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It was a rhetorical question because I knew the answer. I just wish I’d kept my mouth shut. Where was that iron control I was famous for?
My lip curled in self-contempt. Most likely drowned in the bottom of that damn glass.
Laying my head back against the seat, I closed my eyes.
The fatigue that never ventured far slid through my bloodstream and threatened to pull me under.
I forced my eyes open. I despised the vulnerability of sleeping in front of anyone never mind the strangers that sat between Hope and me in first class.
I focussed on the static drone of the airplane. It soothed the raw nerve endings in my brain, making it easier to tolerate the enforced downtime.
Opening my laptop, I began the painstaking process of selecting photos to send to my grandparents in Greece. Emailed pictures served as our primary means of communication. They did not speak English, and despite my best efforts, I spoke only rudimentary Greek. A cousin of sorts who lived in the same village translated for us when I visited and helped us with emails.
I spent months studying Greek culture before taking the plunge to meet my mother’s parents. Part of it was a delay tactic. How would they receive me? Their only child died giving birth to me.
And we had no relationship.
I was wholly unprepared for their reaction. I’d even returned a few times. We kept in touch in our own way. A fragile bond that reflected all I’d lost.
Six weeks had passed since I’d last sent pictures.
Unforgiveable, really, considering what little family I had.
As we soared across the sky, I sifted through my pictures, being sure to include at least one or two of myself though I much preferred my position behind the camera.
Though I wouldn’t be a witness, I relished the delight they would take from the pictures. Their joy when they met me for the first time, a joy that did not diminish with subsequent visits, was so profound it overloaded my senses.
It wasn’t bad.
But it was uncomfortable.
Foreign.
A strange kind of suffocation that I craved and abhorred in equal measure.
When I was with them, I berated myself for being cool. Awkward. I managed our email relationship with greater success. Email allowed me time to think before responding.
I’d never had a problem thinking on my feet, but with my grandparents, each word carried weight and significance. The need for each word to be translated only heightened my anxiety.
Did my cousin say exactly what I said? Did what I say in English translate correctly into Greek?
My upbringing screwed me over. With most people, I compensated. But with important people, I stumbled.
As I did not like to stumble, there were few important people.
I hadn’t seen my father in over four years though we usually connected by phone every six months. His effort, not mine.
My stepmother and I exchanged our last uncivil words shortly after my nineteenth birthday when she kicked me out.
My father backed her up but refused to withdraw his financial support. Instead, he set me up in a tiny studio apartment. Measuring in at twice the size of my bedroom, which is where I spent most of my time at home, I considered it an improvement.
This was the norm in my family. I caused trouble, my stepmother freaked out, my father threw money at the problem: me. His money formed the thread that connected us.
Above all my professional accomplishments, snapping that thread stood out as one of the high points of my life.
I sent the email and closed my laptop before allowing myself another glance at Hope.
Figures.
