Chapter 6 - The Woman Waiting at the Gate
About ninety minutes remained before landing when my son woke again.
This time, nobody complained.
He opened his eyes, looked around, and immediately grabbed a fistful of my shirt.
Marjorie smiled.
“He's adorable.”
“You didn't think that five hours ago.”
She winced.
“I walked into that one.”
“You did.”
Louise giggled behind us.
My son made a bubbling sound.
Marjorie pulled out her photograph.
“My grandson does that.”
She stared at the picture for a moment.
Then her smile disappeared.
“What if I've already damaged things too much?”
I understood what she meant.
Her daughter.
“You won't know unless you try.”
“She stopped asking me to visit.”
“Maybe she needs distance.”
Marjorie nodded.
“That's what her husband said.”
I almost smiled.
“He might have been right.”
“He probably was.”
She sighed.
“I don't like admitting that.”
“Most people don't.”
She turned toward me.
“How are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Being kind to me after what I said.”
I considered the question.
“I don't know if I'm being kind.”
“You are.”
“Maybe I'm just too tired to stay angry.”
She smiled.
“That's fair.”
But that wasn't the whole truth.
My husband's death had rearranged the scale I used to measure problems.
A stranger behaving badly still mattered.
Cruelty still mattered.
But I knew now that time could end without warning.
Holding onto anger suddenly felt expensive.
“I lost someone without getting a goodbye,” I said.
Marjorie's expression changed.
“That makes unfinished conversations feel different.”
She nodded slowly.
“Call your daughter.”
“I will.”
“No. I mean when we land.”
“I promise.”
Louise leaned forward.
“We can check.”
Marjorie laughed.
“Apparently I'm being supervised.”
“Yes.”
I reached back and tapped Louise's nose.
“Sit properly.”
She disappeared behind the seat.
I looked out the window.
The clouds had begun thinning.
Land appeared below us.
Tiny highways.
Fields.
Neighborhoods.
Somewhere down there, people were making dinner.
Coming home from work.
Complaining about traffic.
Arguing over television remotes.
Ordinary life.
I had once been one of them.
Then one police officer standing on my porch changed the meaning of ordinary forever.
My husband had called me that afternoon.
“Anything you want for dinner?”
“Tacos.”
“Again?”
“You married me knowing who I was.”
He laughed.
“I'll be home by six.”
Those were the last words he ever said to me.
I'll be home by six.
For weeks, that sentence haunted me.
Because six came.
Then seven.
Then police lights.
Louise hadn't understood at first.
She kept asking when Daddy would come back from the hospital.
When I finally explained there would be no coming back, she screamed at me.
“You're lying!”
Then she locked herself in her room.
I sat outside the door for two hours.
My son slept against my chest.
Eventually, Louise opened it.
She didn't apologize.
She didn't need to.
She collapsed into my arms.
That was grief.
Not beautiful.
Not inspirational.
Just unbearable.
And yet here we were.
On an airplane.
Still moving.
“Mom?”
Louise's voice pulled me back.
“Yes?”
“Grandma texted.”
I turned.
“You're supposed to be in airplane mode.”
“She sent it before we took off.”
I smiled.
“What did she say?”
“She said she made lasagna.”
That sounded exactly like my mother.
“Of course she did.”
“And brownies.”
“Also predictable.”
Louise smiled.
“She said we don't have to do anything when we get there.”
My throat tightened.
“That sounds good.”
“Are we staying the whole month?”
“I think so.”
“Can we stay longer?”
I looked back.
She was watching me carefully.
“Do you want to?”
She shrugged.
“I don't like our house right now.”
I understood.
Neither did I.
Every room still expected my husband.
“We can talk about it with Grandma.”
“Okay.”
Marjorie listened quietly.
Then she said, “You don't have to decide everything right away.”
I looked at her.
She smiled.
“You said your mother told you that.”
I had mentioned it earlier.
“I guess she was right.”
“Mothers occasionally are.”
Louise called from behind us.
“Not always.”
“Louise.”
Marjorie grinned.
The flight attendant began collecting trash.
Seatbacks started going upright.
The captain announced we would begin our descent in twenty minutes.
Something about that announcement made my chest tighten.
I'd spent weeks wanting to escape our house.
Now that I was about to land somewhere else, I suddenly panicked.
My husband wouldn't be there.
Of course he wouldn't.
But traveling had always belonged to us.
We had taken flights together before Louise was born.
Then with Louise as a baby.
Then as a family of four.
This was our first trip as three.
My fingers tightened around the armrest.
Marjorie noticed.
“You okay?”
I nodded automatically.
Then stopped.
“No.”
She waited.
“I don't want to land.”
“Why?”
“Because my mother will be waiting.”
“That sounds like a good thing.”
“It is.”
I swallowed.
“But he's never going to be waiting anywhere again.”
There it was.
The truth beneath everything.
Marjorie didn't tell me to be strong.
She didn't say my husband would want me to be happy.
She didn't offer clichés.
She simply nodded.
“That sounds awful.”
Oddly, those words comforted me.
“Yes.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Thank you.”
Louise reached forward and put her hand on my shoulder.
I covered it with mine.
We stayed like that until the flight attendant told her to sit back for landing.
The airplane began descending.
Pressure built in my ears.
My son fussed.
I fed him again beneath the cover.
Marjorie deliberately turned toward the window.
Then glanced back at me.
“Not because I'm uncomfortable.”
I smiled.
“I know.”
“I just thought you might want privacy.”
“Thank you.”
A minute later, she added, “And for the record, if anybody tells you to go into a restroom, I'll handle them.”
I laughed.
“I think Louise has that job.”
From behind us:
“I do.”
We all laughed.
The plane touched down harder than expected.
Wheels roared against the runway.
Passengers shifted forward.
Then came the familiar slowing.
A few people immediately reached for their phones despite the announcement to remain seated.
Louise practically bounced behind me.
“We're here.”
“Yes.”
“You okay?”
I looked at her.
Really looked at her.
At the daughter who had lost her father.
At the little girl who had defended me when I couldn't defend myself.
At the child who had somehow taught a stranger and her own mother the same lesson in one afternoon.
“No,” I said.
She waited.
“But I think I'm getting there.”
Louise smiled.
“Me too.”
When we reached the gate, everyone stood at once.
Overhead bins opened.
People crowded the aisle.
Marjorie remained seated.
She pulled out her phone.
Her hand trembled.
“You're calling her?” Louise asked.
“I'm calling her.”
“Now?”
Marjorie looked at me.
“I was told not to wait.”
I smiled.
The call rang.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then someone answered.
Marjorie's entire face changed.
“Hannah?”
We couldn't hear the response.
Marjorie closed her eyes.
“Please don't hang up.”
Louise looked at me.
I gathered our bags slowly.
Marjorie continued.
“I need to apologize.”
Her voice broke.
“No excuses.”
Louise nodded approvingly.
“I've been criticizing you when I should have been helping you.”
Marjorie listened.
Tears filled her eyes.
“I know.”
Another pause.
“No, sweetheart. I'm not calling because I need something.”
She looked at Louise.
“Someone reminded me how I would feel if a stranger treated you the way I've been treating people.”
Hannah said something.
Marjorie laughed through tears.
“Yes. Apparently she was eight years old.”
Louise smiled.
Passengers moved around us.
Nobody hurried us.
Finally, Marjorie whispered, “I love you.”
She listened.
Then pressed a hand over her heart.
“I love you too.”
The call didn't solve everything.
I could tell.
There were years behind that conversation.
But it opened a door.
Sometimes that was enough.
Marjorie ended the call.
“She invited me to visit next weekend.”
Louise grinned.
“See?”
Marjorie laughed.
“Yes.”
Then she turned toward me.
“I don't know how to thank you.”
“You don't need to.”
She looked at Louise.
“And you.”
Louise shrugged.
“Just be nice to your daughter.”
“I'll try.”
Louise's expression became serious.
“Don't try.”
Marjorie blinked.
“Do it.”
I burst out laughing.
Marjorie did too.
We stepped into the aisle.
And as we moved toward the aircraft door, I realized that somewhere during those six hours, I had stopped feeling ashamed.
Not just about feeding my baby.
About grieving.
About struggling.
About needing help.
Grief had taken my husband.
May you like
I wasn't going to let it take my voice too.
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