daze. We realize that this is not one big family and we are here with each other. For some reason it’s easier to watch other people chat than actually hold our own conversation, so we mostly sit in silence. We are not mad, angry or even frustrated at one another; it just is work to work at conversation. It seems we think marriage gives us the supernatural ability to read minds. So we sit—reading each other’s minds.

Food arrives and we dig in. Crunching into my bacon and cheese panini, I ask “Is yours good?”
“Really good,” he muffles through bites.
“So are we gonna get it?” I ask the mind reader.
“Get what?” he asks, distracted with his food.

“The umbrella,” I reply. My eyes have been roaming out the window and my mind has been wandering. I’ve been thinking about drips, drops, damp, drizzle and being drenched. If we get the umbrella now, we’ll have it for years to come; if we get the umbrella now, I won’t have to think about it any more; if we get the umbrella now, I won’t have to keep asking him. Why I needed the umbrella so much—I’m not sure—but today, I declare that the umbrella is a much-needed addition to our repertoire of possessions.

We finish the conversation without really finishing the conversation. We do, however, finish our meal, pay for our food, and make our way out into the saturated city. Holding hands, we obviously have different plans because we abruptly yank in different directions.
“Where are you going?” I ask, standing in the middle of the street.

“I thought we were getting groceries,” he replies.
“I thought we were getting the umbrella,” I say as I run to catch up to him.
We stand on the corner, both undecided about what to do. All the happy couples with their steaming cups of coffee and big umbrellas mock us as they stream by, established in where they’re going. I thought we were finally just going to get it. I thought he knew I wanted it—almost needed it—why can’t he just know what I’m thinking?

Anger starts to flare rearing its ginormously ugly head. “Fine!” I say. “We’ll never get it!” I know we will never get it; it will be a life-time of me asking him for it and him not realizing my need. I start to head toward the grocery store. I turn and he’s walking the opposite way, heading to the store that holds the essence of our argument.

I stand in the drizzle, expecting him to turn around. He doesn’t. Do I stand here looking stupid, or follow him? I trudge towards the dreaded store. I cannot find him anywhere. I find the umbrella stand and look up; there he is: buying it. Turning and smiling, he expects me to be happy. I am not. I’m fuming about being left in the street. I’m mad because I don’t want to want this silly thing so badly; mostly I’m mad at us for acting like children. I don’t even want it that badly; I just want him to know I want it.

“I didn’t mean for you to just go out and get it,” I say.
“I thought that’s what you wanted… the umbrella,” he says, confused.
“I did want it…but not like this.”

We look into each other’s eyes for the first time since the bakery, trying to read one another but we can’t. Why is it so hard to read minds? I wish I had a giant billboard on my forehead so he would know what I am thinking.

With umbrella in his hand, we decide to take the train home rather than walk. The conversation picks up while we’re on the train; we chat about mindless things. We don’t sit down but stand by the train doors, holding on to the railing. I decide to hang the umbrella on the hand rail, rather than hold it. The train sways back and forth, lulling us into a quiet, peaceful state. The umbrella moves slightly, in rhythm with the train’s motions.

The train slows, noisily braking as it comes to a halt. The doors swoosh open, and we step off the train. Bounding down the stairs with all the other Sunday train-goers, I suddenly realize neither one of us grabbed the umbrella. Turning abruptly I try to make my way up, which is impossible, as the stream of people is going down. I jostle my way to the platform and the train is still there. I dash for the doors as I hear, “Attention passengers, do not attempt to board the train; doors are closing!” The doors slam shut and I watch as the train moves along to its next destination, unfaltering in its movements, unaware that it has our treasure within, unaccustomed to waiting for passengers who leave things aboard.

He is two steps behind me, worry in his eyes, “What’s wrong, Babe?”
“Adam…” I can’t look at him. “I lost it.” I look up. Expecting to see blame and disapproval, I am stunned to see only kindness and sympathy. He might have just finally done it—read my mind—known what I needed in an instant.

“We can just as easily get a new one, Babe,” he assured me. “It’s not your fault at all, Honey. These things happen.” My eyes hold doubt, but he means it. This matters more: his selflessness and sincerity. This was what I needed from him all along, to know that what I felt mattered; that my silly quirks and needs meant a lot to him. The umbrella is gone, but our understanding of one another is greater; maybe one step closer to mind-reading.