My pump appears from over the top of the seat in front of me. “Thank you.”
Mom grabs it by the four-inch heel as I thread my arm through my jacket sleeve. I push my skirt to my knees and re-tuck my white blouse as best I can.
“You’re getting your color back,” Mom says, and puts the shoe in my lap.
“I’m tired.” I open the vents above my head and let the recycled air blow across my face. Normally, I close the vents because I don’t want recycled germs and cold air freezing me out, but nothing about this day is normal.
Before leaving for Sea-Tac this morning, I’d braided my hair and given Mom a side ponytail. She’d pulled on a cozy jogging suit while I’d pulled on my wool suit and four-inch heels. I could have left the house in cozy, warm sweats, but I am Lulu the Love Guru. I always have to look my best in public because the one time I don’t will be the one time I am recognized. The one time I have a big zit on my nose and bags under my eyes and I run into the store to grab a box of tampons and a Snickers will be the one time I hear someone behind me whisper, “That looks like Lulu the Love Guru—only uglier.”
A female flight attendant returns with a little bottle of cold water and a glass of orange juice and hands them to me.
“Where’s that foxy man?” Mom asks her.
Not foxy man again. This is getting embarrassing.
“Greg? He’s making coffee.”
“Ohhh… coffee.”
“Would you like me to bring you a cup?”
“No, but I would like Greg to bring me that snack basket so I can have another look at it.”
This will be her fourth go-round on snacks, and I suspect her hunger has more to do with “that foxy man” than with biscotti. I’m drinking the juice and holding the cold plastic bottle against my forehead when Greg returns with the basket.
“You’re so big and strong,” Mom coos as she plays with her side pony. “I like a big strong man. You make a girl feel safe.” The steward doesn’t know what to say to this old woman who keeps coming on to him. Some men look at my mom and just chuckle, while others look like they just want to run like hell. Greg falls somewhere in between.
“Mom, just pick a snack.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Biscotti, same as before,” I tell her.
“I wasn’t asking you,” she says without looking at me.
“You can’t go wrong with the biscotti,” he says.
“Ohhh, biscotti sounds wonderful.”
He hands it to her along with a napkin, then beats feet up the aisle.
“I wonder if he has a girlfriend.”
“He’s gay, Mom.”
She pauses for a heartbeat, then says, “Well, some men just haven’t met the right woman.”
I have to laugh. Mom’s never suffered from low self-esteem, but lately I’ve wondered what she sees when she looks in the mirror. Does she see a faded beauty with lines on her face and age spots on her cheeks? Or is she seeing the reflection of a girl in the bloom of youth? Or does she even give it a thought?
I buckle myself in because it gives me the delusion of safety and lean my head back and close my eyes. I fainted. For the first time in my life, I fainted. Apparently like a ton of bricks. I recall using the bathroom and looking at my face in the mirror as I washed my hands. I remember walking toward my seat—then nothing until I looked up into Mom’s face and she was asking what I was doing down there. I don’t remember feeling dizzy or light-headed. Nothing more than my usual flight anxiety. I’ve white-knuckled it before and not fainted. The only difference between those times and now is I didn’t have someone next to me wringing her hands during takeoff and wondering out loud if we were going to “make it.” No one looking out the window and saying, “We sure are really high now,” or “We’re so high in the sky, I can’t see the ground.” Even after I made her switch seats with me and closed the window shade, she still made comments like, “I sure hope we can get back down.”
Mom is the variable. It’s the Pat factor, and the Pat factor has been working overtime, tripling my anxiety. We have about two more hours before we land, and I know she’s not done. Beyond a ball gag, there’s nothing I can do about it. My head rolls to the side and I let out a groan.
“Hey, you. Hey, you,” Mom calls out. I open my eyes and she’s waving her hands in the air. “Hey, you, woman with the basket.” Oh God, more snacks while she’s still working on her last. “My daughter needs some ice for her head.”
And just as I’m thinking of ways to shut her up, she says something that warms my heart. “Thanks.”
“That’s what moms are for.” She smiles and leans her head back against the seat. “I’ll take care of you, Lou.”
It’s nice that she thinks so.
The attendant returns shortly with a little baggie tied at the top. The ice is heavenly on my forehead and I close my eyes and run through my mental checklist.
I put my satellite assistants to work coordinating everything at Sutton Hall, from making sure the pantry and refrigerator are stocked to hiring a cleaning service to knock down the cobwebs. We had boxes of our belongings and loads of Mother’s care needs sent ahead. The vehicle Lulu Inc. leased will be delivered tomorrow morning, and the local cable company should arrive the next day to hook up cable and high-speed internet. I’m sure I’ve forgotten something, but I’m not too worried. Most anything can be replaced.
“I know Earl will come to visit. He’ll take me to dinner.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He gave me a Christmas card with a cactus on it.”
“That’s nice.”
“He loves me.”
“What’s not to love?”
“I have a passionate nature.”
“Mmm.”
“I hope we don’t run out of gas.”
Well, that didn’t last long. “We won’t run out of gas,” I tell her without opening my eyes. “Maybe you should take a little nap. We have a very busy day ahead of us.”
Mom yawns and seems to take my advice. I don’t hear a peep out of her for the next hour. The ice in my bag melts and cold droplets slide down my cheek. I hand it off to the flight attendant and try not to think of hurling through the atmosphere at five hundred miles an hour at thirty-five thousand feet. My mind turns to the perplexing face-plant in the aisle of a 737. Except for my headache and the red mark above my left eyebrow, it doesn’t seem like it really happened. I don’t know if it’s a sign of something serious or just a convergence of stressors. I think it might be the latter.
My MacBook is in the overhead compartment. I should probably use the next hour to get some work done. I need to start a blog post, but I just don’t feel like it. Once we’re all settled and Mom’s new routine is established, I’ll sit down and get into my own.
Shortly after I canceled the rest of my tour, I set up a conference call with my Lulu Inc. management team to discuss the best course for moving forward, and in the end we agreed that hiring bimonthly guest bloggers and inviting smart and savvy women to host the online events should keep the site current and interactive. Fern will post on my Instagram, and I’ll continue to make podcasts and video messages. Those changes cut my workload in half and give me more time with Mother.