“And, Laura! Laura!” Vanya calls my name until I turn around. Then she presses a hand across her heart and yells, “Keep the faith. He’s out there—you just haven’t met him yet.”
Chapter 4
Looking up at the departures board, I scan the place names and find my flight to Jersey. The word alone has so many connotations for me. I can’t hear it without thinking of my parents’ story, the prologue to my existence. Is it strange to feel nostalgia for a place I’ve never been? Mum used to say we’d go together one day, but she was always juggling so much and there was never a good time.
Now that I’m undistracted by my friends, I begin to worry how unprepared I am for this weekend. Suki insisted I go straightaway, so we could get the travel article up on the site next week. The sponsor liked the idea of promoting a “September sun getaway.” I don’t have a firm angle yet, though, and I haven’t managed to map out what I need to make the coin story work, to make it “feel contemporary.”
With everything being so rushed, I also haven’t had time to dwell on how I feel about going on this trip. Will stepping into the footprint of my parents’ story bring me closer to them, or am I just going to find it upsetting?
My mother is still so tangible to me. We shared a lifetime of memories, and my grief for her is still so ragged it gives her solid edges—I can conjure her voice in a quiet room. I can picture the way she would open her arms to hug me when I walked through the front door. When I pass the rooibos tea at the supermarket, I see her slim frame standing by the kettle, jiggling a tea bag up and down by the string.
With Dad it’s different. He died when I was three, so I don’t remember him. I only have a few things left that link him to me: the coin, of course, then there are several photos, his old watch that I never take off, a library of his favorite books, and his treasured LP collection. When I was sixteen, I spent all my pocket money on a record player so I could listen to his music just as he had. I’m probably the only twenty-nine-year-old in the world today whose favorite bands are Genesis and Dire Straits.
There is too much of Mum to ever be condensed into a box full of things, but all I have of Dad are secondhand memories and these objects he left me. If I let go of what he treasured, I worry his blurred edges will fade until there is nothing left of him at all.
A woman bumps into me, her apology breaks my reverie, and I realize I’ve been standing, staring at the departures board for a good ten minutes. Now I must run so as not to be late.
* * *
*
It is less than an hour-long flight to the small island off the north coast of France. I’m traveling with hand luggage, but at the gate a man tells me, “Madam, we’re going to have to ask that you put your bag in the hold.” I feel myself bristle. When had I become Madam rather than Miss?
“It’s definitely regulation size,” I protest. “I actually bought this case specifically because it adheres to the dimensions on your website . . .”
“I know, ma’am, but we have a very full flight today, so we’re asking people to check wheeled cases into the hold. There’s no charge; you’ll get it back as soon as you land.”
The man gives me an insincere grin that puckers his smooth, perma-tanned skin. Obediently, I shuffle out of the queue to open my case and extract what I need for the flight. I take out my mother’s Jersey photo album—too precious to stow in the hold—and Tiger Woman, so I have something to read on the plane. Just as I’m trying to close my case, someone bumps me from behind, and my open toiletries bag flies into the air. A value pack of fifty non-applicator tampons hits the ground and explodes across the lounge in a spray of white bullets. My cheeks burn as I fall to my hands and knees to retrieve them. The man who bumped me bends down to help. Why did I bring so many tampons with me for one weekend away? I’m on my fourth day; I should have just decanted the amount I was going to need. Always decant, woman!
“I’m sorry, that was my fault,” says the man.
I turn to look at him, glance away, and then look back, as I realize I’m looking at the most handsome man I think I’ve ever seen in real life. He has soft brown hair; green eyes; a tall, broad-shouldered physique; and the kind of well-sculpted face that commands attention. He is wearing blue suit trousers and a crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Our eyes meet, and he holds my gaze. His easy smile suggests someone who thinks the world a wonderful place, which no doubt it is when you look like him.