In Transit

Rory found the journal just after the flight attendants had finished their safety instructions. She was fishing through her book bag, visions of her grandmother attempting to shove an oxygen mask over her face, when she discovered the slim notebook wedged between her copies of The Collected Fictions of Jorge Luis Borges and Persuasion. She pulled it out and turned it over in her hand. The covers were of smooth, shiny black material, held closed by a tight elastic band running from the top to the bottom, where a wedge of shiny black ribbon peeked out. She slipped her finger under the elastic and loosened it, opened the book.

The first page had only a "If Lost, Please Return To" label. Written there were the words "Lorelai Leigh Gilmore, known to the plebeians of her hometown as Rory, child of Lorelai, notorious coffee addict and pie lover." Beneath, the book had a space for a reward amount if recovered; Rory giggled to discover she'd be offering "just love, baby."

She turned the page and read the note in her mother's hasty, beautiful scrawl.

My Rory,

I know we're not much for journaling at the Gilmore house. It's for beatnik weirdoes dressed in black turtlenecks and berets pretentiously drinking Costa Rican blend coffees and feeling the burden of existence. Either that, or it's for thirteen year old girls with keys on necklaces and tendencies to underline everything!!! I know we've mocked the journal selection at the bookstore in town together and written fake "Dear Diary" moments for everyone we know—my favorite is still the historic day Kirk discovered his single chest hair and fantasized about being the model on romance paperback books. I know we think that our brains move too fast for something so pedestrian and slow as a journal, but sometimes I wonder.

I've been thinking about this all week as you've been getting ready to go, shuffling around under this enormous weight of guilt you've been feeling. You and I, we're talkers. We don't do the introspective thing. Either we spew out what we're thinking over a cup of coffee at Luke's and analyze it until it's been beaten to a bloody pulp by the sheer weight of words we've spent on it, or we bottle it up without looking at it at all. All week, I've been worried about who I'm going to tell my stories to, how I'm going to release the pressure in my brain if I don't have you around to talk things over with. And that makes me wonder if maybe you do the same thing, if you wait around on things to tell me about them or bottle them up and don't let them go. Knowing you and knowing me and knowing us, I'm pretty sure you do. And Rory, babe, that's not healthy. It's just not. And then, what about all those things we can't tell each other? All those things that we choose to bottle up? What happens to them? Are those the things that make us fall down?

I bought you this journal the other day while you were picking up film, thinking it would be a fun way for you to keep track of your trip and to remember what you wanted to after you got back, or as a way to vent if Emily drove you crazy. (And don't say it: I know that's me and not you.) But I've thought of something better. Use this trip as an opportunity to uncork the bottle, so to speak (except, dirty!), to get all that stuff out. Write down whatever you would tell me and everything else you wouldn't. That way, it's all out—it's on the page and not pent up, it's separate from you and maybe you can think about it. Or maybe you can't think about it, but at least you've tried. Maybe this way you can help yourself figure out what happened and why it happened and what you're going to do next. Do that whole finding yourself thing. I got one for me, too—I don't know that I'll use it, as I'm not known for my patience—my many other talents, yes, but not patience. And the one I got for myself isn't this nice moleskine, it's pink and magnetic. So's the pen.

Want to know how I'm going to begin all my entries? At the top of every new one, I'm going to write 'Dear Rory,' and I'm going to write everything as if I were sitting down and talking to you. It seems like it'll be easier that way. You could do that, or not do that, you could throw the whole notebook out the plane window, if you wanted (though I wouldn't recommend it, since the loss of air pressure will just suck you and everyone else out with it, and I'm sort of fond of you, so try to at least hang onto it until you land). Just give it a try.

I love you, Rory.

Mom.

Rory looked up when she had finished, smiling. She hugged the journal to her chest, feeling like a ten year old with a new toy. She glanced to the seat beside her, where Emily was absorbed in attempting to choose a movie for herself. Her grandmother had been strangely quiet since boarding, tired and flustered. Rory put her hand on Emily's arm and squeezed.

"Grandma?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you for this trip. I can't wait."

Emily smiled, her eyes sad. "I can't either," she said.

Rory slipped a pen from her bag and pulled her dining tray towards her, ready to begin. She turned to the first empty page, only to find more from Lorelai. She bit her lips to keep from laughing aloud as she read.

Dear Mom,

I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for giving birth to me. I know all those long, long hours were awful—like doing the splits on a crate of dynamite, as you said—and that the many months to follow were full of unpleasantness as well, such as yellow vomit, green vomit, orange vomit, and disturbing diaper messes. I would also like to tell you how very impressive you are as a human being: beautiful, vibrant, vivacious, witty, intellectually superior to all others, a goddess made flesh. You are above compare, Mom. I am blessed. Indeed, I am blessed. I pray that someday, I might live up to the shining example that has been set for me by your very existence. I am in awe, Mom. In the words of Darth Vader, indeed, you are powerful. I could not have put it more justly.

In loving gratitude,

Rory.

She uncapped her pen and rested her hand on the paper, the ballpoint hovering just above the page. After a moment, she began.

Dear Mom, My Lorelai,

I have no idea what to write about. But I guess it's a start, right?

Without stopping to think, she continued, smiling occasionally, sometimes feeling her eyes begin to sting with disappointment. She wrote until she was tired and then she closed the journal, securing it with the elastic. She began to look forward to the trip ahead.


When Lorelai woke, she found only a note on the pillow: "Thanks, angel. I'll see you soon." She grinned and hugged her pillow, giggling a moment. Immediately, she rolled over and reached for the journal she had stuffed in her bedside table drawer.

Dear Rory, she began, I have only one thing to say this morning: Luke is dreamy. I just made myself want to vomit, a little, but really? He is. Lorelai sighed and chewed on her pen cap. I have one other thing to say, as well: I'm afraid that the inn's going to spontaneously combust and we'll all be out of jobs, sunk in debt, and desperately unhappy. And somehow, it's going to be all my fault. Shit. I was in a better mood when I woke up. That almost never happens.

Let's start over:

Luke is dreamy.

And there's the good mood again. God, I'm like a prepubescent boy. What have I become? What, I ask you? It's very weird. I obviously need coffee.

Miss you,

Mom.

She closed the journal with a snap, shoved it back into the drawer, and rolled out of bed, fairly bouncing with energy as she made her way to the kitchen for coffee.


Days In Between

The week before the opening was a whirl of last things—last touch-ups, changes, rearrangements and readjustments. Room twelve had escaped serious water damage, but the pipes needed to be fixed and the rugs replaced, the furniture shampooed to prevent the smell of mildew and the electronics thrown out, for safety's sake. Lorelai cringed to think of the money lost as she saw the rugs and TV thrown out, but because it was all due to faulty plumbing, she would not have to eat that much of the cost. She oversaw the refinishing of the room and got to move the furniture around as she had wished to do, and it was one of those many last things that were keeping her awake nights. She would be only too glad to have the inn open and running—any crisis that happened after that point she felt was well within her control. It was the uncertainty she couldn't quite live with.

But for Luke, she thought, her head was likely to spin like Linda Blair's before flying off her body altogether. She called him often during the day to whine about one thing or another. She was soothed by his constant refrain, "you can handle this, you know you can." Of course she knew she could: she just liked hearing it better from him. She would walk to the diner after leaving the inn, a bag over her shoulder full of lists and calendars, the pink journal living at the bottom underneath it all. She'd have dinner, either staring at a list or flipping idly through a magazine, hastily scrawl a note or two in the journal, and sip coffee, waiting for the crowd to thin and for Luke to walk her home. It was a routine that felt comfortable from the start, like slipping into a shirt already worn soft.

Rory had been right: no one in Stars Hollow thought much of Luke keeping Lorelai company almost constantly in Rory's absence, at least to Lorelai's knowledge. It was town gossip that Lorelai's parents had split and that Rory was keeping her grandmother company so that Emily could get away from her husband; it was also town gossip that Rory had not been quite herself before leaving and either that rotten Jess had trampled her heart again or some boy at Yale had dropped her like a bad habit. Either way, they assumed—as far as Lorelai could tell—that Lorelai was wounded Rory chose to take off because of her problem and Luke was watching out to make sure she didn't stick her head in the oven or jet off after Rory and leave the inn in the lurch. If she hadn't been so offended that people thought her that weak, Lorelai would have been highly amused.

Her nights with Luke were joyfully uneventful. He would sit on the couch, and she would lay beside him, her head pillowed on his thigh as he stroked her hair, or they would lie together, watching TV or a movie. The delightful pain in her chest that began the moment he kissed her had transformed to a singing buzz just under her skin and the fluttering resumed every time he kissed her. She had a vague notion that together it added up to contentment.

They kept their conversations light—no discussion of the past or the current and future state of affairs. Lorelai was grateful for this; it was a week full of too many other pressures, and the time spent with him was absent any kind of drama. She could tell there were things he wanted to say, but he had been patient with her so often before, and that part of their relationship hadn't changed. Three nights he stayed over (the bedroom situation remaining PG), stealing away in the early morning before she woke, never leaving without a note or, as she was happy to discover, the coffeemaker ready to brew when she turned it on.

She had yet to hear from Rory or her mother aside from the message on the machine that they had arrived safely and they would call her at some point in the near future. She knew from the detailed itinerary that they would be in Paris for a week, and from there they would go to London and Bath, then to Italy, where they would spend the majority of the trip touring. Lorelai wondered what use Rory was making of the journal she had tucked in her daughter's bag at the last moment. When she wrote in her own journal, her thoughts consisted mainly of ways that the Dragonfly would be a horrible, devastating failure and how she would spend her destitute future. She had concocted an elaborate scene in which she petitioned to become the first official hobo of Stars Hollow, delighting in her imaginary Taylor's reaction.

Thursday morning, she sat up in her bed, suddenly awake, disoriented, panic in her stomach. Immediately, she reached for the phone.

"Luke's."

"What day is it?" she demanded.

"Thursday," he said. "What, you get drunk after I left last night?"

She put a hand to her throat and felt herself shaking. "I just woke up—I thought I had missed it."

"Missed what?"

"Today. Tomorrow. Saturday." She paused. "God. I'm going crazy."

"You were there a long time ago," he told her. "Relax. You're just stressed."

"I think I'm going to puke."

"Lorelai, calm down. Focus. You're fine. The test run went great. The place looks fantastic. It's going to be fine."

"I know that, I'm just—"

"You're just making more worry for yourself than you need to," he said. "So quit it."

"You're very sympathetic," she said, her voice flat.

"You don't need sympathy," he told her, "you need common sense."

She growled at him. "Sympathy!"

"Get up, get showered, have some food, and go to work," he told her. "You won't have time to worry if you get down in it with your hands."

It was all she needed. "Dirty!"

"Goodbye, Lorelai."

She hung up and reached for the journal.

Dear Rory,

I like the way my sheets smell now—you ever notice how men have that certain smell, like they all use the same soap? I love that. I hate it when he's not here when I wake up. I hate it when he's not here when I go to sleep. How can something so comfortable be that intense? I'm totally that annoying girl who can't go to a party without her boyfriend unless she's pouting about how he's not there and it would be soooo much better if he were, except the party's in my bed and I'm really glad I wrote that down instead of told you about it, because dirty!

Oh, babe, why do I keep anticipating disaster? Why? Why? Why now? It's because everything's going too well, maybe. That's when the shit always starts. Isn't it?

She threw down her pen and climbed out of bed, groaning. This whole journaling thing was the least fun thing she could think to do. It just cluttered up the works—she knew Rory would take the opportunity to analyze her thoughts, figure things out, weigh everything and come to a conclusion, as though her entire personality were a scientific experiment. But Lorelai, when given the opportunity to dwell on what was bouncing around in her head, found herself more entrenched in the negative without any way to see past it. She had to get up, do things, prevent all the disaster her brain was intent on thinking up. As she stripped down for her shower, she hoped it was working better for Rory.


Dear Mom,

Okay, Paris is one crazy big city. And Grandma is a champion shopper. I bet you didn't know the sole purpose of this trip was to provide me an entirely new and designer wardrobe courtesy of Grandpa's platinum cards. Not that I'm complaining, entirely. I did get these cool pink heels that are going to look amazing with jeans.

I miss you when I see something funny. There was this woman today in the store where Grandma and I were shopping, and she had this gigantic Luis Vuitton handbag, the white one with the colored writing on it? She was dressed straight out of an Audrey Hepburn film, a white suit with black trim, black heels, and this enormous black hat that puts Andy McDowell to shame—but really, what doesn't put Andy McDowell to shame? So she's looking at these truly heinous silk scarves, humming to herself, and I can't help watching her because it's just this fascinating travesty when out of the bag pops this teeny weeny dog—a miniature Doberman, I think. So she's humming and the dog is there, wagging its head, and then it all of a sudden begins to sing along to the tune, yowling like crazy. I thought Grandma was going to grab the dog by the throat like Homer Simpson and put all of us out of our misery. And I wanted you to see it, I wanted you to be there. No one else would have appreciated it.

I've figured by now that Dean's not going to tell Lindsay or leave her. I hate that we did this thing to her and she'll never know, but I'd hate myself more if I told her and it broke her heart. (I could also see her going at me with a pair of scissors: she looks like she'd be a vicious girl-fighter, and I'm not really one for the physical activity, so that's another reason to keep it to myself.) How do I put that in a box? How do I tuck it away so that it doesn't infect everything I do all the time?

I don't love Dean. I wish I did. It would make me feel better to have something to feel bad about that wasn't something I did, but something I couldn't control, something like loving someone who didn't belong to me. I don't think Dean loves me, either. I just think he's incredibly unhappy and everything he does is a way of avoiding the unhappiness. I just wish I had figured that out sooner. And I don't want to become that. So, Mom, what do I do?

If you tell me to keep on trucking, little buddy, I might have to come home and kill you.

Love, Rory.

Rory wrote in the journal every night before she went to bed. It lead always to sound, dreamless sleep that was never quite refreshing, but it was better than lying awake all night, thinking long thoughts.


Lorelai's father called on Friday afternoon, asking what time he should arrive at the inn the next day.

"Dinner starts at seven," she told him. "We've got you a special reserved seat. I wasn't sure you were coming; I hadn't heard from you yet."

"We had an engagement," Richard said. "Of course I will be there."

"Thanks, Dad."

"Ah, Lorelai?"

"Yes, Dad?"

"Have you… heard at all from your mother this week?" His voice was hesitant.

"She and Rory arrived in Paris just fine," Lorelai said. "They'll be in London on Monday, I think. They'll probably call again then. Any messages?"

He was silent a moment. "No, no messages. Thank you, Lorelai."

"Sure, Dad. I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yes, indeed. Have a good day, Lorelai."

"Thanks, Dad."

She hung up and closed her eyes. In her head, she began to write. Dear Rory, she thought, I have never heard my father sound so sad, ever. I feel terrible for him. Hope Paris has been beautiful for you.


Saturday dawned clear and bright. Lorelai watched her staff as they collected and transferred luggage, brought extra towels, offered whatever the guests needed to be comfortable. Her chest swelled with pride: they were doing everything right. Michel was—well, Michel was Michel and it was why he was both irritating and good at what he did. And today, she loved everyone. She stole moments in the kitchen with Sookie, who was ping-ponging around the kitchen frenetically, shrilly giving instructions to her crew.

"Things are going well," Lorelai told her.

"Things are going well!" Sookie grabbed Lorelai's hands. "I think I'm going to have a heart attack," she said.

"Oh, sweetie, calm down. The food is going to be fabulous."

"I know that," Sookie said, "but I'm still freaking out."

"Me, too." Lorelai put her arm around Sookie and rubbed her shoulder. "Let's take a breath," she said, and both breathed deeply. "Okay. Let's stop with the whole doom and gloom foreboding. We have to enjoy this, don't we? This is our dream. And it's all happening."

"It's all happening," Sookie said. "Are you still freaking out?"

"Little bit."

"Me, too."

"So, is it okay if we're freaking out and it's all happening?"

"We're only human, Sook." She paused. "You have any coffee back here?"

Things went smoothly all afternoon, things running just as they should, people behaving just as they should, and Lorelai remembered why she had wanted to do it all in the first place. Flowers from Luke arrived at three. When she called, he sounded harassed.

"Hey," she said. "The flowers are beautiful."

"Good."

"Something wrong?"

"I'm gonna kill Taylor," he began.

"Ah, just another day in Stars Hollow. What's going on?"

He cleared his throat. "Nothing, never mind, it's not important. How's things going over there?"

"Fantastic. It's wonderful."

"You hanging in?"

"I am. Will I see you later?"

"Count on it."

"Hey," she said. "Every time you think you want to kill Taylor, just remember how he looked with the toupee."

"And that," Luke said, "is why I like you."

Her father arrived promptly at quarter to seven. Lorelai met him at the reception desk, smiling broadly.

"Dad, hi."

"Lorelai, the place looks lovely."

"Oh, thanks, Dad. Follow me, I'll show you to your table." She glanced over her shoulder at him as she walked him to the dining room. "Have you lost weight?" she asked.

He patted his chest with his hands. "I suppose I have," he said, a trifle absently. She sat him at a small table by the window and he looked around. "This is quite the best seat in the house," he said.

"And just for you."

"Will you be joining me?"

"I'll drop in," she said. "I have to circulate." She noted with surprise that he seemed slightly disappointed. "I can sit and stay for dessert," she added.

He nodded. "I look forward to it."

Luke arrived in the kitchen at seven-thirty. Lorelai's chest tightened slightly, and without greeting him, she grabbed him by the hand and pulled him out onto the back porch. She threw her arms around him and pressed her cheek against his.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi." He leaned back and kissed her. "You look happy."

"Best crazy day ever," she said. "My dad even came."

"Your dad's here?"

"Uh-huh. You want to join us for dessert?" He stiffened. "Oookay. Never mind. I should probably be able to leave in like, two hours?"

"I'll meet you out front."

Her father was staring thoughtfully into his coffee cup when Lorelai plunked herself into the seat across from him. "What, they playing a movie in there?" she asked.

He looked up as though surprised to see her. "Lorelai," he said.

"How was the dinner?"

"Absolutely delicious. My compliments to the chef."

"I'll pass that along," Lorelai said. "I ordered us the dark chocolate cake for dessert." He nodded. "Dad, are you okay?"

"Fine, fine. I just—" He sighed. "Our house," he said, "is very big."

"Yes," Lorelai said. "One of its greater selling points."

"It is a very big and very loud house, especially for being an empty one."

"You miss Mom," she supplied.

Again, he sighed, more heavily this time. "I miss your mother very much."

"Dad, what were you fighting about?"

He rubbed his eyes. "It's very complicated, Lorelai."

"Do you want to explain it to me?"

Just as Richard opened his mouth to speak again, he stopped and looked up. Lorelai followed his eyes: Luke was hovering just behind where she sat. She gave him a questioning look. He seemed to gather himself up and approached them.

"Luke, hi," she said. She looked at her father. "Dad, you remember Luke. He came to Rory's graduation last year. Luke Danes, he runs the diner in Stars Hollow."

"Of course," Richard said, rising and offering his hand. "Luke, nice to see you again."

"How are you, sir?" Luke asked gruffly.

Lorelai bit her lips together to keep herself from laughing. "Bring up a chair, Luke."

The three of them sat together, making awkward small talk. Lorelai thought she could see the steam coming out of Luke's ears, but she wanted to kiss him for trying so hard. And if she and her father had ever done that sort of thing, she would have thrown her arms around him and hugged him as hard as she could, shelving his own problems to be personable as he was.

"So, Luke, did you also receive a special, opening day invitation?" Richard asked.

Luke stuttered for a moment. Lorelai jumped in, telling him that Luke was an investor. She blinked and saw Luke was slightly hurt by this and she heard herself nattering on, saying "you know, helping local businesses, expanding the town's economic base…" She trailed off. "Actually, Dad, neither you or Luke ever need an invitation to drop in here. You're my dad," she said lamely.

"I did know this, Lorelai," he said.

She could feel Luke watching her. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and worked it for a second. "And Luke and I are… seeing each other," she said.

She envied her father's ability to control his countenance. "Well. That's something, isn't it?"

"It is," she agreed. She looked at Luke, who was staring intently at the table. "It is something," she said, drawing out her words.

"This is awkward," Luke said. He looked up, startled at the sound of his own voice.

"I quite agree," Richard said. "Lorelai, where's that cake?"

She walked her father to his car shortly afterwards. "Dad?"

"Yes, Lorelai?"

"Please come and eat here whenever you want. We could keep Friday night dinners, just have them here. Or not, whatever you want."

"Thank you, Lorelai." He put his arm awkwardly around her shoulder. "You've done a nice job here."

"Thank you, Daddy."

She watched him drive away, her arms crossed over her chest. Luke met her at the bottom of the drive. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she sighed. She stepped toward him and leaned heavily against his chest. "I am tired," she said.

"Come on," he said. "I'll take you home."

"I could use a foot rub." Her voice was hopeful.

"Keep dreaming," he said.


Dear Mom,

It's raining in London. Cliché? Or a perfect way to see the city? I leave it to you.

Hope the opening went well. I've been thinking about it all day. I'm sure it was amazing: it's you and Sookie, after all. It's all old hat. (Please forget I said 'old hat.')

Grandma is so quiet all the time. It makes me sad. Do you think she and Grandpa—of course they will. They have to. Otherwise the world will begin to spin backwards.

I miss you, but I think it's good to get away. I keep thinking about how this trip is like my Grand Tour, like I'm some young socialite learning about different cultures, but really all I'm responsible for is showing off my good figure in the hopes of landing me a man. It's entertaining.

Sometimes I think about what would have happened if I had gone with Jess. I don't know that I would have been happy—I would have been waiting all the time for the bottom to drop out. Maybe it's why what happened with Dean happened the way it did—Dean always seemed so certain to me, solid in a way I could never count on Jess to be. But that was what was intriguing about Jess—it's a whole mess in my head, you know? I left Dean for Jess because he was everything Dean wasn't, and I went back to Dean because Dean isn't Jess.

I'm such a mess, Mom. I miss you.

Love, Rory.