Stopover
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As I enter the Minneapolis Airport main terminal building, the wall clock agrees with my watch: 1:45 pm. Northwest Airlines’ arrival screen located on the opposite wall shows Flight 473 arriving from Newark, NJ, will land on time at 2:15 at Gate 10, on the Blue Concourse. I’ve got plenty of time. Relief instantly switches my heart rate, which downshifts my breathing from high to low gear.
Today wouldn’t have been the day to be late, I tell myself while walking my normal pace down the endless corridors of the Minneapolis Airport. I arrive at the gate1 15 minutes early. The waiting area is already crowded. Made tenser yet by the auditory invasion of my personal space by the loud chatting, I decide to pace the corridors while I wait for them, rather than sit and twitch and twist and churn.
I have known her for all but the first six weeks of her 25 years, but haven’t seen her in almost four. And before that, it had been... OK, stop it, I tell myself. Now is not the time to remember the bad old days, the pain, the sorrow, the grief, the regrets, the sadness, the estrangement, the absences, the void. All that matters now is that she finally made a move to cross the gap and reach out.
And I am about to meet him. The pictures of him she’s sent me ever since he’s been in her life were enough to give me an excellent idea of what he looks like. He is so handsome that it’s hard for me to keep enough emotional distance not to be crushed by my vulnerability.
She suggested that I spend a few minutes with them while they transfer from their flight from Newark to their flight to Portland. Just enough for me to meet him. But not enough to reconnect with her, I instantly thought... One step at a time, I repeat to myself to soothe the ongoing pain caused by her rejection of me since her early teens.
Afraid to miss their coming out of the jet way, I return to the gate when the clock says 2:10. Every time I think that I am finally going to meet and kiss him, my heart bounces off the walls of my chest cavity. I take so many deep breaths to slow it down that I fear the people around me will think I am hyperventilating.
The outside door slams open, and the usual gaggle of passengers starts to disgorge from the 737 parked at the other end of the jet way. My eyes so intently focus on their procession for fear I might miss them, that I am afraid to even blink. It seems that the population of the whole state of New Jersey is pouring through that door. My eyes are starting to burn, and I swear I’ve seen more shapes, colors, and sizes of human beings file out in front of me than I thought existed. I am starting to panic.
And then, among the last to emerge, there they are, trailing behind the other, encumbered passengers. My baby and her baby. She was born in my heart instead of under it, long before another woman’s body propelled her into the world. He was one with her body for nine months before she gave him the gift of life. As I wished so many times I had given her.
In one glance, I catch her eyes -- as blue as ever--, her smile as timid and awkward as mine must be. In that same glance I also register she still is one good head taller than I am -- did I think she’d shrink because she was out of my life? I also notice that she’s let her blond hair grow shoulder-length again.
As she keeps walking toward me, my eyes also take in and fill up with the vision of the small bundle she’s holding: round head covered with thin blond fluff, wide and high forehead, huge blue eyes which devour his soft little face. Those solemn and intense eyes stare quietly at the lady his Mommy is hugging very tightly, indeed. One second more, and I officially meet him. My first grandchild, my grandson, the spitting image of his mother at the same age.
This is the moment I’ve been waiting for ever since she called two months ago to say she was moving to Oregon, where she had located her biological mother. The apprehension I had felt about what to say and do once she and I are face to face after all those years, and how to handle a nine-months old infant who might prefer to hang on to his mother, swells up again tenfold.
She and I hug silently, endlessly, long enough for the tears to stop dripping on each other’s shoulders, while no words come out of either of our mouths. I am dying to get my hands on that soft, warm and adorable bundle who is tightly wedged between us.
To break the ice and bridge the gap which we both feel equally, we resort to the traditional How was your trip, How are you, How did the baby behave in the plane, Are you hungry, Does he need a bottle. All this trivial small talk -- the like of which I usually detest -- is the safest thing for both of us, right now.
Their flight was on time, but their stopover time is short, and we have to keep going. She didn’t bring a stroller, and we hail an electric cart to take all three of us, plus assorted carry-on, to Gate 42. Gold concourse, of course. At the very end of the airport. The three of us pile up on the two-person back seat. It takes all my reserves of self-control not to grab and squeeze him in my arms, no doubt to suffocation.
While the cart creeps slowly through endless corridors, dodging oblivious passengers, he is still silently observing me. I feel I am being gauged, evaluated, assessed and rated. I can no longer stand it and reach out for him. I am still afraid he is going to shy away and cry to return to his Mom.
But he doesn’t. He settles comfortably in my lap, my arms around him. I fight to keep tears down. My insides feel like they’re melting and might seep out through every crack if I don’t hang on tight to my composure. She and I chat of this and that, never straying from the safe and impersonal chatter of such tense encounters.
I am stroking his little head. I guess he’s reached his comfort zone, because he’s no longer staring at me and lowers his head to fiddle with my bracelet. When he nestles his head in my shoulder, in what I see as a sign of acceptance of the security and love he feels from me, I know I am in for it. Tears start gushing out. No longer able to suppress them, I only try to be silent about it, not to embarrass myself and her. He’s won, I think. Then I realize the three of us have.
We arrive at the Gold concourse, and finally reach her departing gate. They have started boarding her flight to Portland with First Class passengers and families with young children. That includes the both of them. The gate agent allows me to accompany them down the jet way during pre-loading1. I get them settled in their seats, while anxiety fills every square inch of my innards. I’ve never been good at good-byes. Now less than ever. I feel like my guts are being ripped apart. Last hugs, last kisses, while the rest of the plane is filling up. Last wet smiles trying to express and share things that haven’t been voiced and need to be. And maybe will one day. But not now. The flight crew is ready to close the door, and I must leave.
So I do. I turn around and start walking back up the jet way to return to the terminal. And all of a sudden, I can’t hold on any longer. A tidal wave of both joy and sadness makes my legs buckle and my eyes drown. The jet way is empty, and I am beyond caring about appearances, anyway. I’ll make a scene if I want to. I’ve earned the right to one, and I deserve it.
Crouching on the floor like a wounded animal, I wrap my arms around my legs bent at the knees. I bury my head inside my folded arms, and let go. My shoulders heave, and I sob uncontrollably. Tears pour through my arms and between my legs.
In the space of 30 minutes, I have met my grandson, fallen head over heels in love with this new man in my life, and seen him off for an undetermined length of time. How could he conquer my heart so quickly?
During that short time, I have also met my daughter in her new role as a mother. Her joining the ranks of motherhood makes the inexorable shift of generations invade and alter my world as it did hers. Her life will never be the same. Neither will mine.
Frustration is stirring up the pot further. I feel cheated for having experienced something irreversible, primal, visceral and indispensable, only to have it snatched away before I can incorporate it into my life. What defenses can I conjure up to protect it from shattering at seeing him and his mother leave?
I finally get up and find my way back to my car, all the while with tears blurring my vision.