“How dare you talk to me that way,” my grandmother said.
“I’m starting to realize I should have done it a long time ago,” he responded, and she shouted his name, “Luis!”
I covered my ears to keep from hearing any more.
Everyone has a limit, and I had been pushed past mine a long time ago. I’d been limping along, stumbling, trying to keep my balance…and I couldn’t anymore. I couldn’t bear the reproaches, the silences that hurt more than words, the glances that made me recoil from guilt. Just because I existed and wanted to be the person I was.
I jumped on the bed and went back to packing my clothes in a rush, sitting on the suitcase to get it shut and throwing whatever was left in my purse. I threw it over my shoulder and stomped off toward the door. I needed out. I needed away. I needed distance between them and me, even if that meant I had to fight through my own resistance, that fear that always held me back.
As I gripped the doorknob, I realized I didn’t have anywhere to go.
That realization struck me like lightning, and it seemed to fry my brain as it did so, but I clenched my teeth and walked outside without saying goodbye.
The same way my mother had many years before.
Like a thief in the night.
Like a convict breaking out of jail.
Relieved. Enraged.
Guilt flapping inside me like a butterfly in a jar.
For a second, I was in my mother’s shoes.
For a second, I understood her.
Not enough to redeem her.
Not enough to forgive myself.
Maybe it ran in the family. A hatred of that word or what it implied… I wasn’t sure, but I could never say goodbye. I didn’t like tosay it, I didn’t like to wave, I didn’t even like to look back. There was a feeling there I couldn’t allow myself and that I crushed beneath layers of pretended indifference.
I’ve always thought the wordgoodbyewas synonymous with hopelessness.
And when the hope is gone, there’s nothing left at all.
Everything vanishes.
But in that moment, without knowing it, I was betting on a hope: one thin as a breath, the only one I had left, banking it all on a desperate impulse.
12
When I realized how crazy what I’d done was, I was already flying over the Mediterranean on a plane headed to Rome. It was the cheapest flight I’d found that would get me to the Italian capital as quickly as possible.
I panicked and almost stood up and screamed that I wanted out. I nearly did, but the way the woman next to me glanced over made me sit back down. She had a mixture of fear and distrust in her eyes, as if she thought I was a hijacker ready to bring the plane down.
So instead, I waited a moment, then walked to the bathroom, apologizing every time I bumped someone with my bag. When I was in the tiny stall, I closed my eyes and tried to relax. I started the faucet and wet my face and neck, then rested a hand on each side of the mirror and concentrated on my own eyes.
Inhale. One, two, three…
Soon, I’d managed to lower my heartbeat and the anguish had gone away. When I returned to my seat, the woman who was sitting next to me leaned over.
“Better?” she asked with a friendly smile.
“I am, thanks,” I said.
“I’ve had panic attacks for years. I can recognize them from a mileaway. Thank God they’re temporary. You feel like you’re going to die, but you never do, right? That’s what I always try to tell myself, that it’ll pass.”
