Not To Us (21 page)
Authors: Katherine Owen
“Looks like those download to your C drive. Did you want to stay connected and send something back?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“That sounds like a definite
no
,” he says with a laugh.
“It is.” He undoes the connection and reinserts the connector into the phone. “Thank you,” I murmur.
“Court. Court Chandler.” He puts his hand out and I weakly shake it.
“Elaina Miles,” I say swiftly.
My ability to lie stays with me and I inadvertently smile, as I secretly acknowledge this. I’m a new person. I’ve become someone else. I’m half this sixteen-year-old girl, Elaina Shaw, and half my thirty-eight-year-old self, Ellie Miles, from twenty years ago, before Robert, before Michael.
“Oh,” Court says. “I thought your name was Ellie.”
“It’s a nickname for Elaina,” I say. “I prefer Elaina, but some people call me Ellie.” I do this little shoulder shrug thing and turn back to my laptop. Within my peripheral vision, I see him nod and lean back in his seat.
This conversation with this helpful stranger is over. I’m somewhat relieved. I cannot afford to get too involved with another human being.
I have to seek anonymity and too many more of Mr. Court Chandler’s probing questions could prove to be my undoing with this goal. I take a look out the window and try to breathe. Then, I click on the e-mail from Michael. I go in the order they were sent, starting with the first one this morning.
Ellie, you’re not standing in front of me and I’m lost without you. I came home and you were gone. Robert came and took the kids to school. I’m hoping that you will be back before they get home
that is what I promised them. We need to talk this through, Ellie, I love you; let me explain. Michael
Michael, you messed up. I’m not standing in front of you, probably will never stand in front of you, again. You’ve broken my heart. E
Ellen Kay, Robert has already been here. He told me that you called him very upset and crying. I know I did that. I’m so sorry. He is going to pick up the kids from school. I am at a loss. I need to talk to you. Please don’t do this. Come home. Michael
Michael, let Robert have the kids. They need to be with their father. I don’t know what you need. Carrie? I’m not coming back. E
My hands start to tremble. I stop for a moment and stare out the airplane window at the vast blue sky and puffy white clouds, taking steady breaths in and out, and attempt to find some sense of equilibrium somewhere inside of me. I lean back against the headrest and close my eyes for a few moments.
Breathe. In and out. This can’t be happening. It just can’t.
Then, I open my eyes and click on another e-mail because on some twisted level, I’m beholden to the torment that rages inside. I have to
feel
it all.
Ellie, you are the love of my life, just know that. I screwed up. Carrie has been so sad and I thought if I just went to meet her this morning, we could talk through her feelings of loss over Elaina. I didn’t realize how unhappy she was, until we parked at the park and she started telling me how much she misses Elaina. It was hard, Ellie. She is so broken. I was just trying to comfort her and then, she…well. Nothing happened. I’m going to lose you because of this. Ellie, please come home. Michael
Michael, I don’t believe you. If I was the love of your life, you wouldn’t have done this to me. I hope you and Carrie will be very happy together. No, I don’t. I think you must deserve each other. I don’t think you will ever be happy. E
Ellie, Lisa just called the house. I know you missed your first chemo therapy appointment. Ellen Kay, you have to have these treatments. You can’t mess around with this anymore. Please, Ellie, come back for the treatment. I promise I won’t pressure you about anything else, but please, Ellie, come home. Michael
Michael, don’t tell me what to do. You did this to us. It doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve lost four more wishes. You, me, myself and I. Don’t write to me anymore. It’s too sad for me to read and I have nothing more to say. E
I attach the connector back into my laptop and run my credit card through for the third time and press send. There are already more messages in my inbox as the outbox empties the ones I have just replied to. There are four new messages from Michael and two from Carrie and two from Robert and two from Lisa.
“No!” I say in frustration. “God damn it!”
Court Chandler undoes the connector for me. He takes my laptop and closes Outlook for me and powers off the laptop. “You can look at these later,” he says in this gentle voice. He hands me back the laptop. Tears start pooling on the plastic case, but all I can do is sit here with the laptop on my knees and cry. Eventually, he takes the laptop back and wipes it off with his jacket sleeve and puts it in the front pocket of my seat. I’m sobbing now, unable to stop. He lifts the armrest up, slides over to me, and pulls me into his arms, while I just cry into his shirt.
We’ve caught the attention of the first flight attendant who comes over to ask in a cheerful voice if everything is all right. I hear Court Chandler reply that we need a pillow, a blanket, and a glass of water. I’m confused by all of these requests.
The flight attendant comes back in a few moments apparently fulfilling them all. I keep my eyes closed because my humiliation is rising with each passing second as I rest in the arms of this stranger. I have already ruined his shirt. I take a quick look and see the black mascara stains up close streaked across the grey of his t-shirt. He tucks a blanket in around me, and wedges a pillow behind my neck. I hear him unlatch the food tray and hazard a guess that a glass of ice water has arrived, too.
“Elaina,” he says. It takes a second time with his saying
my name
for me to open my eyes. “Elaina. Drink the water. You
do not
want to get dehydrated.” The way he says this, it is as if dehydration is a fate far worse than cancer. It makes me laugh. He’s looking at me strangely, now. He hands me the water. I obediently drink it down. It is a small plastic glass of water. It is a gift from the gods, according to Court Chandler.
“You’re very strange,” I say now.
Bitchy. Unappreciative
. That’s me. Well, I have cancer, a broken heart, a dead son, a dead step-daughter. Take your pick. I’ve lost too many wishes, including Michael and me.
A few minutes later, I’m recovered enough that contrition runs through me. As Elaina, now, I smile at him
—
this benevolent, former-UW-Cheerleader-yeah-team-smile.
He holds his breath when he sees it. He shakes his head from side-to-side and looks disconcerted. I’m aware of the effect that my smile has on people. I’ve known this for years. It’s almost as effective and powerful as my ability to lie.
“You know if you keep smiling like that, I’m going to have to stop talking to you,” Court says.
I sense his uneasiness. He gets this anxious look. This only encourages me. I’m Elaina, the incorrigible, and I continue to smile at him, while I wipe away tears. “I’m married,” he says in a voice that seems to indicate regret.
I nod; then, my smile falters. “Me, too,” I whisper.
≈ ≈ ≈
Untenable
W
e’ve deplaned and relax in the Flagship Lounge for American Airlines Gold passengers. Mr. Court Chandler is a coveted member. I sip a glass of ice water, but gaze longingly at his glass of red wine. He sees this and orders me a glass of his expensive Cabernet. I’m wearing this oversized long coat, so Mr. Court Chandler has no idea that I’m pregnant, a little over six months pregnant, if one were counting, if one were thinking of that, if one had the capacity left to care at all, about that. I’ve hidden it well, but I can feel myself wavering as I begin to lose the illusion of Elaina Miles that I’ve fabricated for this man and myself.
“Elaina,” he says to me now. “If that is your name,” Court murmurs. “I mean I call you that, but you don’t respond half the time.” I look over at him with my mouth formed in an
oh
kind of surprise. The lies begin to catch up to me as keeping the façade up begins to wear me down.
“You can call me Ellie, if you want,” I say in this generous voice.
“It appears everyone does.” Court stares at me over the rim of his wine glass. “Who’s Michael?”
“You read my e-mail.” I’m not mad. I’m not anything. I just look at him warily, trying to figure him out.
“It was right
there
.” He gestures his hand towards the laptop bag that is propped up next to my suitcase, the one Court graciously retrieved for me from baggage claim. “So, who is he?”
“He’s my…he was the best thing that ever happened to me.” I give him my most withering, I-don’t-want-to-have-this-conversation look.
Court just laughs. “Come on, Ellie. You can do better than that. I’ve
seen
it.”
Court Chandler is this very engaging man. His dark brown hair is a little long and has this wave to it that just makes you want to reach out and touch it. His eyes are this impossible grey-blue. He surprises me at every turn with his wit and charm. We’ve talked politics, the stock market, and even high tech. He owns his own company, but he downplays what it is. I think I’m supposed to recognize him and he’s amused that I don’t.
“I bet you don’t even shop at Costco,” I had said to him earlier.
“Too much quantity for the two of us,” he said with a shrug.
“Who are you, Mr. Court Chandler?” I asked with a wide smile. He just smiled back at me.
Pretty swanky, he had said when I told him I lived on Bainbridge Island. I’d shrugged my shoulders again, hoping that I was casual enough that he would move on to a less sensitive topic. I was getting careless, now, sharing too much of myself with this stranger from Seattle.
“Hey, did you know the two teenagers that died in that car accident, a few months ago?” Court asks now in connection to our Bainbridge Island conversation from a few minutes before. “That happened on Bainbridge. It was all over the papers in Seattle. So sad.”And, my happiness that I’ve found for the day seeps out of me completely. I give him this measured look, take a deep breath, and finish my wine in a single long swallow. I look away from his probing eyes.
I haven’t answered his question.
Did I know them?
I loved them. I still love them.
I stare at my suitcase. Nick and Elaina’s ashes are still inside. I know this because earlier I ran my hand inside the bag and felt for the two metal urns, making sure they were there.
“Ellie, what’s wrong?” Court asks now.
I try to smile. “I need to go. Thank you, Court, for…everything. Your kindness is…extraordinary.” I stand up and hastily grab my purse, the suitcase, the laptop and move toward the swinging doors.
“Ellie.” He says from behind me, but I don’t turn around.
Once I’m out in the terminal, I begin to make more plans. I just don’t have the energy to get on a plane to Paris tonight. It’s only five in the afternoon in Seattle, but it’s eight in the evening here. I feel myself getting more tired as I place one foot in front of the other.
Anxious now, I hail a taxi. New York City is swarming with taxis, so it is only a matter of minutes, before I am ensconced in one with my Pakistani driver whose name tag reads: Georges. He asks where I want to go in heavy accented English.
Where do I want to go?
“Home, Seattle.” He looks at me with an incredulous are-you-crazy-lady? stare.
Why yes, I am.
“Gramercy Park,” I say now. I stayed there once. When I came to meet with Harriet a few years back, I stayed at Gramercy Park. It is only a few blocks away from Harriet’s office and my place of employment. For some reason, choosing some place I’m familiar with reassures me. Michael wouldn’t recall the name of that hotel. Two years ago, he was less involved in the day-to-day machinations of my life.
My heartbreak surfaces with this thought. This crushing pain catches up to me. The utter stress of the day and traveling exacts its toll on me as well. I lean back in cab and close my eyes. My life seems over. It seems over. The tears fall as Georges drives me across town to Gramercy Park and I give into the grief of it all.
≈≈
The front desk staff at the Gramercy takes pity on me. Miraculously, they find a suite in this fully-booked hotel. I’m overwhelmed and grateful to the bell hop, Johnnie, who helps me with my luggage and the laptop. Within in fifteen minutes, I’m standing in my hotel suite by myself. With reverence, I open my suitcase and take out the two urns and set them down on the modern wooden office desk. In my haste, I’ve packed an eclectic array of clothes and hang them up in the closet with this pretense that I’ll be staying for days, even though I do not have any plans to do so.