Six-year-old Emma loves princesses and dolphins. I found a dolphin encounter program in a reputable facility, read each review to make sure it wasn’t exploitative and booked dinner at a restaurant where I could dress up in a little blue dress and feel like I had entered their own fairy tale. I even ordered a small plastic tiara on Amazon, sent it to my home in Chicago and packed it into my carry-on luggage.
All perfect. All planned with love.
I showered, put on comfortable travel clothes: black leggings, a soft sweatshirt from Northwestern, the running shoes I wear for my four-mile trots along the lake shore, and checked my suitcase once again. Passport. Road. Printed confirmations even if everything is in one application now. My cardiology brain doesn’t trust a single point of failure.
At 5:00 a.m., a black sedan from a local car service stopped in front of my reddish stone. The driver loaded my suitcase in the trunk as he closed the front door of my house that he had bought years ago when hospital bonuses were coming in hard and the Chicago housing market was still forgiving.
We drove down Lake Shore Drive to O’Hare International Airport, the Chicago skyline lights shining over Lake Michigan, Willis Tower, and the John Hancock Building simply silhouettes against a still dark sky. Even after all these years, that journey still makes me feel fortunate to have lived my whole life in this city.
We all met in O’Hare at 6:00 a.m. for our 8:15 flight to Honolulu, then to Maui. Hawaiian Airlines. I had updated the five tickets to business class: flat seats, royal cutlery, small orchids on the trays. I wanted this to be special.
I arrived at the airport at 5:45, rolling my suitcase through Terminal 3, beyond the Starbucks with the line already winding, families spent in Disney sweatshirts heading to Orlando, passing by the somber-eyed business travelers who grabbed briefcases and cold beer.
I scanned the crowds near the Hawaiian Airlines check-in counter and the vi.PART 3
I scanned the crowds near the Hawaiian Airlines check-in counter and saw them.
Kevin, my thirty-eight-year-old son, tall with his father’s wide shoulders, dark hair that begins to show some gray threads in the temples. The boy I raised alone after my husband, Thomas, died of a heart attack when Kevin was only ten.
Jessica, his wife of ten years, thirty-five years old, blonde, always dressed immaculately even at dawn. Before the children were born, he worked in marketing for a tech startup at the center. He now stayed home full-time, managing PTA committees and Instagram stories.
Tyler and Emma bounced despite the early hour, each with the new suits he had bought specifically for this trip: Tyler on a T-shirt with cartoon sea turtles, Emma in a pink summer dress with small white hibiscus flowers printed on everything. They had small hand luggage from matching children, also bought by me, with airplane stickers already on the sides.
And someone else.
An older woman was next to him, a night suitcase at his feet. I instantly recognized her from birthday parties and school events.
