“I’m tired.” I open the vents above my head and let the recycled air blow across my face. Normally, I close the vents because I don’t want recycled germs and cold air freezing me out, but nothing about this day is normal.
Before leaving for Sea-Tac this morning, I’d braided my hair and given Mom a side ponytail. She’d pulled on a cozy jogging suit while I’d pulled on my wool suit and four-inch heels. I could have left the house in cozy, warm sweats, but I am Lulu the Love Guru. I always have to look my best in public because the one time I don’t will be the one time I am recognized. The one time I have a big zit on my nose and bags under my eyes and I run into the store to grab a box of tampons and a Snickers will be the one time I hear someone behind me whisper, “That looks like Lulu the Love Guru—only uglier.”
A female flight attendant returns with a little bottle of cold water and a glass of orange juice and hands them to me.
“Where’s that foxy man?” Mom asks her.
Not foxy man again. This is getting embarrassing.
“Greg? He’s making coffee.”
“Ohhh… coffee.”
“Would you like me to bring you a cup?”
“No, but I would like Greg to bring me that snack basket so I can have another look at it.”
This will be her fourth go-round on snacks, and I suspect her hunger has more to do with “that foxy man” than with biscotti. I’m drinking the juice and holding the cold plastic bottle against my forehead when Greg returns with the basket.
“You’re so big and strong,” Mom coos as she plays with her side pony. “I like a big strong man. You make a girl feel safe.” The steward doesn’t know what to say to this old woman who keeps coming on to him. Some men look at my mom and just chuckle, while others look like they just want to run like hell. Greg falls somewhere in between.
“Mom, just pick a snack.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Biscotti, same as before,” I tell her.
“I wasn’t asking you,” she says without looking at me.
“You can’t go wrong with the biscotti,” he says.
“Ohhh, biscotti sounds wonderful.”
He hands it to her along with a napkin, then beats feet up the aisle.
“I wonder if he has a girlfriend.”
“He’s gay, Mom.”
She pauses for a heartbeat, then says, “Well, some men just haven’t met the right woman.”
I have to laugh. Mom’s never suffered from low self-esteem, but lately I’ve wondered what she sees when she looks in the mirror. Does she see a faded beauty with lines on her face and age spots on her cheeks? Or is she seeing the reflection of a girl in the bloom of youth? Or does she even give it a thought?
I buckle myself in because it gives me the delusion of safety and lean my head back and close my eyes. I fainted. For the first time in my life, I fainted. Apparently like a ton of bricks. I recall using the bathroom and looking at my face in the mirror as I washed my hands. I remember walking toward my seat—then nothing until I looked up into Mom’s face and she was asking what I was doing down there. I don’t remember feeling dizzy or light-headed. Nothing more than my usual flight anxiety. I’ve white-knuckled it before and not fainted. The only difference between those times and now is I didn’t have someone next to me wringing her hands during takeoff and wondering out loud if we were going to “make it.” No one looking out the window and saying, “We sure are really high now,” or “We’re so high in the sky, I can’t see the ground.” Even after I made her switch seats with me and closed the window shade, she still made comments like, “I sure hope we can get back down.”
Mom is the variable. It’s the Pat factor, and the Pat factor has been working overtime, tripling my anxiety. We have about two more hours before we land, and I know she’s not done. Beyond a ball gag, there’s nothing I can do about it. My head rolls to the side and I let out a groan.
“Hey, you. Hey, you,” Mom calls out. I open my eyes and she’s waving her hands in the air. “Hey, you, woman with the basket.” Oh God, more snacks while she’s still working on her last. “My daughter needs some ice for her head.”
And just as I’m thinking of ways to shut her up, she says something that warms my heart. “Thanks.”
“That’s what moms are for.” She smiles and leans her head back against the seat. “I’ll take care of you, Lou.”
It’s nice that she thinks so.
The attendant returns shor
tly with a little baggie tied at the top. The ice is heavenly on my forehead and I close my eyes and run through my mental checklist.