We’ve never done this, Tom and I, flown together. The holidays we had as students were a couple of camping trips in the Lakes and, once, down to Cornwall. Then Lori came along and we’d no money. Then Tom left. There had been months of arguments, clashes. The nearest I ever came to understanding it was that he was trapped, confined, reduced by our circumstances. And he would thrash like a wild animal. And me? Wasn’t I just the same – not angered but my life suddenly limited by the demands of a child? Were we too young? Or was he too young and me forced to become mature beyond my years? Was Tom simply too shallow, too incomplete with his messy, mean upbringing to rise to the occasion? While I, with my good-enough childhood, a good-enough relationship with my parents, had sturdier foundations to weather the change in lifestyle. I saw my own impending parenthood as a gift, a wonderful experience. Albeit a shock.
Tom was excited at first. Almost manic. Fatherhood seemed to equate with any other life experience – he paid the subscription, was engaged, almost obsessed at first, then lost interest as it became repetitive, boring, relentless, so he let his membership lapse. He loves Lori, but he has hurt her, too. Let-downs and cock-ups. I was probably more upset than she was, all those times he was late or missing and she waited with her bag packed. I tried my best not to project. But who knows?
Tom falls asleep. I give up on rest and scroll through the films. Penny has recommended Philomena. I love Judi Dench and start watching before it really sinks in that it’s about a mother searching for her child. Just as I am. The performances and the flashes of humour keep me watching, but it makes me cry (there is no happy reunion for Philomena), which doesn’t help with the dehydration. The next time the cabin crew come with water, I ask for two, motioning to Tom who sleeps on, his face shrouded by his hair, long legs angled sideways.
We are flying into the light, meeting the dawn, but it’s a night flight so the steward asks us to lower the window blinds and use our personal reading lights. Perhaps it’s a sign of hope, that endless sunrise. We will land and someone from the consulate will tell us Lori is safe and well, just a little sheepish for all the bother she has caused, that she had a ‘bare awesome’ time in Nepal or Hong Kong.
I must’ve slept because I’m startled awake by a misstep in my dream. Lori’s in it and we’re Skyping but I can’t get the focus right and I try to adjust the screen, pressing buttons on the side. Then she says she has to join the stag do. And she shows me her T-shirt but I can’t read the writing. It seems important but I can’t understand a single letter of it, and then I’m awake with the endless rushing roar of the air-conditioning, like a thundering weir. My mouth is tacky, my stomach bloated.
