— Flight 237 has just landed from Long Beach, the disembodied voice said flatly.
Flight 237.
I pretended to be casual, sipping a Diet Coke; there was a soft, distant march in my throat.
Then my mother and father appeared. Slowly. Them. They were themselves. They came through the tunnel. They came through the sour gray airport light, dressed casually, in pastel polo shirts and velour sweatpants, resembling ordinary tourists. My father raised his thin arms in triumph. He was pale, and there were sweat stains on his shirt. But he had made it. He was standing here.
My mother reached out to touch my face.
— You don’t have to cry, she said.
MY PARENTS GOT INTO MY CAR, AND I DROVE THEM TO THEIR HOTEL, a bulky, cement Holiday Inn that resembled a dam. In the carport, there was a sparkling river coursing around a stand of longleaf pine that looked like a small, organized forest. Maroon-uniformed valets lurked around the pine trees.
— I’ll check you in, I said. — You go wait in the lobby.
I watched them settle into some plush beige armchairs, and then I went to the front desk.
The lobby held the wonderfully false, cheerful odor of maple syrup, even though a coffee shop was nowhere to be seen. The concierge was done up in gold braid, as though he were part of an army for a cause that none of us were supposed to know. Two people. Mr. and Mrs. Kaufman. Welcome. Room 234. Queen bed. We have continental breakfast 6:00 to 10:00 AM.
How beautiful those words were, complimentary breakfast, queen bed!
Then I strolled — casually — over to the armchairs to hand my parents their room keys. My mind was already making plans. I imagined all of us here, for holidays, in Hawaii. By the time I got to the chairs, I had us all flying, driving around the country, the world.
But no one was sitting in the chairs.
Where had they gone? Was this the wrong set of chairs? In the other beige armchairs were a pair of excited hikers. I rushed around the lobby. Was this all a joke? Had I imagined their stroll in the airport? Had I driven no one to the hotel?
Turning, I smashed into a bellboy.
— Ma’am?
— Did you see a couple? Sitting in those chairs? They were there a second ago. .
The bellboy stared at me.
— What did they look like?
— I don’t know. Short. Gray-haired. Navy blue coat.
— How about them?
He pointed to a man and woman standing by the window. They were chatting happily, gazing out at a view of the parking lot. The man was wearing the same coat as my father. I ran over.
— My god! Don’t run off like that! I didn’t know where you had gone, I said.
— We’re just looking out the window, my father said. He put his hand on my shoulder. — What do you see? he asked.
I looked outside; the light through the window was harsh, metallic. There were a couple hawks floating over the parking lot.
— There are some birds, I said.
— Can you believe we’re seeing the same thing? he exclaimed.
He turned around. The light behind him was bright white. I blinked and could not see for a moment; when I could, I thought my father looked peculiar. Suddenly, he appeared to be forty years old. His arms were slim but muscular in the navy coat. He was pert, stalwart as a captain of a ship, his eyes bright and devoid of any defeat. I had almost forgotten how that expression looked on his face. His skin was glowing, and his beard appeared to be dark brown. His teeth were absurdly white.
— What’s wrong? he asked, innocent.
— You look different, I said, stepping back.
My mother turned to me; I gasped. In the hard, aching sunlight, she, too, appeared to have plummeted through the years; her hair was lush, dark, around her shoulders, and her face seemed slim as a deer’s.
— I wish you’d cleaned the car, said my mother, smoothing her hair.
— It was clean, I said, a little insulted.
— Not enough, she said. — There was a cup.
— What cup? I asked.
— On the floor. Harold, what are you doing? Let’s check out our room.
My father was standing by the window, practicing his golf swing. His arms gripped an imaginary club, they reached back, and whisk!
I walked with them to the elevator. I touched my arms, my face. Perhaps I had lost my grip on reality, but maybe it felt good to lose my grip. Maybe there was some comfort in having no grip; maybe that was even the answer. Gazing into the mirrored, gold-veined glass of the elevator, I could see that I was still myself, in my forties and worn and sinking south. I was afraid of scrutinizing them too closely; I liked the idea of them as these other beings. My mother tilted my father’s face toward hers and kissed him at length. Thankfully, the elevator door opened.
— Time to get out! I called.
We entered their room. Silence.
— Bad room, said my father.
— Ugh, awful, said my mother.
— What’s the problem? I asked, puzzled.
— Look!
I looked. It was a perfectly decent hotel room. There were mints perched on the swirly gold comforters. There was even a Jacuzzi tub in the middle of the room.
— Lucky you, I said. — You have a Jacuzzi.
— No, but we could trip over it! I can’t see well at night.
— Call downstairs, Laura. Get it changed now—
My mother was already on the phone. Now, in the sour orange light of the bedroom, they were aged, familiar again. Their shoulders stooped slightly, my father shuffling across the room, his beard faded.
I WENT TO THE CAR, CHECKED MYSELF IN THE MIRROR, SAW NOTHING good, tossed the offending cup out of the backseat. After awhile, my parents descended. Now they were in room 126, with no problematic Jacuzzi. They walked, arm in arm, to my car.
— Now I want to show you our home, I said.
I drove for fifteen minutes. What a grand, peculiar sensation, driving my parents. In the various cities where I’d lived, as I cracked thirty and thirty-five and then forty years of age, I had harbored secret hopes of them being my children, of toting them around like this, offering snacks. Now I asked them if anyone would like a peanut butter cracker. This was not the sort of snack to which they were accustomed. However, they accepted them. I pulled up to our house to the sound of crackers being munched.
— Home! I said.
The children ran out of the house, as they had been instructed to do. Burst out of the front door, I said, run like your life depends on it. I had studied our neighbors on national holidays, the way in which they welcomed visiting relatives. They always ran out. Now my children ran out, and they were not acting, I could tell.
My parents clutched their grandchildren. Hello. Hello. You’ve grown so much. Hello.
They walked through the door of our house. Here was my husband, wearing a clean shirt, his hair neatly parted; he stood up, holding out his hand.
I brought them drinks in our finest crystal glasses. My parents sat in our living room. My mother rubbed her hand along the arm of the blue couch.
— That’s the first couch I ever bought, I told them. — I got it in Seattle ten years ago. It was where Jeff and I first sat and talked and thought that perhaps we were interested in each other. We lugged it all the way across the country because it seemed lucky.
How strange the furniture looked, sitting here; it looked like it had been plopped here, without any concern for design or utility. In its randomness, there was, somehow, a sense of shame.
Perched on the couch, my mother brushed her hair. And now the hazy pinkish light of dusk was playing tricks on me. My mother was sluffing off years again! She wasn’t the dark-haired, glossy being from the hotel, but now she looked to be around fifty, a little heavy around the hips, her hair graying with more force. I peered through the room’s dim light.