I am genuinely thrilled for him. I hear a boarding announcement and realize they are talking about mine. I can’t believe an entire hour has passed already. We both look a little torn, but he says it first. “Get going. He’ll be there. Don’t worry,” dread man says.
“Shit. I don’t know your name,” I say.
“David,” he says. I smile. “What’s so funny about that?”
“Oh, nothing at all. I just know someone named David. I’m Adele.” Perhaps this was the date I was supposed to go on after all. We hug a friendly, unassuming hug, and wish the other good luck. Each of us is embarking on journeys that could change the course of our lives. These small moments of stranger interaction make me appreciate humankind. We’re quite remarkable creatures.
I board the plane at 7:36 p.m. Pacific Standard Time, Wednesday, July 16th feeling slightly buzzed from my drink, just enough to let the nerves subside. I’m happy even if I haven’t heard from Guy yet. The woman who takes my ticket doesn’t see the huge grin across my face. She doesn’t care either. I move on, and again, check my Blackberry. I refuse to get worried that I haven’t heard from him and find my seat.
Never have I been so curious to meet anyone in my life. I settle into my seat and spend the flight looking at my play – nothing is coming in or out of my head. I may as well be staring at the wall.
The plane lands.
I exit, pushing past strangers callously. I trot as fast as I can to the lady’s room just outside of the gate. I check my makeup in the mirror and splash cold water on my face, careful to avoid my mascara. I haven’t turned on my phone yet, dreading the fact that there may not be a voicemail, or any type of response from him whatsoever.
I thank all my angels and Gods that I worked so hard on myself during the last four months, because could you imagine what my state of mind would be if I hadn’t? I refuse to turn on my phone, in fact. I tell myself that if he isn’t here, then I want to see it for myself. I fluff my hair, check my teeth, and peek out into the hall. The rest of the people on the plane have exited, and I am the only one around besides the guy on the airport’s internal tram heading my way. I check my watch. It’s 1:30 a.m. in Chicago. Very late.
I try to stroll nonchalantly down the longest corridor in the history of airports, and follow the sign towards baggage claim, but I am a bad actress and have to stop myself from sprinting. I take an escalator to the first floor and get stuck behind a torturously slow, fat person hogging the entire width of the stairwell. I distract myself by admiring the local children’s artwork on the walls, and the statue of a big red balloon dog. Jeff Koon’s work. He’s an artist mentioned in the play I’m working on. The playwright is from Chicago. Strange how life works. Such a world of synchronicity. If only we keep our eyes open to them.
Finally, we reach the bottom floor, and to my right is the baggage claim. This is where he said he would meet me, I think to myself.
I take small steps in my heels and press my dress with my hands. I lick my lips looking around casually, trying not to look like a child who’s lost her mommy at Disney World. I continue to step towards the baggage claim. I put my head down, breathe in and try again. Maybe I didn’t see him the first time. I don’t see anyone resembling Guy Lockhart.
My heart sinks.
He’s not here. I walk around the baggage claim twice to make sure, the second time pacing a bit quicker than the first. But, he’s definitely not here. I pick up my luggage off the winding, circular conveyor belt and take a seat near the door.
There are still a few people waiting for their bags to come off the plane. I will not break down yet. There are too many people watching, and it’s possible he could still show up. If only I hadn’t given up smoking, a cigarette would be perfect right now. I feel like an idiot. Tess was right; putting all your eggs in one basket is a silly, silly thing to do.
I wait for another hour. A few stragglers come in, looking for people. Each time they do, I sit up a bit taller in my seat, and each time I see that it’s not him, I sink a bit lower. I am practically on the floor at this point. No. I am practically in the basement.
It looks like the guards are packing up. I decide it’s time to give in, and so I find the taxi stand. Before I get up out of my seat, I can’t help but to turn on my phone. It’s too much not to. If he has tried to get in contact, I don’t want to be the idiot who never checked her phone, and if he hasn’t, then at least I know for sure that he was never going to meet me here. Until this point, I felt superstitious, like if I had turned on my phone, he would never come. Now, I just need to know the truth.
Why would he put all that effort into these last four months if he wasn’t going to meet me? It just doesn’t make any sense. How could I be so stupid? All those moments waiting for his emails, his phone calls, and believing that somehow, I too deserved love.
I wait for my phone to boost up. I tap my foot until it has as if that will help the phone to charge faster. I’m begging the universe to give me a good sign that he is around somewhere. I stand up and drag my suitcase behind me, and out the doors. I look left and right. I have walked outside five or six times in the last hour, and I know for sure that the traffic guard has seen my look before. Each time I walk out, she gives me that consolatory glance. I can’t handle it.
I look back down at my phone. It finally beeps and buzzes and that little red light in the corner goes off. I have five text messages and ten emails. I quickly scroll through the text messages. First one from Chelsea asking if I got there alright. Second one from Samantha wondering if I need someone to speak to. Third one from Chelsea again saying she’s so excited for me. Fourth one from Samantha saying to text back the letter “K” to let her know I’m alright. And fifth one – I hold my breath – from Charlie wondering if I was safe and sound.
I quickly go through the emails – junk, work, more work, a forward from my grandfather in Miami (he loves his joke forwards), and my agent, Timothy Thomas (I have an audition tomorrow – of course I do.). Not one iota of evidence that Guy was even ever going to attempt to show up. I read the last email from him on my Blackberry, just to see if there’s something I missed.
It all seemed so real.
I send messages to Chelsea, Sam and Charlie. I let them know everything is all right. I don’t want them worrying, or pitying me. Three text messages saying “Got here just fine. Will call you tomorrow. Thanks!” It took everything in me to put that exclamation mark on the end.
I walk to my left because there is nothing left to do. There are three taxis idling. The first of the drivers in the line is outside the car on his phone with a cigarette to his lips. He’s tall and lean, and is wearing a brown leather jacket that looks as if it’s older than me.
I give a small meager smile, and walk straight up to him as he puts the phone down. I tell him confidently and without a trace of hesitation or bitterness, as much as I can, that I need to go to downtown Chicago. I want to be in the city where there is the maximum amount of hustle and bustle to take my mind off the fact that I have been stood up in the biggest way known to man. He asks me which hotel. I say the Allerton, as it’s the only one I remember from all of our planning and research. I ask him how much. He tells me it will be about $40. I don’t care, and I get in the back.
He throws my $400 worth of new underwear and bathing suits, and the shirt I bought Guy as a small gesture of appreciation for getting me the bracelet into the trunk. I settle into the worn seat in the back. Freddie Fahringer is the name tagged to the grimy window. Freddie gets in, turns on the engine, and pulls away in what feels like slow motion. I look back just in case there might be a handsome Englishman chasing the taxi down, screaming my name. I cross my fingers as I do.
This is your last chance, buddy. If you don’t make it now, I will never ever return your phone call. There is no excuse for leaving me at the airport at 2:30 in the morning in a strange city. At least I can’t think of one…
There is! There is a man running towards the taxi as it pulls
away. He has khaki cargo shorts and a green t-shirt on. He has dark hair and a beard. I slap my hand against the window trying to get a clearer image.
My phone rings. Too many things happening at once. I’m not sure whether to look for my phone or to yell at Freddie to stop the car. My heart is racing. Out of my mouth comes, “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” The car lurches to a stop.
“Everything alright back there?” The taxi looks back at me as I’m wrestling with my purse, keeping my head above the rear window and squinting to see if that’s Guy coming for me. He’s getting bigger as I continue craning my neck. I manage to let out a “Hold on one moment please,” as I open the door and step out.
My heart pounds, but my head pummels at me at a quicker pace. What if he didn’t write those letters? What if this whole thing is a hoax? Who am I to believe, to have the audacity to dream that someone I met for eight hours in Las Vegas could possibly be my soul mate? Even if he is who he says he is, why would it work between us any more than it did between my mom and my dad, Chelsea and Victor, Ariel and her baby’s father? Furthermore, who is that man running towards the taxi?
Fuck him and every other man who gave me a glimmer of hope. ‘All men are pigs’; the line my stepfather so urgently fed to us every day. I am happy alone. I am happy rehearsing my play, working out and making money. I don’t need a man. All of these thoughts hurdle themselves towards me like a tsunami, careless and torrential and disregarding any feelings that show themselves, as mere toy cars to be tossed aside.
The man has stopped running, but continues gazing in my direction. Another love-torn man seeking another woman, I presume. I shake my head, and almost laugh. It’s not him. “Sorry sir. You can keep going. I thought I saw someone I knew. It’s late. I must be mistaken.” And so, Freddie Fahringer turns his head and keeps driving towards the city. I look back one more time.
It could have been him.
That could have been the perfect ending that I’ve been waiting for. But it wasn’t him – it was some other star-crossed lover of mine perhaps, from another lifetime. But not this one.
I look down at my phone, and see that Chelsea tried to call. She’ll understand if I don’t call her back until the morning.
At the Allerton Hotel, the front desk receptionist is nice enough to give me the room a couple of days early. I ask her to cancel the other days that were booked as I have changed my plans, and will no longer be staying during that time. Luckily Guy put my name down on the reservation along with his so there is no confusion. He booked the room, I think. He was going to be here. He almost was here.
The receptionist glances at me awkwardly (or perhaps its just me who is awkward), back down at the computer screen and says with no visible emotion, “Actually, Miss Cruz, it appears the only room available is the Executive Suite. Will that be sufficient for you? It will be a free upgrade.” I examine her, trying to ascertain if she pities me or simply telling the truth. I agree that should be of no problem and would actually be nice. I thank her.
I will face tomorrow with a new vengeance.
Tonight is my night to mourn, in my private executive suite and marble floored bathroom.
I have been fairly numb up to this point – not knowing what to feel or how to react. There was too much uncertainty at the airport, even in the taxi ride back – was I really being stood up? Who was that man running towards me? Why didn’t Guy let me know he wasn’t coming? Is he OK? None of it made sense to me.
If I’m honest with myself, there has been uncertainty the entire four months – waiting for him to write, to call, to get in touch. This was a man I had only met in person once, but I felt I knew so well.
I did know him well. I’m not a fool, am I?
One thing is for certain now. I have been stood up. That’s certainty for you. And it never hurt so badly.
And now, lying in the hotel bed in Chicago, alone and on the seventeenth of July when I had been planning to be in the arms of a man I had somehow fallen for – let’s just say the emotions come gushing out of me like – well, like someone who flew 2,000 miles to be with someone, and who was then left at the airport alone.
I cry. And, I cry some more.
And when I don’t think I have any more tears left, I cry again. He left me.
The worst part is that I’m not just crying for him. I’m not just crying from all of the embarrassment, hurt and rejection I felt waiting for him in that airport. I’m not just crying from screaming at the taxi driver when I thought Guy was running after me, or from the couple of vodka sodas that I had had.
It’s the feelings from my past that come hurdling back.
I go about my days, for the majority of the time and my past doesn’t affect me. I am a fully functioning, mature adult with little to no baggage. But in times like these, or watching a movie about abandoned children or reading a story about a father who never shows up to his child’s birthday – I am no longer an adult. I become the little girl on the front porch swing holding the single rose and the $50 bill, wondering what I did to be left in such an abrupt and cold manner. I am the little girl wondering where her father was when that man molested her, and why he didn’t protect her from him. I am the little girl wanting protection from the scary world, but who is left to fend for herself once again. I am a frightened little girl.
I am not feeling sorry for myself. I am not pathetically yearning for something that will never be and never was; I am simply scared. I am reverting back to that place, and there is no stopping it.
I can work on myself and dig deeper to understand what happened to me, but I wonder if that pain will ever fully heal. I can’t imagine it will. I’m sure I don’t even know the half of it. I have no clue when it might decide to charge into me, knocking that grown-up back into her dungarees.
That little girl won’t go down without a fight. She wants to make sure she is never forgotten.
How can something that happened so long ago still hurt so badly? And, like a freshly opened wound? How can a father whom you barely know still wrench your heart in a multitude of directions? It’s not fair. He doesn’t deserve that kind of power. He doesn’t deserve to have that little girl care for him in the manner that she does, and he has no clue. He has no clue that she’s lain so many nights crying out for him.
And, now this guy. This fucking Guy. This guy has the audacity to try to do the same?
Is this how life goes? Is it a never ending circle that you can’t help or stop from turning. Is there no end to the patterns and the cycles? I want to stop hurting. I want to be happy all the time – not just in brief snippets of moments.
But how can I heal when man after man does the same thing to me? And, I wait and begin to trust again, and here it is happening all over. I revert back again. That rose is being clutched in my hand, and I run after the man and he isn’t coming back. He isn’t coming back.
Not now. Not ever. I am a fool.
And I nearly compromised my play for this man. To think that I would so easily give up my lifelong passion for a man whom I met for eight hours in Las Vegas. I was deluded.
I promise myself here and now that I will never jeopardize my career again for a man. If I am given an opportunity, I will accept it graciously and without any silly demands such as leaving for two weeks at the beginning of rehearsals. I should be so lucky to gain this type of exposure.
But then the thought of acting seems so doltish right now. When there’s a choice between acting and finally being able to have a partner that I can share my life with, there is no choice. This kind of heartache assures me it won’t matter – I am unlikely to have to make that decision.
I go to bed alone, and I never want to wake up again to the hurt I feel right now. I clutch my stomach. I don’t bother unpacking. Tomorrow I will decide what happens. My back up plan. Thank God for that.
At some point I manage to get into something comfortable – although there isn’t much that is comfortable about any of the clothes I brought. Comfort wasn’t highe
st priority when going to meet the man of my supposed dreams.
I drift in and out of sleep between sobs.
The phone rings. Not my Blackberry, the hotel phone. I bang my hand down on the chest of drawers. I’ve overslept and they want to know when I’m leaving. I think that must be it. I look at the bedside clock, and it reads 5 a.m. That can’t be right. I only went to sleep an hour ago. And, no one knows I’m here.
I let it ring, and listen to my breath as if it is that of another person. I don’t feel like speaking to anyone. It rings and then rings some more. It’s so loud. Finally, it stops.
Five minutes pass, and I am staring at the ceiling with a throbbing in the back of my head. My eyes are heavy but won’t shut. The phone rings again. I take a breath in – this time connecting to it. I put my hand to the receiver and answer it.
“Hello?” I croak into the phone, trying to sound as tired and haggard as possible. I want this person to feel bad for waking me up this early, and waking me up to the harsh reality of being alone in bed.
“Adele?!” an English accent yelps into the phone. I know the accent this time. Maybe I am still dreaming. I hold my breath. “Is that you?” the accent asks. I pause, and stare at the nick on the wall where others have banged the dresser. I see the nick, but I don’t. I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth. “Please, Adele…I’m downstairs.”
BALTIMORE
My mom steps into the unfamiliar, air-conditioned house. Since she and Chelsea’s mom have drifted apart, she hasn’t spent a lot of time here – at Chelsea’s mom’s home. Chelsea’s mom is out of town, and has offered to let me stay here while I figured things out. Chelsea is on her way home from work. My mom got here first - I was glad. I miss her, and want to talk to her before Chelsea gets home.
My mom’s eyes are full of love and concern for me. The sight of them breaks me down. My knees wobble and she catches me in her arms. She embraces me and leads me to the couch. I sit and sob in her arms until I can finally catch my breath. She doesn’t rush it. She strokes my hair until I’ve calmed down, like she has so many times before.
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