I’ve made sure to keep the gift box in my carry-on. It’s fragile, and even if I weren’t planning on giving it to her, I wouldn’t dream of putting it in my suitcase. I’ve seen how those luggage guys handle those suitcases. I watched a luggage handler once through an airplane window — the flight was running late. He threw those suitcases like he hated them with a passion, like they’d killed his puppy when he was young, like they screwed his wife. So much anger.
I raise my eyes to check the flights on the electronic board, and I spot her in the distance. She jerks her gaze away, and looks back down at her magazine. I wonder if she’s readingRedbook. Or possiblyGood Housekeeping.
There’s an empty seat next to her, begging me to sit on it. My heart is pounding. I don’t want her to reject me again, but it’s now or never.
I fling my bag over my shoulder, and pad slowly over. She pretends not to see me. I take a seat next to her quietly. She doesn’t look up from her magazine, pretends I’m a stranger. She’s probably not even reading it. It appears to be an article about money, judging from the picture and dollar sign art.
Fine. I’ve kind of made my own bed. I deserve it.
“Mark and Matt haven’t made it yet,” I say, an attempt at making conversation. This is so painfully awkward. “If they’re not here soon, they’ll miss the flight.”
“They’ve changed their flights,” she deadpans, still staring down at the pages of her magazine.
“Oh, wow. Thank God,” I blurt, a little too loudly. Heads turn around us.
A smile escapes her lips. She tries to rein it in, but I catch it. There’s hope after all.
“I was dreading having to face them,” I confess.
“Me too,” she says.
She speaks. She’s still not looking at me, but I’ll take it.
“Listen, Mom. I know saying sorry again is useless. You know I’m sorry. I’ve said it about a hundred times. I just want you to know that I did what I did for your own good. I was looking out for you. You looked out for me so often when I was younger. Now it’s my turn to return the favor. And I know how pigheaded you are. You would have refused to believe me. You had to see it with your own eyes.”
An elderly lady is sitting across from us, and when I catch her listening, she jerks her gaze away. She’s probably wondering what I’m talking about. I really couldn’t care less if she’s listening.
“I miss you so much,” I go on. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”
She finally gazes up at me. “I miss you too.”
Well, there’s that. I’m getting there. Slowly, but surely. I reach down into my bag and pull out the colorful gift.
Her eyes widen at the sight of it, and when I hand it to her, she smiles. “It’s for you.”
“Oh, why…” She seems completely surprised, but pleasantly so. “Why did you get me a gift?”
“It was just something I saw in a gift store and it made me think of you.”
She pulls the ribbon, and tears at the candy wrappers. “I love the wrapping. How original.”
She’s smiling as she pulls at the tape on the box with all her might. The old lady across from us is still staring, eager to see. Finally, Mom gets at the bubble wrap.
“Careful,” I warn her. “It’s fragile.”
She’s cautious as she undresses the porcelain figure from its protective wrap. She smiles and her eyes well up as she discovers the beautiful carousel horse. She studies it carefully; the pretty pastel colors; teal and pink, the brass pole at its center, and the carved mahogany base. She turns it upside down and winds it. She flips it back and we both watch it twirl slowly, move up and down leisurely. We listen to the pretty melody it plays, both mesmerized. The little old lady is too — she wears the sweetest smile, despite the missing teeth.
“Do you remember?” I ask.
She’s crying now, big juicy tears. “Of course, I remember. How could I forget? I still have them all, you know.”
“Really? I was wondering if you kept them.”
I’m sobbing too now. Even the little old lady is weeping a little. It’s one big cry-fest.
“How lovely,” the lady says, her voice surprisingly high-pitched. “What I wouldn’t give to have my daughter with me again. Lost her five years ago. Breast cancer.”
If we weren’t crying already, we’d lose it right there. “I-I’m so sorry to hear that,” I offer. I wipe a tear with the sleeve of my sweater. “I’m sure she’s waiting up there for you.” I can’t believe I’ve just said that — so trite. But there it is, out there.
Fortunately, she smiles and seems comforted by my words. “She certainly is,” she says. “I just know it.”
Mom leans over and gives me the tightest, longest hug she’s ever given me. “I’m not angry anymore, Kayla. I love you too much.”
“I love you too, Mom. So much.”
She finally pulls from me. “And thank you for this. I’ll keep it on my bedroom dresser, and treasure it forever.”
I smile, feeling so happy. A huge weight has just floated away, releasing me of anxiety and sorrow.
I can breathe again.
