Destination to Somewhere

Destination to Somewhere

by Spartacus Lawrence

— — —

It’s Friday evening, and there’s a holiday on Monday. I’m in my car in bumper to bumper traffic — my old blue Buick, nearing 100,000 miles. She runs good most days, but today the muffler is sounding weak, a puff of smoke bloats from the rear.

When I think of vacation, a picture of a sunny beach and clear skies comes to mind, but that’s not what I have today. Rain is pounding the windshield with vigor, visibility is low. I’ve grown to know that this drive, the one to the airport, is often filled with delays, and today is no exception.

The slow crawl leads to airport parking. I grab a ticket, and the arm lifts to allow me inside. The lot appears full, or nearly. It’s a slow glide until a spot is located. Of course, it’s the farthest from the bus terminal, the one that transports you to the check-in.

I pull up the hood on my raincoat, grab my suitcase from the trunk, and make an earnest effort to hit the bus waiting area, hoping the next bus is only minutes away. To my dismay, and whatever calamitous hell has laid out for me — it’s not arriving anytime soon. Thirty minutes later, the headlights are visible. The bus pulls up and stops at a large dip in the asphalt surface. Today, it’s a puddle, with increasing volume as the rain continues.

I make my best effort to step across, almost successfully. Once aboard, I load my suitcase to the available rack and pull down my hood. There’s an empty spot in the back, and I secure it for myself. Finally, a moment of rest.

The ride is short, but turbulent. Every corner is felt, and my body joggles in the same motion as the bus’s movement. I grab a pole to steady myself. The bright spot is that now I see the terminal.

Terminal C. That’s mine.

The bus door steps open, creaking in an unexpected way. At least it’s stopped under an overhang, close enough to the curb that stepping off is efficient and clean. I struggle with my bag — the step down is higher than expected. I almost stumble on my departure, but catch myself just in time to avoid an embarrassing fall.

I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath. Releasing it creates a feeling of relief.

I step aside to allow others to depart and straighten my coat. The rain remains, but at this moment I am dry and ready for the journey ahead. The smell of car exhaust and the mustiness of the terminal overlap, competing for attention. The airport has a unique smell that only exists in this exact spot. Every trip, the same experience, the same smell. I wouldn’t call it pleasant, but it signifies something — for me, airports are a sign of the place away from the static daily routines that plague me the other days of the year. This small discomfort is okay. The payoff exists beyond the entry doors.

*

Check-in feels robotic. Machines and personnel run through standard protocols — checking documents, asking questions, and scanning for objects not allowed. On the other side, a bit of freedom. My suitcase is checked and I’m left with my backpack and myself. Able to catch a breath, I have time to casually walk towards my gate. The airport terminal is busy. The holiday weekend has attracted more than a typical weekend. More people traveling, more staff and more scrutiny.

I stop at a store and grab snacks for the flight — a bag of pretzels and a bottle of Coke. I decline a bag and instead pull off my backpack, unzip it and store my booty. The clerk wishes me a good flight, and I reply with a “Thank you.” After securing my bag and hoisting it back in place, I finish navigating the terminal to my gate, C5.

I double check the board for flight information and match it against my boarding pass. All align. I arrive early enough that comfortable choices still exist in the waiting area. I find my preferred spot towards the back and put in my ear buds and listen to a podcast while I wait.

There is still forty minutes until boarding starts. The podcast claims flight delays are on the rise. It forces me to glance back to the board to make sure mine still says ON TIME.

“Oh, good,” I say to myself. Nothing to worry about but what starts on the other end of my flight. Denver. That’s my destination. I’m visiting a high school friend that I’ve stayed in touch with. We’re both excited about seeing each other. She has events already planned, likely more than we’ll accomplish, but enough to make memories.

Focused on what’s in my ears and looking aimlessly, I see a young mother sitting opposite me. She’s struggling with her infant, and all that folds into motherhood — the stroller wheel caught on something, her diaper bag sliding off her shoulder. She seems a bit overwhelmed. She’s managing, but it’s clear she’s struggling.

“Hey, there,” I say. “Do you need a hand?”

*

“Yes,” she says in a breathy voice. “The stroller wheel is caught on something, and I seem to be making it worse.”

I pull the ear buds away, and tuck them and my phone in my pocket, then stand.

I walk across the aisle towards the stroller and examine the situation. The wheel seems to be wrapped around a blanket hanging low from the infant. I ask her to stop moving for a moment, and bend down to pull the offending blanket away from the stroller wheel.

“My name is Marc, by the way,” I say, and extend my hand to hers.

“I should know better, your hands are full,” I chuckle to make a joke of the situation.

“I’m sorry. I’m not running at a hundred percent today,” she says. “My name is Claire. Thank you for helping me.”

“No problem at all,” I say, returning to my seat.

As I settle back into place, I ask “What’s taking you to Denver?”

“I’m actually from a town just outside of Denver, called Longmont. You’ve probably never heard of it.”

I think it over, and coincidentally, I have heard of it. As I continue to think, I’m trying to remember why I would know that town. It’s not one of the more popular suburbs, such as Golden or Arvada or Littleton. But Longmont is one that I know. I can’t place it immediately, but know that it will come to me.

“So if Colorado is home, what brought you out to Philadelphia?” I ask.

“We’ve been visiting family, taking my daughter Chelsie to meet her grandparents.”

“I hope you’ve had a nice visit. I bet they were delighted.”

“This trip was bittersweet. My husband passed away when I was pregnant, and this is the first time I’ve been back here since.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.” I stumble to find the right words to offer condolences. Most responses feel ineffective. You cannot feel another person’s grief, cannot really understand what it feels like. I always struggle in this situation, and today follows that pattern.

“It’s okay,” she says. “It’s been almost a year now. You’d think it’d get easier as the days pass. Some days are just harder than others, but we are managing.”

I want to say something worth saying. I haven’t found it yet.

*

My face tells on me before I can continue. Claire clearly senses my discomfort.

“It was a freak accident. Chuck — he’s my husband — was my husband. I hate saying his name in the past tense,” she stops before the thought ends.

“Chuck. That was his name?” I ask to confirm. Something about this is starting to feel familiar.

“Yes. He was driving through the mountains with our dog. He loved those drives. Maisy, our dog, loved the mountain air. She’d always hang her head out the window, her tongue flying with the wind, her saliva all over the outside of the glass,” she reminisces, and a hint of brightness finds its way into this tale of sorrow. Her smile marks a shift in the moment.

Claire pauses, and glances back to her daughter, who’s resting her head against her shoulder. She is purposefully keeping her voice steady and alert, trying not to startle Chelsie and avoid the likely scene that would follow.

Before she can begin again, I feel unsettled in my seat. I move back and forth only slightly, and end up leaning closer into the conversation. Something about this story is familiar in a way that it shouldn’t be. It sits on the edge of recognition and presentness.

“I know this may sound a bit strange,” I pause before continuing. “By chance — was there an accident, and the dog caught the attention of a truck driver who called 911?”

Her posture straightens. She shifts Chelsie from one shoulder to the other. Her brows furrow and she leans closer to me. There’s a pained look on her face, a slight hint of a tear forming, but restrained. The kind that makes the eyes appear watery, the kind that shows more emotion than it does actual expression. Her body tenses, and Chelsie notices — repressing her cries.

“Yes. That’s exactly what happened,” she says.

“Is your last name Walker?” I ask, more out of confirmation than anything else.

“Yes, again. How do you know that?”

I pull in a deep breath and slowly release it. I’m unsure whether I want to cry or feel grateful.

“Chuck was my cousin. I wasn’t able to make it to your wedding, so I never had the chance to formally meet you. Damn. I wish I had gone. He’s gone, and this is the first time I’m meeting his wife and his daughter.”

*

“Chuck never met his daughter,” she says. The weight of this admission feels harsher than it should. I know my cousin, and I know he was likely thrilled when he learned of Claire’s pregnancy. I wish I had spent more time with him in the past few years. I feel like I lost a part of him, and the unknown is unsettling.

I don’t respond immediately. I let the admission breathe. The phone call comes to mind — the one where my aunt told me of the accident, the one that took my cousin, the one that abandoned a life of fatherhood. I know, without reservation, that Chuck would have been elated in the role of father. He had a wonderful bond with his own. They’d often travel to folk music festivals and camp outdoors.

Another cousin, Jerry, idolized Chuck. When we were kids, they spent every free moment together. If you saw one, the other was only a few feet behind. They were inseparable — some confused them for twins, which is a bit funny, because both were the only child in the household they went home to at night.

A few years ago, Chuck had gifted Jerry a pair of cowboy boots. Jerry had admired them quietly, secretly wishing he had a matching pair. The gift, although generous, was something Jerry held close to his heart. He wears them now with pride. You can see the change in his temperament when he has the boots on — Chuck is still with him in those moments, and it shows.

I was a bit jealous of the bond that Jerry shared with Chuck. Chuck was older than me by a decade. As you can imagine, there were few occasions where we hung out, or grew to know each other more intimately than family events. To this day, that’s one of my biggest regrets. I know that this discovery will have more profound implications than what’s laid out today. I know I’ll make more of an effort to be present in my cousins’ lives. Not just the Christmas dinner or Easter luncheon. But other times — events without meaning, where the only need is connection. I need to do better. This I’m certain of.

I’m pulled back into the present. Chelsie is starting to fuss, and Claire is doing her best to minimize any attention from bystanders. I hear her shush her daughter softly. She starts bouncing her on her knee and sings just above a whisper. The movement and the soft voice seem to have the desired effect on Chelsie, who begins to settle.

“You have the magic touch with your daughter,” I say.

Claire smiles.

“Motherhood has its moments of joy,” she says.

She turns Chelsie to face me and leans close to her ear.

“This is your Dad’s cousin, Marc,” she whispers. She waves Chelsie’s hand in my direction, and Chelsie smiles — although that smile may have been gas.

*

An announcement comes through with a burst of static.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, your attention please. Flight 1189 with non-stop service to Denver will begin boarding in twenty minutes. Those with special needs, members of the armed forces, and our platinum rewards members with priority boarding will be first. This is the last reminder until boarding starts. Please remain in the waiting area until your zone is called. You can reference your zone number on your boarding pass. Thank you.”

I remain leaning forward in Claire and Chelsie’s direction. This revelation is more than I imagined when I left for the commute to the airport. I don’t want it to end, but I’m fully aware that it is approaching.

“I know us meeting this way is a bit odd,” I say, not quite finding a better way to express it. “I hope we can keep in touch.”

“Yes, let’s do that. We are family, after all,” she says, still jostling Chelsie on her knee.

Family. That’s very true. In a world of seven billion people, what are the odds that this is happening right now. And yet, if I’m honest, the world folds in on itself more than we expect. Growing up, my family moved often. My father was in the military. Relocation was a constant in our early years — new cities, new people, new norms, new everything. On the other hand, you never quite put down roots. Relationships are transitional, rarely permanent.

When my father neared retirement, the place we landed became the place we stayed the longest. School changes ended. And it’s there where my longest friendships took hold — including the friend this trip was planned around.

“How about we exchange social media contacts?” I ask. “It’ll make it easier to stay in touch.”

“Yes, that works for me,” she says.

We exchange information. I add her quickly to my phone and send off an invitation before the moment passes.

*

As expected, Claire and Chelsie board with the first group of passengers. I remain seated, my zone is one of the last. Leaning forward, my bag at my feet, I sit in reflection of the moment that just passed — the one that created a new connection, the one that expanded my definition of family in a way I never expected.

Lost in thought, I almost miss the announcement for my zone. The remaining passengers move with a quiet urgency. I collect my bag, throw it over my shoulder, and queue with the stragglers who have yet to board, the conversation locked in my mind permanently.

As the line thins and my turn comes, I pull up my boarding pass on my phone. The gate agent scans it with a smile.

“Have a good flight, Sir,” she says.

“Thank you,” I reply, and continue down the jetway until the line stalls at the plane entrance.

Slowly, I navigate between passengers adjusting overhead bags and shifting in their seats. I pass Claire and Chelsie on my way to the back. We smile at each other. Chelsie is asleep in her arms.

Seat 21A. Always a window seat — my preferred spot. I tuck my bag under the seat in front, secure my seatbelt, adjust the air vent, and peer through the oval window. The rain has passed. Still overcast, but no new precipitation.

My thoughts shift to my friend — the one who is the reason for today, the one from high school. A military brat herself, she understands the life it brings and the surprises it sometimes unfolds. She’ll never believe the story I have for her. The one about the connection made today at gate C5.

Out of habit, I pull my phone from my pocket and make a note — the gate number, its importance, and a short summary of today’s discovery.

“Chuck, wherever you are, I hope you can see what happened today,” I say to myself.