The Art of Grounding

An unexpected snow storm with infamous southern hail grounded all flights out of Atlanta for the second day in a row. The typically crowded airport was now extended beyond its maximum capacity by thousands of passengers and their luggage.

Miranda waited impatiently in line outside the restroom as a barrage of other travelers pushed past with their suitcases and coats. She joined the queue almost thirty minutes prior and there were still at least a dozen women and girls ahead of her, all anxiously checking their phones and looking down either end of the terminal corridor to monitor their flights.

It wasn’t as though her bladder was full. She wasn’t wearing or planning to apply any makeup. Nothing kept her in the line besides a paralytic fear of the coming weekend, the conversations she’d been avoiding, the text messages on her phone she’d left unanswered.

Save a tight-lipped “my flight’s delayed,” an actual conversation might reduce her to a crumpled, plastic Trader Joe’s bag - the reusable and forgettable kind left in the trunk of some other woman’s CR-V where her now ex-wife will throw her sweat-stained gym clothes. Miranda took a shallow breath and stopped herself. That thought derailed quickly.

More than a year between then and now and I still can’t pull it together, she mused. What would you say to me if you knew what a sorry state I’m in?

With the heel of her hand, she wiped a single tear from her eye, raking bent fingers through her own thinning hairline, making attempts at inhaling deeply and falling dangerously short. The airport was too crowded to make a scene, though, if there had been room enough to really holler, she would’ve brought the ceiling down with her voice, one defiant act to bring the terror of the past eighteen months to everyone in her vicinity. It was deeply unfair that the people around her didn’t know and couldn’t care about the pain she was experiencing. That’s what she felt - injustice. No one could know, of course; why would she share? “Oh, hello, perfect stranger. May I tell you about this past year?” A lump caught in her throat. How could she talk about death, a divorce, and such a terrible, haunting loss?

She clenched her chest. What I wouldn’t do for a hug.

Even with therapy, kickboxing, and enough yoga to over-extend her hip last week, the panic set in. The attacks were new but intense enough to debilitate. As soon as she could, she would slip into a stall, sit down, and focus on the five things she could touch, four things she could see… anything to ground herself in something other than these terrible, terrible thoughts. The line shrank as a steady stream of women flowed from one lavatory to the next and, about three minutes later, Miranda was in a stall contemplating the Xanax she now carried everywhere in her purse. Her mother would have been firmly against it, but supported the decision, anyway, if Miranda was safe.

The airport isn’t quite safe, she thought, but I will either be on a plane or in a chair asleep for hours soon.

She opened the bottle, procured a pill and examined it; the pill was the third thing she could see. She wasn’t looking forward to the smell portion of the exercise. She let out a stifled giggle at the thought and heard her mother’s voice, “see? A laugh is a good sign something’s going right.” That “mother-ism” was apt; being stuck at the airport meant Miranda didn’t have to endure her ex-wife for another holiday.

The toilet in the stall next door flushed abruptly. Miranda mostly ignored it, still focused on the pill and whether to take it. Toilet paper in the opposite stall hung almost to the floor. Since it wasn’t touching the ground, she didn’t originally object but moments later, the paper flowed freely from the dispenser. She watched the pressed cellulose fold over itself in a pile. Just as she spoke up with a sheepish, “um,” she realized it wasn’t an adult but a child tugging at the two-ply. She leaned forward to observe, clutching her knees to center herself. Small light up sneakers, a mischievous giggle followed by a genuine gasp of surprise and disapproving awe, then a loving and thoughtful reprimand from a pair of black leather pumps inches away. “OH, NO!” the pumps exclaimed. “Oh, no” echoed the sneakers in a tiny, endearing voice.

Oh, no. Whatever will we do?

Weakly, she smiled, leaned back on the seat, opened the pill bottle and returned the Xanax to its ‘rightful’ place. Did she need it? Yes. Just not right this instant. Instead, she tried to remember what it was like to travel with her mother: her small yellow roller board suitcase that only carried fresh underwear and a teddy bear. Her mother always carried books - one for the gate and one to put Miranda’s brother to sleep. He was a baby then, like the one her ex-wife Dionne said she wanted, just like she said she would stand by Miranda no matter the outcome of the pregnancy. Miranda wanted to be a mother - the mother she had and more. Then, mere months after Miranda’s mother passed, they lost their daughter in the second trimester. The worst possible things happened in a span of months and Dionne was gone. “It’s too much,” she said, “You’re always so sad now.”

Some girlfriend. Some engagement. Some marriage. Love like that can’t stand the test of time.

Miranda instinctively stood up. It was time to get out of the stall, time to move on. Her phone vibrated; it was the airline alerting her to the gate change. Again. Reviewing the alert meant glancing past the messages she was avoiding. With one deep breath, she fought to replace her panic with disappointment and anger, before stepping out of the stall, toward the sinks. “Finally,” a woman muttered, but Miranda did her best to ignore the complaint. There were at least ten other stalls that could have opened, and the occupants would have solicited the same reaction. Right?

“It’s not you making their day shitty,” her therapist said.

“You’re having another shitty day,” interrupted Dionne.

She dared a quick glance in the mirror. Her eyes were red and she should probably blow her nose. One of her rings seemed to be stuck; she didn’t even notice she was fidgeting. Of course, the menace was the wedding ring she didn’t need to wear anymore. She felt the waves rushing toward her again. It was impossible to stop herself as she slapped the ring loudly on the counter when she finally liberated herself from the fetter. She tried furiously to wash her irritation down the sink - once, twice, a third and fourth time - but only left her hands raw. As she angrily snatched a paper towel from the dispenser, she felt a gentle tap on her shoulder.

“What, now? Am I not washing my hands fast enough this time?” She fumed then swung around, laying her desperation and fury and fear bare for whoever interrupted her to see. She didn’t mean to say that aloud, did she? She looked slightly downward.

“Hi,” the stranger stepped forward. She was the first on Miranda’s list of smells - lavender. In the moments after she spoke, the bathroom seemed to quiet down just so Miranda could hear. The women pushing past the pair seemed to give them an inch more of space, then a foot, until, it seemed they disappeared altogether. “I know it is weird to offer this in an airport bathroom… I saw you in the line.” She hesitated, “I have a daughter who is a little younger than you and, well, I don’t want to overstep.” The woman bit her lip and paused, then leaned in as though she might share a royal secret. “Sometimes… she has panic attacks, too.”

Miranda’s chest heaved and she felt weak. Someone could see her secret. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, struggling to choose between covering her face and slumping to the floor.

“Was I that obvious?”

Five things I can touch: my purse, my jeans, the bathroom stall door, that needle-like item poking the heel of my foot, that stupid ring.

“Oh, no.”

Four things I can see: the tile floor, my hands, the pill, the pile of toilet paper under light up sneakers.

“Do you think something is wrong with me?”

Three things I can hear: a gasp, “OH, NO,” “oh, no.”

“This is just like what Dionne said.”

Two things I can smell: lavender and bathroom disinfectants.

“If my mom was here - if only my mom was here.”

The woman stepped in closer, grabbed Miranda’s hands and held them tightly in her own. “Breathe, squeeze tight, I’m here. I’m not leaving.” Miranda hesitated and then squeezed back - first lightly then, as tightly as she could. The woman spoke up again. “It’s going to be alright. Just breathe.”

What am I really feeling? Untethered? I want my mom back, but I also just want to be at home.

Home was an elusive concept. Miranda remembered it now. She only carried underwear and a teddy bear because she was going to stay with her father in New York - for the same reason as she was in the airport now. He had clothes for her, a room, he always welcomed her visits. He texted her - twice - to ask if she made it to her gate and to let her know he was tracking the plane, that she would be late, that he couldn’t wait to see her again. But she didn’t read the messages- why? Because they were from the wrong parent.

“But that’s not his fault or your fault, Miranda. It’s this darn cancer,” her mother said, softly, the last time Miranda cried to her about how unfair it all felt. The last time Miranda cried to her mother about anything.

Her breaths steadied.

“Oh my God, mom, what are you doing? Let her go.”

A young woman appeared from the thin air around them, the bubble these two strangers created in the public restroom.

“It’s fine, Alexa. This is my client, how funny that we ran into each other!”

A well-rehearsed script. A lie. But a necessary one for people in crisis.

“Well, our flight is boarding! Didn’t you hear the announcement?”

“Coming, dear.” The stranger smiled and slowly let go. Miranda extended her arms, wishing she could chase after her, adopt her, have a mother of her own again. But she was gone – to Chicago, apparently – with her own child. Miranda would probably never see the stranger again, just as Miranda would never see her mother or her daughter.

But she could see her father, her brother, her cousins. She could get on the plane. She could text back.

Miranda turned around, found the ring she hated on the counter, threw it into her purse, then walked out of the bathroom. She was breathing again but she wasn’t finished - there was a vending machine around here somewhere. After tapping her phone to pay and grabbing her customary airport treat, she returned to her gate and found a seat between two families, more hopeful, now, to see her own. She slowly opened the wrapper, took a bite, and smiled.

One thing I can taste: chocolate.