A Chance Encounter

It seemed as if the window seat might remain empty.  I would have an uninterrupted view and space to stretch, but I hesitated to lay claim to the extra until take off. A young woman approached with a smile and indicated her place next to me. She looked a bit harried and perhaps embarrassed that her tardiness had led me to believe 4D would remain vacant.

She was maskless, and though my immunity was still high due to my September bout with Covid, I had no doubt about continuing to mask indoors and certainly when flying in the company of strangers.

The young woman was sniffling, and I assumed she was nursing a bout with her upper respiratory system. Hopefully not Covid. I wanted to believe no one would travel while testing positive, but I knew there were those who balked against what I regarded as the decency to protect others while suffering the minor inconvenience of a KN95.

We stay tuned to our cell phones and it was not until we were safely inflight with no option to turn back that I realized my companion was crying. Probably not sick, but very sad, upset, perhaps inconsolable.

She began talking, comfortably as if we were less than strangers. She told me she had been in Boston to visit her parents who had just today told her that her father was very sick with cancer. They had dropped her off at the airport and she was on this flight to New York only as a go between in order to return to her home in Chicago.

“We had brunch. I drank too much. I am really close to my Dad. He is only 67. He has been sober for 17 years. I guess I am going to be going home a lot to be with him.”

Her story tumbled out in between apologies for the tears and inebriation. I reassured her that it was okay and I was so sorry to hear about her father. As her story unraveled I recognized the range of my reactions.

First I was angry. How could her parents wait until a farewell brunch to share such difficult news? Where was the time to process, to hold each other, to stay present long enough to at least begin sorting through both the emotions and the facts? I wanted to listen and to comfort. Then I wanted to pull away. Was I judging her decision to drink to assuage her fear, anger, sadness? Was I remembering years ago when my own son lost himself in alcohol?

Sadness and maybe envy came next in a way I had not expected. I had lost my father when he was 74 and I was 40. Long before we had bridged the gaps between us. Long before I became a mother, happily married and living in the beautiful home his legacy helped me buy. He would have been proud of all of it. I imagined that she and her Dad had really bonded since his sobriety, that whatever rough patches had been smoothed over. Perhaps her mother was more distant and judgmental. But not her father, he adored her and this diagnosis was excruciating for them both. She was too young to lose her ally. Perhaps her best friend.

I wanted to stay present, in my aisle seat on this short flight to New York. I excused myself to read, needing the space that remained.

She stayed tethered to her phone, but I could hardly blame her as I had retreated. Tears and sniffles even as we were offered water, juice or coffee. The pause was enough and I turned to invite her to join me. She began describing her job and her boyfriend.

“I teach first grade. They are so cute. It’s a private school,” she said, also sharing that the wealthy parents were less appealing than their adorable offspring. I told her I lived in San Francisco,  but that I had grown up in Los Angeles.

“My boyfriend is from LA; he went to USC.”

I told her my son was at UCLA and she laughed as she described how much her boyfriend and his cohorts hated UCLA. She was describing the rivalry that echoed back to my childhood. I didn’t want to tell her that my entire family’s allegiance was to the public university on the Westside.

She giggled and took a picture of us. Quickly, before I wondered if I wanted to end up as a tweet or a twitter or a Facebook flash. More giggling as if we had a secret. I had told her I was going to New York on my own to visit family and friends.

“You are going to have so much fun. You and your girlfriends. Going out…”

I think she imagined late nights at downtown bars and discos. I mentioned my 94-year-old aunt, and college friends from years ago. I think she wanted to identify me as a peer and a companion as we navigated her grief, cocooned  together in row 4.

Her name was Claire. Introductions always seem to come after conversation. The hour ended and the plane landed. In those few minutes before we could leave our seats I wished her luck and repeated how sorry I was about her Dad. She smiled, giggled again and repeated that she was sure I would have a great time in New York with my girlfriends.