Page 15 of Room for Us
So why am I nervous?
As I’m locking the front door and having a hell of time turning the key, my ever astute daughter asks, “What’s wrong with you?”
The deadbolt finally turns. Thank God. “Nothing’s wrong,” I answer, turning with a smile that feels cartoonish. “Oh, look, the car’s here!”
Daphne eyes me skeptically. “Yeah, Dad, I figured since the driver is waving at us.”
Smart-ass.
“Are you sure you want to go to JFK with me? There’s time to take you home first. Phil won’t mind.”
“I want to say goodbye at the airport,” she says, her little face so earnest that my heart squeezes.
“Okay, kiddo. After I’m dropped off, make sure you text your mom so she knows when to expect you.”
As much as I’d like to imagine my daughter wanting to stay with me as long as possible, I’m ninety-nine percent positive she just wants to enjoy a solo ride in the back of a chauffeured car. I’d never let her do it if it weren’t a service I’d been using for a decade. I’ve heard some parents let their eight-year-olds ride in Ubers by themselves. Thankfully, Janice and I agree that’s fucking nuts.
“Hey, Mr. Hart. Great to see you!”
“You, too, Phil.”
Phil rounds the car, pumps my hand, then grabs my duffel before I can protest. Seconds later the luggage is in the trunk and he’s opening the back door for us. If I remember correctly, he’s pushing seventy, but he moves like a much younger man. He’ll probably outlive me.
“And you must be Daphne! Whew-wee! Last time I saw you, you were in diapers! What are you now, fifteen?”
Daphne grins at him, her usual surliness toward strangers absent. She sees right through the corny flattery and straight to the fact Phil is a rare breed—a genuinely kind person who enjoys his job and loves meeting new people.
“Nice to meet you, too.”
Phil makes a show of proffering his hat and bowing over Daphne’s hand. She giggles, eating it up. I make a mental note to leave a larger than usual tip.
At 50,000 feet in the air, a strange sensation sweeps over me, strong and long enough for me to take notice. My skin ripples repeatedly, my spine jerks, my shoulders twitch, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. After a few such episodes, I snatch my complimentary blanket and spread it over my stretched-out legs.
I’m just cold. Possibly getting sick, though I hope not.
Then I twitch again, this time so hard the passenger next to me glances curiously my way. I ignore them and shift toward the window, staring at the Pantone-perfect blue sky.
I’m not a superstitious person.
There’s a reason I feel like my skin’s on inside-out and my spine has developed an electric current. There has to be.
The flu. I’m getting the flu.
And yet, the farther I get from New York, the more I feel like I’m leaving a part of myself behind. Something integral but intangible. And the discomfort I’m feeling is a physical reaction to that facet of myself being torn away. Leaving me exposed to a world I don’t recognize.
What didn’t seem like an extreme decision at the time—changing my environment to jumpstart my muse—now seems a bit like jumping into the unknown without a parachute.
Maybe I’ll land somewhere soft.
Or maybe I’ll go splat.
10
I offered to pick up Mr. Hart from the airport, but he declined. I hope he isn’t wasting money on a cab, but I also don’t see why he’d rent a car since everything he could need is within walking distance and I already offered him use of my Jeep. But then again, maybe he’s like me and needs a fast way out everywhere he goes.
Could have been part of why I hated New York City so much. No easy escape unless by train, but zero point in having a car because of the astronomical cost of storage. Hell, human storage was expensive enough.
Not for the first time, I wonder if Chris already sold our apartment and bought a new apartment for him and Casey—or, if she was a transitional girlfriend, for whoever he’ll marry next. I can’t imagine his parents will let him marry another nobody.
