I look over at the empty seat in the airport restaurant and feel an ache. I can feel my eyes welling up. I’m thinking about my husband Kyle not being there, and I’m thinking about my mom missing her late husband, Howard.
Usually when I travel for work, Kyle comes with me. I always say, “You totally don’t have to come. It’s fine. I’ll be fine!" But if he can, he joins me. “I hate to think about you traveling alone,” he says. Admittedly, I have a tendency to almost crash into things, especially other travelers. I have zero spatial awareness, and I’m pretty sure I’m starting to lose my hearing. Regardless, I just can’t tell if a person is nearby. (I’ve googled it and I don’t think it’s a real disorder.) So when I’m traveling, I accidentally turn suddenly and whoops! “I’m so sorry!” I’m also (eek) on my phone a lot as I walk, so that makes things even worse. I know.
When I’m with Kyle, he often steers me to one side or another like I’m blindfolded. We usually laugh about it, but sometimes, when I’m sleep-deprived or extra-stressed, I snap. “I don’t need you steering me around like I’m a child!” But, OK, fine. I kind of do.
Sometimes I tell Kyle not to travel with me because I secretly think I could be even more productive if I were alone. I could, perhaps, send even more emails. Read more pages. Write more words. Post more. Cross more things off my never-ending list. Like a pit bull, I will not let that task out of my teeth no matter how hard someone tries to pull it away. I must finish.
I’ve explained to Kyle that sometimes I feel like I’m a surgeon. If a doctor were operating, would her husband feel like she could open that funny Instagram video right away? Of course not. Obviously, what I do isn’t a matter of life or death, like it often is for those in the esteemed medical field, but hopefully he gets what I mean.
I view every flight as my operating theater. I race against time, seeing how much I can do before arrival. Sometimes I’m glad there’s no gate or that the jet bridge is malfunctioning, because I can squeeze out that much more of the task at hand.
And yet, I miss him. I miss sitting next to Kyle at the counter of whatever restaurant or coffee shop we wander into, seeing his smiling face. I miss seeing his luggage standing at attention next to mine. I miss our casual banter.
“Want to go in here?” Or, “Honey! A bookstore.” Even, “Looks like we line up over there.”
I’m particularly sensitive to this temporary absence because of my mother’s new permanent one. Howard, my stepfather of 30 years, has been gone for three months now, after his sudden death at age 86. I still can’t quite believe it; the loss is something my brain can’t process. It still feels like he must be around somewhere. Isn’t he, say, getting ready in the other room? Maybe over at the club hitting a few balls? Down at the post office talking to the guys? How can he be gone?
I was so worried about my mother at first. How would she cope? How could she come home to an empty house after three decades with Howard? And yet, in part due to her obsession with her dog and constant companion Murphy (whom she calls my “brother”) and her many, many friends, she seems to be doing OK. She’s incredibly busy. She doesn’t feel lonely because she quite enjoys being alone. Grief only hits her at certain moments.
At school pickup together the other week, my mom confessed to having one particularly vulnerable moment. Waiting a beat so she could collect herself and tell me without crying, she said, “The hardest time is right after a movie or a show ends, and I stand up to grab Howard’s arm, and he’s not there. And I forget.”
And then, suddenly, she’s crying.
“I really want him to be there. But he’s not. And he’s not coming back.”
I replay that scene on the sidewalk over and over again. Her face contorted with pain and shock. Our big hug as we stood amid unknowing parents and nannies chatting mindlessly as middle schoolers streamed through the double doors.
Kyle and I squabble like any other couple. We go through ups and downs, of course. But there’s no one I’d rather be traveling through life with as my partner than him. Being with Kyle makes life funnier, more interesting, more fun. I laugh a lot. I get excited noticing things just so I can tell him the story. We hold hands. I ask his advice about everything: “Post this slide first or this one?”
I take another bite of my soggy cinnamon raisin bagel, the white craft paper wet with butter on the counter next to the to-go coffee. I can hear the conversation we would be having had Kyle joined me on this adventure. But we’re not having it. He’s off having important work meetings of his own, as he should be — and I wouldn’t want it any other way.
But I miss him. And knowing how quickly things could change makes even his temporary absence press on my chest. Because what if? What if he suddenly disappeared like Howard and I could never do something as simple as sit at a counter for breakfast with him ever again?
So, I call him. We FaceTime, laughing as usual, catching up until it’s time to head to my gate. Still holding the phone on FaceTime, I slide off the slippery stool, grab my suitcase handle, and turn to start walking — and almost crash right into an elderly gentleman.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!”
Kyle shakes his head on FaceTime. “Honey! You said you were fine traveling without me!”
“I am,” I say, laughing, as I merge into hallway traffic. “I promise. I am.” But I’m not.
It will take time, just like the flight ahead, but I will get used to the new normal. Somehow.
This essay is excerpted from Between Chapters: How I Started Over, Took Some Chances, and Found the Plot.
