There had never been anything “usual” about him anyway.
THIRA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT SEEMED LIKE a boastful name for one small building and a handful of runways enclosed by a chain-link fence. It wasn’t even big enough for a Jetway, and it most definitely didn’t seem big enough for the reunion that was about to happen. The cabin was sweltering, but my teeth wouldn’t stop chattering.
The flight attendants herded us to the middle of the plane to exit on a mobile stairway, and all the previously asleep people suddenly had the energy of wild mastodons, elbowing and shoving their way through. Henrik gave me a tight squeeze, asked for the millionth time if I was okay, then wrote his phone number on one of my magazine scraps before making a beeline for the door.
I, on the other hand, spent an inordinate amount of time gathering up my headphones and books and pictures, and when I finally looked up, I realized I was about to be the last one off and had to hurry to join the trail of people. As I stepped off the plane onto the stairway, my legs went wobbly. I am standing on Greek soil.
Well, technically I was still twelve feet above Greek soil, but I could smell the ocean. And jet fuel, and… something sickly sweet and rotting. Garbage? Banana peels baking in the sun? I tried to squint into the distance, but everything beyond the airport was hazy in the humidity. A complete unknown.
Once I’d tottered down the metal steps, a small transport bus drove us an insultingly short distance to the baggage claim building, and we filed out, making our way into a crowded room with linoleum floors. People were gathering their things quickly, then heading for the exit. And then it all became very real to me. My dad was behind those walls. What was I going to say to him? Why hadn’t I spent the past twenty-three hours figuring that out?
My chest burned. I needed to find a way to buy more time. My mind snagged on to a single possibility. Maybe my bag would be lost! That would require time at the lost desk, lots of time standing around arguing with airline agents, some emergency calls to my mom… but then, boom. My Louis Vuitton suitcase came thumping out of the shoot and began making its merry way around the track, completely oblivious to my plans.
Maybe I’d freshen up first.
The bathroom hosted a full-length mirror that seemed to have no problem telling it like it is. I looked like a transcontinental zombie. Pale, and splotchy, with limp hair, dark circles under my eyes, and a profoundly freaked-out expression. Plus, the coffee stain on my shirt was starting to look sentient, like it was ready to sprout hairs and walk away.
This was not the new and improved Liv I wanted my dad to see. This was pitiful.
I leaned in closer until my bloodshot eyes were a few inches from the mirror. They weren’t my dad’s deep brown eyes, or my mom’s blue. They were my very own, big and a brownish-green color that refused to fall into any of the neat categories provided on my driver’s license application. The rest of my features are classic Greek and can be a bit intense if I don’t play them right—big lips, slightly cleft chin, and an aquiline nose. And even though I have my dad’s dark olive skin, I did somehow manage to inherit my mom’s freckles—a chaotic smattering across the bridge of my nose that I pretend to be annoyed by but secretly love. The first time I met Dax’s sister, she asked me if my freckles were real or tattoos. Right. Like my mom would ever allow that.
I leaned in even closer, this time assessing the full picture. How had I changed since my dad last saw me? Well, my body for one. I was five-seven, almost five-eight now, and my legs were almost as long as my mom’s. Also, my hair. Up until a few years ago I’d always worn it long. Now it was chin length with bangs right above my eyelashes. I loved the haircut for the main reason that it kept my stick-out ears covered. Those hadn’t changed one bit since he’d seen me last, despite the number of hours I’d spent wishing they would.
What if my dad walked right past me? What if he was waiting at the airport for eight-year-old me and then I walked out and he was disappointed? No. The thought snapped me back to reality, and I met my own eyes angrily in the mirror. He didn’t get to be disappointed. He was the one who had left me. If he didn’t recognize me, it was his own fault. All I cared about now was making sure he knew how okay I had been without him.
I wheeled my suitcase into one of the bathroom’s stalls and dug through my clothes for a moment before pulling out one of my go-to outfits: black skinny jeans, a cropped tank, and delicate leather sandals. Casual but pulled together. I had about a million variations on this outfit, and every time I put them on, I felt sophisticated and important, like a Parisian art student running late to class.
I changed into the clothes, found my favorite gold earring studs, shakily applied some makeup, and brushed my hair until my bangs fell smooth and glossy. By the time I finished applying my eyeliner, I felt infinitely better. What was I worried about? Liv Varanakis could handle anything.
I gave my reflection one last look, then squared my shoulders and marched out the bathroom door and into the baggage claim. My feet carried me forward toward the doors, my heart hammering with all its might, and then I stepped out into the open air and… nothing.
Well, not nothing. In front of a two-way road sat a dirty curb, a bus stop, and a small storefront lit up with a bright orange sign that read AIR CANTEEN. A few people trickled past me, heading for the taxi stop or waiting cars. But my dad?
Not here.
Unless I wasn’t recognizing him? I’d thought about how much I had changed, but what about him? Was it possible that he was unrecognizable? I scanned the crowd, desperately hunting for some characteristic that would pin a passing person as my dad. Old lady. Young dad carrying a baby. College-aged boy wearing headphones.
No one who could possibly have been my father at some point in time.
For a moment I was free-floating, suspended above my emotions, but then I came crashing down. Hard. My dad isn’t here.
What was left of the crowd was disappearing, dispersing into cars and cabs, leaving me as the sole buoy. I turned in a slow circle, my worry escalating to full-blown panic. My throat felt tight and constricted, and already I was sweating.
Keep it together, Liv. People are sometimes late. Had my dad been a punctual or a late person? Punctual, I think. But that didn’t mean he had somehow forgotten about me. He’d sent the ticket. My mom had confirmed with him. He was expecting me.
But he did forget about me once before.
The air was suddenly too thick to breathe. I fought against the humidity, trying to slow my lungs, but I was already light-headed. I couldn’t help it. I staggered over to one of the Air Canteen’s rickety chairs and managed to haul myself up onto it. I was shaking so hard I could barely keep a grip on my suitcase handle. Was I cold? I couldn’t be cold. Not in this heat. So why was I shaking this hard?
I fumbled for my phone. Should I call my mom? James? What could they do from all the way on the other side of the ocean? Would Dax answer if I called? I pulled up his number and was about to hit call when a male voice pierced my fog.
“Olive?”
I spun around, phone in hand, and when I saw what was behind me, I almost screamed. A camera lens stood less than two feet away, staring at me with its enormous, unblinking eye. It even had a giant light attached to it.
“Wh-what… ?” I stammered.
The camera continued. “I’ll take that as a yes. Olive, how does it feel to be the daughter of the man who is about to rock the archaeological world with proof of Atlantis?”