Connections
by Ann Marie Byrd
The plan was simple. My husband and I would meet our son at D.C.’s Dulles airport, head to Italy, and create family memories that I’d cling to until my death.
Not that it’s imminent.
I made reservations months earlier and daily fantasized about glorious Italian scenes. We’ll climb through the Colosseum in Rome, toast sun-drenched Tuscany, savor chocolate gelato, and glide through Venice’s canals. We’ll stand amid the majesty of Michelangelo, Dante, da Vinci, and Galileo.
This will be perfect—the pinnacle of our family trips. Immortalized in a leather album.
Right. David and I, excited and punctual, entered the airport under a brilliant blue October sky. We rolled our bags across a floor glistening with mosaic turtles and palm trees.
My breathing quickened as I approached the security check, not because I carried contraband, but because I worried about my son—part of my daily ritual. He tends to be scattered.
I forced a deep breath and slow release.
Relax. He’s nineteen.
We settled into the drab gray and blue polyester décor, shifting every few minutes in our sturdy, uncomfortable chairs. I badgered David into phoning Michael, then waited for an update: Michael’s on schedule. His plane departs Greensboro in a couple hours. Right now he’s in his dorm room throwing shirts and jeans into his backpack.
A sweater, I thought. He’ll need a sweater.
“He wants to get a haircut in the Munich airport during the layover,” said David.
“What? Airports don’t have barbers. And if he’s spent the last two months growing out a mop top, he’ll set off every terrorist alarm between Washington and Rome.”
“He’s bringing dirty laundry.”
Is it so difficult for a college student to prepare for a trip? I don’t think a haircut and clean clothes are absurd expectations.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, we are preparing to board.” Our gate attendant prompted a surge forward. We filed onto the tarmac and climbed onboard.
A puddlejumper. We’re on a toy plane.
Never mind. It’s a short trip.
Our jet lifts off and I relax, picturing us in St. Peter’s Square—what are our chances of seeing the Pope? I think of Michael. He’s on schedule and in a couple of hours I’ll hand him his passport. Above the cotton-puff clouds I pull out his crisp booklet and open it. My son’s photo radiates unshakable, youthful confidence.
We land at Dulles and roll our way to Michael’s arrival gate. Another hour of killing time, but we’re fine. I read my Vanity Fair and joke with David. He stretches his arm around my shoulders and I rest my head against his chest. Life is good.
Michael should appear any second.
Any time now.
His ETA ticks past. The plane must be late. David paces a small trench between our seats and the window. Back and forth. I stay rooted to my seat, pretending to look serene. We’ve switched roles.
“OK. I’ll get the lowdown on what’s happening.” I stroll over to the desk attendant.
“Hi, will the plane from Greensboro arrive soon?”
“Ma’am, it landed a few minutes ago.” He doesn’t even look up.
“Great—so they’ll be coming off shortly.”
“Everyone’s off.” Do I detect a whiff of dismissal?
“Not everyone. My son’s not here yet.”
“What’s his name?”
Boy-Who-Can-Never-Be-On-Time.
“Michael.”
He types and squints. “Ahhh . . . He missed the flight.”
“He missed the flight?”
“Yes.”
“Yes,” comes my hollow echo.
I move toward David as he scans the crowd. Catching my look, he freezes.
“He missed the flight.” Why mince words?
His eyes open wide—a touch of wildness in them.
“Stay here,” I say. “Try to get him on the phone. I’ll check with customer service.”
That’s how I discover Neima, an airline attendant. Whatever they’re paying her, it’s not enough.
I outline the situation, adding, “He’s not returning our phone calls.” She chortles and starts typing.
“Hmmm. We could route him through London. He won’t be on your flight, but he could meet you in Rome.” More typing, and a scowl. “I’m not finding him. Where is your little knucklehead?”
“Here’s another wrinkle—I’ve got his passport.”
“We can deal with that.”
Neima leaves Michael a phone message: “Michael, this is the airline representative. Call your parents immediately. They are looking for you.”
I nod. He’ll love that.
“Honey,” Neima says, “I’ve got you beat. I’ve got a few kids around this age. One of them has a baby. Don’t worry about this. We’ll get Michael to Rome. Check back in 30 minutes.”
I hustle back to David.
“We have an alternate flight plan but he’s got to call.”
Right on cue. Rrriinnggg.
“Where are you?”
“Mom, this has been such a comedy. I missed—”
“We know. You missed your flight. Where are you now?”
“I’m still in Greensboro, almost at my gate. I’ll be in D.C. around six. I’ll make our connecting flight. You know, for a moment when it looked like things wouldn’t work out, I thought about dumping Italy and heading to Albuquerque to see Aunt Linda.”
“What flight are you on?”
“You should have mailed me my passport.”
“Your flight, Michael.”
“U.S. Air. Mom, I’ve got to move. People are staring at me.”
“No one is looking at you. What’s your flight number?”
“1475, maybe. I don’t know. I’ve got to go. Remember, I need a barber in Munich. And a laundromat in Rome. See you.”
Click.
David steers me toward Starbucks. “The important thing,” he says, “is that he handled this on his own.” He orders me a cheese danish and coffee. “He faced a problem and he solved it. Something important just happened. I think we should be celebrating.”
Forget the haircut, the laundry, the missed flight, my son’s inability ever to be on time, the pounds I’m adding because of this gooey pastry. It never gets easier, does it?
I cling to David’s wisdom—something important just happened. If I can hang on for a couple hours more, they’ll be serving free wine on Lufthansa.
Ann Marie Byrd lives in Jacksonville, Florida. She is a founding editorial board member of EAT, an annual CD of story and music, and has published in America in WWII, Literary Mama, Lost, and Fiction Fix. She currently is at work on narratives of veterans who served in the WWII Women’s Army Corps.
