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“Yes.”
That settles it. Kara leans back in her seat and watches out the window as we cross back into Switzerland and drive through Basel again.
“Is that where your family is? Baden?”
“Yes.”
More silence.
“Who are you spending the holiday with?”
I tense. My family has been a difficult subject lately. “My parents, my sister and her family. My grandmother.”
“No girlfriend?”
“No.” Why is she asking? If I was dating someone, they would have come with me last night if we were serious. And if we weren’t, she wouldn’t be coming to celebrate with my family.
“Sounds small and quiet. My family is big and loud. I’m one of four, you know?”
She doesn’t expect a response, which is good because I didn’t know. Was I supposed to?
“And two of my sisters have kids. Four of them so far, all under five years old.” Kara presses the nail of her thumb to her other fingers one by one, making her first knuckle turn white from the pressure.
Maybe she’s nervous about getting home. While I don’t spend every night of Hanukkah with my family, it’s hard to imagine going without the ritual of the lighting of the menorah, the baking of challah, frying sufganiyot, and having wine by the fireplace at least once over the holiday. And Christmas is a much bigger time for Americans than Hanukkah is for us.
The best thing I can do for her is get her to the airport. The only thing I can think of to say is, “Don’t worry, I will get you there.”
Kara watches the view out the window, over the Rhine again and out of the city the other way. The last thing we talked about was Kara’s sibling’s kids, but I know she doesn’t like kids, so I’m unsure if she wants to talk about them.
After a few more minutes of silence that even I know is uncomfortable, I suggest I put on a podcast. I put on an episode I’m halfway through about accessibility and user interface.
“—and we have to remember that the UI experience and building an accessible web application depends on more than using ARIA roles and accessible labels—”
After a few minutes, Kara’s phone dings, and she lifts it up. She doesn’t lower it for a while, and she’s not typing but swiping. The screen is angled slightly away from me, so I can’t tell what she’s doing. Maybe reading?
After we pass my parents’ town, we hit traffic. There are tunnels leading into Zurich, and with holiday traffic and the incoming storm, it’s clogged. I catch Kara glancing at me a few times and realize my knee is bouncing in the footwell.
I wish for the traffic to clear so I can get Kara to her flight and drive to my parents in time for the menorah lighting.
It finally does move again, and within ten minutes, I’m pulling up at the curb of the departures area. It’s crowded, but in the normal way of a busy airport and not in the stalled way of travelers piling up with nowhere to go. It’s still open. We made it in time.
Kara grabs a luggage cart, and I help her with her bags. Once her things are out, I close the trunk and offer her my hand. “Thank you, Kara. Have a merry Christmas.”
She clasps my hand. “My pleasure. Enjoy the holidays with your family.”
I watch Kara disappear into the airport with a sinking feeling in my gut that I don’t understand. As I pull away from the curb, I put the podcast back on and try to pay attention.
I pass the end of the runway, where a wind sock swings lazily. See? It’s not even windy yet. It’s cloudy, but there’s no snow.
She’ll be fine.
The podcast host says something about CSS scripts, and I realize I haven’t caught a single word since I left the airport.
I hit the pause button and ask my phone to read me out my new messages. The robotic voice confirms that I have many: group chats with my family, a message from Nash saying it was great to see me and wishing me a happy Hanukkah, and then text messages from my mother.
The automated voice reads her messages in a deadpan, of course, but I hear them pitching as only a mother’s can:
“Peter, I wanted to remind you to bring the book for your father. I don’t know if you’ll have time to run home.”
