In the Middle

Fact: the middle seat is the least preferred spot on a plane for most people. Except for me. In my mind, the gap between the aisle and the window is an open runway, ready for conversation.

But as I’ve reminded myself several times on the metro to Dulles airport this morning, today will be different. I will not pester anyone on this flight. No personal details will be shared on my podcast. Today, I’m simply a Delta passenger. Destination Charleston.

Over the last six years, I’ve lost count of how many departures I’ve taken out of DC, the birthplace of our nation. And the birthplace of this project. Definitely enough times for TSA agents and stewardesses to greet me with knowing smiles. A few of them have volunteered to share their stories with me, but that’s not the motif of the idea. We have to sit next to each other. Specifically, with me in the middle seat. Hence the name, “In the Middle with Marie.”

This morning, a stewardess scanning boarding passes greets me with the typical “Welcome aboard!” I thank her and see her eyes widen with recognition when I speak. This happens often.

My voice is distinct - low and raspy, like I have a perpetual cold. One without the sneezing, thank goodness. The octave isn’t dainty or high-pitched like all the girls I envied in high school, but at least it’s memorable. Most importantly, it’s a conversation starter.

Over the years, it’s helped me connect with so many different types of people. Like the time I met a man who was missing a third of his fingers. Unprompted, he shared his deepest regret. His battles. His hopes for his nieces and nephews.

In his twenties, he had said, he broke into the music industry but lost it all to what he labeled “the damaging stuff,” which I assumed at the time meant drugs or alcohol. Now I’ve learned damage can happen quickly and in so many unassuming ways.

He never gave me the chance to ask what he meant. Words poured out of him faster than my questions could keep up. They gushed out of him like water pent up behind a dam. They were ready to release. Ready to connect with another soul.

Another time, a father of two admitted to a five-year affair. One he was still in. Both his mistress and wife were unaware. On that flight, he was traveling to celebrate his girlfriend’s twenty-first birthday in New York. That episode received a ton of angry emails, especially since I chose not to reveal his name. Ruining people’s lives isn’t the purpose of my podcast. Wherever people lead, I’ll follow.

I turn away from the front attendant and roll my silver suitcase down the short plank. Behind me, I heard her whisper loudly to someone else.

“That’s her! She’s filming ‘In the Middle’ here!”

I wade through first class, careful not to bump anyone with my tote bag. The rows are filled with men in business casual slacks, busily typing last-minute emails on open laptops. I make a mental note to not be like them…I can go one flight without recording, right?

If someone is seated next to me, I won’t be rude. We can have a conversation without a microphone involved…

Up ahead, I see my seat. 24E. To my surprise and slight relief, the row is empty. I slide the compact suitcase into the overhead bin. Then, careful not to bump my head on the carriage, I settle in.

Maybe keeping my promise to enjoy this flight will be easier than I imagined.

For a while, there’s a lull in the onboarding. Then I see the hold up. A father with deep circles under his eyes is scanning the seat numbers above my eyeliner. Behind him, a woman is holding a fussy toddler, bouncing him gently and cooing in his ear. His eyes are clamped shut as his wailing fills the plane with dread.

For a moment, I wonder if they are seated next to me. That would be ironic…

Behind them, my eyes wander to meet a middle-aged woman. She looks dressed as if ready for a feature in an island brochure. Effortless blonde hair flows down her shoulders, and she’s wearing linen pants and an airy blouse. There’s a glaze over her eyes, as if she’s deep in thought. Instead of looking above at the numbers, it seems like she’s staring…right at me. Reflexively, I smile. This seems to break through her thoughts. Quickly, the woman drops her gaze and fiddles with her purse.

The toddler’s screams are louder now. How can such a little child generate that much power within his little lungs?

Please don’t sit next to me, I silently pray. Trapped on a plane with a screaming baby will make me want to talk even more with whoever sits next to me…

I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until after they walk by my row.

Seeing them reminds me of my parents. Before they passed away, I asked them to join me on a flight to go in-depth with me about my childhood or share something personal from their lives. Both my mother and my father supported the podcast, but they preferred their privacy. Every time I asked, they declined my advances, with one reason or another. We’re terrified of flying. You know us already... What could you possibly learn?

But in reality, I didn’t remember a lot from my childhood. Maybe being happy, for sure, but not really the specifics. Not that I’m special for feeling this way. Many people I’ve interviewed have similar experiences.

Occasionally, memories of the ocean come to mind, and this joyful laugh. I’ve never placed who it belongs to. Whoever or whatever it’s from, it’s a comfort.

Since I was young, that has always confused me. Where did those memories come from? My parents aren’t exactly beach people. And I can probably count on one hand how many times I’ve heard them laugh out loud. They always keep their joy private, tucked away, and subdued. Perhaps I dreamt it or believed in an imaginary friend.

There’s movement to my left. I meet eyes, for the second time, with the island woman from the aisle. This time, she doesn’t look away, but offers a timid smile.

“Hi, are you in or out?” I ask, referencing the window seat. At the sound of my voice, the woman pauses. The faraway look from before returns briefly, before she blinks it out of sight.

Tiny freckles cluster across her nose. They mimic the hidden spots on my skin, which I coat daily with a thick layer of concealer. Up close, the speckles give her a youthful glow. I picture her earning them on a beach, soaking in the sun. Somehow, her freckles make me hate mine a little less.

“In,” she replies and shuffles backward to let me crawl out of the row. I notice she isn’t carrying a suitcase - simply a large tan purse.

“Wow, you travel light!” I acknowledge as I re-buckle my seat.

The woman smiles. “I was only here for a day trip. I don’t need much.” Teal sea glass earrings drop from her ears, highlighting the blue in her eyes. Maybe it’s her style, but her presence is calming, like a steady ocean wave lapping the shoreline.

A day trip! I’m intrigued. Why make a day trip to DC? There are so many possibilities. Deep inside my bag, the microphones tempt me. It would be so easy to pull them out.

Above us, the speakers come to life as the pilot begins his routine monologue. For me, each flight now feels like the opening of a play. The destination and characters are different, but the format remains consistent.

I place my phone into airplane mode and lean back against the synthetic leather. Everything in me wants to ask this very chic woman questions. They circle my thoughts like planes waiting for an open tarmac.

“I’m Shanda, by the way,” the woman says, her turn to break through my thoughts.

“Nice to meet you. Marie,” I reply.

“Your voice sounds familiar. Have we met before?” Shanda asks. A surge of pride flows through me. Maybe she listens to my podcast!

Outside, the view evolves as the plane leaves the terminal and rolls toward the runway.

“No, I don’t think so,” I say. Surely I would have remembered this woman if we had met.

“Odd,” she replies. “Is Charleston your final destination?” I appreciate her inquisitiveness. Even if I can’t record for the podcast, a steady conversation is always preferred.

“Yes, I’m headed on vacation. What about yourself?”

“Charleston is home. A perfect place for vacation, though. What do you do for work?”

Of course she’s from Charleston!

The plane turns right, then accelerates.

“Gum?” She asks before I can answer her first question. I smile and nod.

“Funny you should ask. I was going to offer you a piece,” I say. Gum is always a good indicator of whether or not I’ll have a good interview. If the person accepts, they usually are more open to speaking with me. If they decline, typically the conversation dries up.

It’s also the best hack to release pressure in your ears.

I unwrap the long rectangular piece and pop it in my mouth. Sharp, cool notes of peppermint coat the inside of my jaw.

Suddenly, I’m pushed back. Momentum from the plane’s ascent hugs me against the seat. From Shanda’s open window, I can see the world tilt and fall away.

This part always feels magical.

“I actually host a podcast,” I eventually say between chews.

“Very cool. Tell me about it,” Shanda says. Her words sound genuine. As if she actually cares to know the answer. Like we aren’t two strangers meeting for the first time. She’s attentive in a way I haven’t felt before.

“Well…normally I interview people,” I reply with a chuckle.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“I mean, does anyone ever interview you?”

Her question surprises me. No one has asked to interview me before this. The show is about interacting with people, sure. But they are the highlight. Not the other way around.

“It doesn’t really work like that,” I laugh. “As the podcast host, I usually just facilitate the questions.”

“How about now?” Shanda asks. There’s a mischievous look in her cerulean eyes.

“What…you interview me?”

She nods.

“Right now? Okay,” I shrug. What’s the worst she could ask?

A shift of turbulence jostles the plane. Above us, the fasten seat belt sign chimes on.

“Did you feel loved as a child?” Shanda asks matter-of-factly. Her voice is even, but there’s emotion behind her eyes.

Did I feel loved as a child?

In many ways, I did. Growing up, I had a safe home. Parents who provided for me. They took me on vacations, gave me presents, and allowed me to have any pet my heart desired. Name an animal, and I probably owned one. Yes, my parents gave me everything. Yet, at the same time, I remember feeling lonely. Disconnected on how we communicated as a family, my interests compared to theirs. Only children feel that way, though, right?

What qualifies as feeling loved?

Shanda looks intently at me, hanging on my next word.

“Yes, I think so,” I decide.

Shanda’s shoulders relax as if my answer has put her at ease.

“Do you have children?” I ask, desperate to move the conversation off of myself.

“Yes, a boy and a girl,” she says, then pauses like she’s thinking deeply about them. There’s something hidden in her eyes again, and for a moment, I think she’s going to release whatever story she’s reliving in her mind. Maybe she no longer speaks with her children. Or worse, maybe they are no longer here. Even though we have only known each other for less than an hour, I feel for this woman.

Shanda bends down to open her purse and pulls out a 3x2 print. For a moment, she holds it to her chest, like a child would a stuffed toy. I wait for her to share what it means to her, but she doesn’t. With a tremble in her hand, she releases it to my fingertips.

It’s only then that I understand. Recognition hits me like a baseball bat to the stomach. My grip tightens on the tiny print.

I emit an audible gasp as I scan the faces of two children.

A boy, no older than four, is sitting happily on a tire swing. He’s wearing denim shorts and a pale blue shirt. In true 90’s fashion, his round hairstyle drops slightly below his eye line. Instantly, I recognize him. Where have I seen him before? From a dream, perhaps? As a child at recess? A name bubbles up in my mind, like I’ve murmured it a thousand times in my sleep.

“Tommy?” I whisper, mostly to myself.

Shanda sniffles next to me as I scan the rest of the picture.

Incredulously, I snap my head back in Shanda’s direction. Now her blue eyes are moist as she searches mine.

Who is this woman?

“How did you get this?” I stammer. When she doesn’t immediately respond, I turn to look at the photo. A snapshot of the past. One I’ve forgotten somehow. Still, it lingers on the tip of my brain like a dream disappearing into dawn.

I can feel the iron chains of the tire swing gripped between my fingers. Tommy giggles as we spin faster and faster. My hair was so short then: cropped into a pale bob and signature kid bangs. A haphazard smile plasters my round face. A moment caught before the world made me self-conscious.

Behind us in the photo, propelling us forward is Shanda.

Did you feel loved as a child?

Her question resurfaces in my brain. A question only a mother would care to know.

Suddenly, I’m afraid. Afraid to know this woman - to know our connection. Without my brain’s guidance, my arms are moving into my bag, retrieving the microphones. The smooth plastic is oddly comforting.

A ding signals that the seat belt sign has returned. Remain in your seats. I don’t remember hearing them turn off earlier. Overhead, the pilot signals our descent. We don’t have much time.

I’m a cocktail of emotions - blending between trepidation and an eagerness to know the truth. For the first time, I see, I’ve always been here: in the middle of someone else’s story. Maybe that’s why the podcast idea comes so naturally.

From an early age, I felt like an enigma among my own parents. I was quick to diagnose our differences - what we liked, how I lacked the rich tones of my parents’ dark hair and their tall genes. I realize now I was waiting for them to mirror in me what this stranger in the window seat has offered: a blueprint of myself.

There’s so much I don’t know.

This fact unlocks in me like a once-sealed gate. I want to lap up its mystery until the truth coats me like new skin - the truth about who I am, where she’s been, and why we were torn apart.

“Tell me everything,’ I say to Shanda, readying my microphone and hitting the record button on my phone. I wait for her, knowing that once she begins, nothing will remain the same.