"The truth is that airports have seen more sincere kisses than wedding halls, and the walls of hospitals have heard more prayers than the pews of a church." - Unknown
He has always liked airports.
He is fascinated by them. The hustle and bustle, the constant flow of people, the thought that everybody has somewhere to be. He likes the sense of anonymity, how no one knows where anyone else is going. If he is honest, it makes him feel a little less alone.
Everything here is temporary, transitory, part of the interim. As though there is something more to come, something better. A change, a chance, a belonging.
He skims the crowd before him once more and his gaze falls on a woman with shoulder length brunette locks. Her back is to him and she sways as she stands, carrying a sleepy toddler on one hip and a diaper bag slung over her opposite shoulder. As he watches, she turns her head to press a kiss to her child's temple and he catches a glimpse of her profile.
He shakes his head and almost smiles at what he knows is his own sentimentality. His own nostalgia. His own absurdity.
He looks for her everywhere.
It isn't something that he does consciously, it just happens. No matter how improbable of a scenario, how unlikely of a locale, he can't help the way he searches for her. Though the odds of finding her are astronomical, he has never been able to stop looking.
"Heads up, Dad!" He glances to his left just in time to grab the large green suitcase from the conveyor belt before it drifts past.
He can feel his son's gaze on his face and he turns ever so slightly to glance over his right shoulder. At fifteen, Eli is nearly as tall as he is, so he doesn't have far to look to catch those blue eyes.
"You okay?" Eli reaches out to take the bag and adjust the height of the handle, so that he can pull it along behind them. It takes him a minute before he realizes his son has asked him a question.
"I'm fine, bud," he replies and Eli nods slowly, skeptically, as though he isn't quite convinced. He shrugs nevertheless and jerks his head away from the crowd before he starts weaving his way through the milling passengers. His son doesn't look back and he is grateful because that means Eli has faith that he will be right behind him.
He follows his son through the terminal and as Eli leads, he watches him. His son's blond hair lost the wispy baby curl long ago and has been replaced by sandy waves that mirror Rick's.
His youngest child's steps are purposeful, his strides long. The kid is built for soccer, but his heart lies on the football field. He doesn't wonder where his son got his love of the game. Eli knows that he played in high school and the kid uses that as ammunition every chance he gets to build his case against his mother that he should be allowed to try out next year. His sophomore year.
Both he and Eli enjoy watching the pros, but they share a passion for college football. This is their favorite time of the year. September: the beginning of the season.
That's where they have just come from: Clemson, South Carolina. Eli's favorite team, his favorite school, his favorite coach. His son is hellbent on becoming a Tiger and he will never bet against his youngest child's indomitable will.
The kid's spirit reminds him of her. Eli has an enthusiasm and an inner strength that he knows didn't come from himself or Kathy. He likes to think that on the day his son was born, the first person that held him gave him the gift of a strength that mirrors her own.
"Which gate, Dad?" Eli calls out over his shoulder. He glances down at the printed tickets in his hand.
"Twelve," he replies and the significance doesn't escape him. He has a thing with numbers. There are certain ones that seem to appear over and over in his daily life and twelve is one of them.
Jesus had twelve apostles. Henry Fonda had twelve angry men. His oldest son has been overseas for twelve months to the day. His home in Rochester, Washington is exactly two thousand nine hundred and twelve miles from Manhattan, give or take a few feet. He spent a little more than twelve years by her side and he has gone for a little more than twelve years without her.
Twelve.
It is a number he has come to associate with endings, with finality. He wonders if he will ever be able to come to connect it with something different, something filled with hope.
She has always hated airports.
They make her nervous and Pittsburgh International is no different. All the hustle and bustle and the frenetic pace of the crowds combine to put her on edge.
She has never thought of herself as a claustrophobic person, but closing herself and her son into a several ton metal tube and blasting through the air isn't exactly something that she considers to be within her comfort zone. They are twenty-seven minutes into their hour and twelve minute layover and she is trying to occupy her mind, so that she doesn't count every second until they are back in the air and on the descent into Newark.
She shivers once before she wraps her burgundy sweater tighter around herself and hunches forward to rest her elbows on her thighs. The sound of the miniature soccer ball scuffing against the floor just behind her is consistent and so she gives herself permission to close her eyes, just for a moment.
She imagines the gentle press of his palm against the nape of her neck, weighted, warm, soothing. She knows that his blue eyes would hold the sweetest mixture of concern for her with just a hint of playful teasing, but his grin would be reassuring. He would tell her not to worry, ask her to have a little faith, offer her his shoulder to rest upon, his hand to grip during take off when she can not believe that she is ten thousand feet in the air and climbing, climbing, climbing.
She shakes her head and almost smiles because she does this sometimes, more often than not, if she is honest with herself. She pretends that he is with her, beside her. She imagines his expressions, the sound of his voice, the touch of his hands. To this day, she talks to him as though he is a cross between an invisible childhood friend and her patron saint of everything.
She laughs aloud at the thought and the sound must reach her son because she watches as he dribbles his soccer ball back around the side of the long row of chairs to come to stand in front of her.
"You okay, Mom?" Noah asks, grinning eagerly as though he thinks she is going to let him in on a terrific joke.
"I'm fine, hon," she assures him with a smile as she reaches out to smooth his dark curls back from his forehead.
Her son is tall for ten and is a whirl-wind of athletic ability. He plays basketball, tennis, and soccer at school. Noah is happy, and funny, and as well-adjusted as she could ever even begin to hope for. He is smart, and inquisitive, and brave. He has a temper and a stubborn streak that she secretly loves, because it reminds her of herself and of someone else, too. He has a big heart and a deep sense of what is right and wrong and she couldn't be prouder of him if she tried.
Noah is constant movement, but he will slow down for one activity: to read.
Her son loves books and she is grateful because it is another magical coincidence that she shares with him. Harry Potter is his latest fictional obsession and the reason behind their trip. Orlando's Wizarding World of Harry Potter, their destination. She started reading the books to him two years ago until one bittersweet day, at the ripe old age of nine, when Noah declared that he was old enough to read them on his own. She has read each of the books too, right after him, and she thinks that she could probably hold her own in a Hogwarts trivia contest.
She has spent the last two days walking around Diagon Alley, buying over-priced Butterbeer, carrying Noah's Hufflepuff robe over her arm each time the weather became too warm for him to wear it, and savoring every precious minute with him. Her son just started fifth grade and between homework and after-school sports, her time to take him on adventures is limited, so she grabs every chance she can get. This long weekend has been the perfect time to surprise him with a packed suitcase and plane tickets as soon as he jumped off the bus on Friday afternoon.
She grins at the thought that this is who she is now, someone who doesn't think twice about taking off on a sunny weekend getaway with her son. She surprises herself sometimes with how much she has changed since she became a mother.
She smiles because she likes to think that he would be proud of her for taking time away, for doing something with her family. She imagines the way he would lean back in his seat, rest his strong arm on the back of her chair, and grin at her. She imagines the way he would shake his head in affectionate amazement, the ocean of his eyes, the timbre of his voice.
You did good, Liv.
There are moments when her chest aches, when she wonders if he would recognize her, and if she would still be able to surprise him, too.
To be continued...