So We Can Glow - Stories - Leesa Cross-Smith Page 0,67

my baby too. There is so much to celebrate! I hold this thought in my head as we soar. Every baby born grew in a woman’s womb and planes soar through the sky! Sometimes, everylittlebit of life is full of wonder.

I drink one wine and read my book—comforting, predictable domestic fiction with goodhearted people worth rooting for. I’d purposely avoided bringing along anything too thrilling or anxious, my heart and personality doing enough of that on its own. The cold wine slowly cools my hot, flickering worries.

My sister, Amber, died with her boyfriend and part of it remains a forever mystery. And I think of those two words in Lolita describing the freak accident that killed Humbert Humbert’s mother, how they’re written in parentheses—(picnic, lightning). Amber’s accident reads (car, river). My therapist likes to remind me that the trauma of losing my sister when she was a teenager, when I was a teenager, had and will continue to have far-reaching effects, but that doesn’t mean my worst worries will always come true. I’d never properly worried about something awful happening to Amber. And until it happened, nothing did. And once it did, it was over. There wasn’t even time to be scared. No prep work, no anticipation. Just the fallout—the shrapnel and scattered remains of what our family used to be, strewn about—all of us trying our best to be okay.

I am wearing my go-to travel outfit: pointy bright pink flats I ordered online after Oprah mentioned them, a light, long-sleeved tunic and leggings—all things that curb my anxiety and make me feel at home no matter where I am. I rub lavender oil on my wrists and sniff. I put on the expensive citrusy hand lotion Bradley’s mom gave me for Christmas. I reapply my tingly lipgloss and consider the hydrating overnight mask in my bag and whether or not I’ll remember to put it on after dinner and drinks with Heather. Probably not. I look at my lock screen photo, at my husband and our little boy, the rainbow lens flare in the corner, faking the sun. I pray for them like I always do. My heart—a tight fist.

The man next to me tells me he’s excusing himself to the bathroom and I step into the aisle so he can get out. Across from me, a man and woman have just met, but have happily hit it off. She’s a musician and the man is already asking her to list off some of her recent albums as he takes dubious notes on his phone. Their bubbly mirth spreads across the aisle to me. It’s infectious. Calming. It helps. The bathroom man has left a puzzle piece space between me and who I can only assume is his wife, looking out the window. I tell myself I can look at my lock screen photo one more time before putting it away and once I slip it back into my bag, the woman next to me looks over.

“I couldn’t help but notice you looking at the picture of your little boy,” she says, sweetly.

“Oh! Yeah. It’s my first time away from him. He’s three. I’m trying to remain calm about it,” I say.

“We just dropped our son off. He’s shipping out soon. He can’t tell us where he’s going. I’m a wreck about it, but I’m trusting he’ll be fine. It’s all I can do. Trust,” she says.

“How old is your son?”

“Eighteen.”

“I cried myself to sleep last night because I’m not going to see my son for a few days. I can’t imagine dropping him off and not knowing where he’s going. That must be so hard. You’re strong!” I say.

“I don’t feel very strong,” she says, sniffing. The package of tissues the flight attendant gave me is sitting in my lap so I hand it to the woman. My wine buzz clicks on, soft.

“Well, you are strong. Mamas have to be strong. I’m trying too,” I say, laughing through my own tears as she slips a tissue out and hands the package across her husband’s empty seat, back to me.

“It’s good for your little boy for you to get away…for you to take some time to yourself,” she says.

“That’s what my husband says. My mom too.”

“But it’s still hard.”

“It is,” I say.

“What’s your little boy’s name?” she asks.

“Evan.”

“What’s your son’s name?” I ask.

“Quincy,” she says.

“Oh, I love that name.”

“I love Evan, too.”

We smile and shake our heads at one another, at ourselves, at our airplane tears. Our emotionalism. I