Finding Tranquility

by Laura Heffernan

  FINDING TRANQUILITY:

  A love story

  by

  Laura Heffernan

  The attached novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, or events is merely a coincidence.

  Copyright © 2020 by Laura Heffernan. Cover image copyright © 2020 by Kirsty McManus.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Lee and Alex

  And for Didi, wherever you are.

  Prologue: Christa

  September 2019

  I didn’t realize today was the eighteenth anniversary of my death until I caught a flash of the burning towers on CBC. As always, my heart skipped a beat when I thought about what would’ve happened if I’d gotten on my flight that day.

  Like the final scene in Say Anything, maybe I’d have defeated my fear of crashing once the fasten seatbelt light went off. Maybe I’d have convinced myself that everything would be okay. But then the terrorists would have taken over. Could I have been brave like the passengers on United Flight 93? Could I have stood up, wrestled the terrorists to the ground, and reclaimed the plane? Someone on board might’ve known how to fly, and with my help, the flight could’ve landed safely, saving thousands of lives.

  It was a lovely fairy tale, but I doubted it. If I’d been on the plane, I’d have spent my last moments picturing Jess’s face, thinking of how I’d apologize for our argument when they finally released us, and planning our new life together in Los Angeles. Not knowing that death hovered, my goal would have been to sit quietly and hope no one noticed me.

  Starting in 2002, I celebrated September 11 as my birthday. Quietly, without fanfare. I’d go to a bar, find a dark corner, order a drink, and contemplate my existence for a few hours.

  This year was destined to be different. My morning started in chaos and had gone straight downhill. After a broken coffeemaker, a housekeeping plague, allegedly haunted rooms, and a headache the size of Quebec, if I made it out of the hotel before midnight, my birthday drink would be a triple shot. But first, a zillion crises at work demanded my attention.

  The cell phone permanently attached to my hip rang. Again.

  Make that a zillion and one crises. I pulled the phone from its holster. “This is Christa McCall.”

  “Christa, it’s me.” The head of my housekeeping staff. In her nervousness, the woman switched to her native French. “I don’t know what to do. Three of our maids called in sick, and we’ve got forty guests scheduled for early check-in for the conference starting tomorrow. I called everyone, but no one’s picking up.”

  Ugh. So much for relaxing with a cup of coffee any time soon. This day would never end.

  “Did you try Happy Housecleaners?” Sometimes, a local company sent people out last minute to help in a pinch.

  “Oui, but they’re slammed, too. There’s some kind of bug going around, and two hundred delegates are landing in Montreal today, planning to drive up here. Every timeshare in town is about to be occupied, and everyone needs to turn over their own rooms as fast as possible.”

  Of course they did.

  “Well, I’ve cleaned toilets before. I can do it again.” I sighed. Happy “birthday” to me… “I’ll be there as soon as I convince Mrs. Radimsky that Room 213 isn’t haunted. Meanwhile, call everyone else on the schedule to see who wants overtime. Give them an extra vacation day, too, if you have to. As soon as a guest checks out of a room, we need to be ready to flip it.”

  I hung up and returned to the front desk, where one of our regular customers loudly objected to the room she’d been placed in. The first time ever the woman showed up without a reservation, and naturally, conferences ate up all but one available room.

  It never rains, but it pours. What a day.

  “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Radimsky, we’re just slammed today. There’s nothing—”

  “Thirteen is bad luck. You will put me in another room! Any other room will do.”

  “I wish I could, but unfortunately, we don’t have any other rooms right now. Everything is booked.”

  The sixty-year-old woman drew herself up to her full height of four-feet, eleven inches, narrowed her eyes, and glared up at me. All of a sudden, I felt five years old, being scolded for climbing the neighbor’s tree to rescue the Frisbee my older brother Brad told me not to play with.

  “You will find me another room, or I will find myself another hotel and casino to spend my money in. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am, of course. Again, I’m sorry. Why don’t you go over to the café and have anything you like, on me, while we work this out.” I pulled the clerk aside. “Find any other guest who’s arriving today, preferably someone we don’t have a relationship with, and put them in room 213. Give Mrs. Radimsky their assigned room, and send up a fruit basket and a gift certificate to the spa. Make sure housekeeping knows to make the new room a priority.”

  By the time four o’clock rolled around, I wanted nothing more than a long, hot bath and a stiff drink. I considered not even going back into the office to pick up my purse, because someone might come up with another fire to put out. But in the end, only six people delayed my exit. Practically a record.

  On the way out, I held the door open automatically for an approaching guest, a woman with long, sun-kissed blonde hair tapping on her phone instead of looking at the objects in her path. She dragged a suitcase behind her with the other hand, and I signaled a bell boy silently to offer assistance.

  The woman nearly walked into me before she looked up from her phone. She was beautiful, but her blue eyes, full lips, and snub nose weren’t the reason my heart stopped at the sight of her.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. Excuse me.”

  The woman’s eyes met mine with a startled expression, and her mouth formed a silent “O” shape. At the same time, I drew in a sharp breath. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes, puddling in her thick, dark lashes. Lashes I personally knew to be fake, having seen her attach them a thousand times while lounging on our bed.

  Fucking fuck.

  I froze, both knowing and fearing what the woman would say next. Indecision seized me. I wanted to run, wanted to pause this moment forever until I escaped. Silently, I cursed myself for daring to wonder what the fates could do to make a bad day worse.

  “Holy shit.” The color drained from Jess’s face. “Is that really you?”

  PART I: BRETT

  Above all, don’t lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others.

  — Fyodor Dostoyevsky

  Chapter 1

  September 2001

  Sweat poured down my forehead. I gripped the armrests and squeezed my eyes shut, trying to remember the mantra I’d been trying out. Oh, right. Serenity now. Serenity now. Serenity now. Just because it was from Seinfeld didn’t mean it couldn’t work. In my imagination, my seat rocked and tilted, any moment prepared to plummet out from under me to certain death thirty thousand feet below.

  Repeating the words in my head didn’t help, so I said, “Serenity now,” to see if hearing the chant did anything to lessen my utter dread. It didn’t.

  “Excuse me?”

  I cracked one eyelid. Beside me sat a woman, probably about ten years older than me. She sat so composed, so calm, she must do this all the time.

  “Sorry, ma’am. I have a slight…ly paralyzing fear of flying.”

  Her brow wrinkled, crackling the
edges of her foundation and suggesting she’d actually lived a few more years than I originally guessed. “But we’re not even on the plane yet.”

  I nodded. “Yup. I’m so afraid, panic starts in the waiting area. S-sorry.”

  With effort, I sat up and undid my death grip on the armrests. At this hour, the terminal was slowly coming to life. Kiosks were opening, lights coming on at more and more gates, travelers starting to wander in, some bleary—eyed while others clutched coffee cups like a lifeline. The hush permeating the air when I arrived shortly before seven a.m., as if no one wanted to dispel the early morning magic by speaking, was mostly evaporated by now. In a few hours, it would be nearly impossible to connect that Logan with the bustling hub it turned into.

  About a dozen people scattered around our gate. A group of businessmen huddled around their laptops in one corner. A family with a toddler sat against the far wall. One of the children howled, ignoring her father’s attempts at comfort. Poor kid. She must not want to fly, either. A few single travelers waited throughout the seating area. Hardly any, really. I wondered if the entire flight would be this empty. Maybe I’d get a row to myself and quake with terror in peace.

  A stewardess stood behind the podium, talking quietly into the phone. I gazed at the wall, my eyes tracing the letters in United’s logo over and over, trying to control my breathing. Every time my gaze strayed to the plane outside the gate, my whole body tensed.

  “It’ll be okay,” the woman beside me said. “But we’re boarding soon. You may want to head to the bathroom before takeoff, take some deep breaths, splash cold water on your face.”

  “G—good idea.” I struggled not to give voice to my fears. “Thanks.”

  A howl rose from the family in the corner as I walked away, slow so my legs wouldn’t shake. Poor kids. In the bright fluorescent lights of the men’s room, I looked even worse than I felt. Sweat stains soaked both sides of my shirt from the armpits down. Way to make a great first impression at my job interview.

  An interview I didn’t want to go to, but my wife’s parents had arranged it. Jess loved the idea of trading Boston’s weather for the sun and fun of Los Angeles, but I hadn’t been sold on the idea yet. I hadn’t been sold on anything. It didn’t matter. My whole life, I did what people expected of me, whether I wanted to or not. Moving to the west coast was par for the course.

  Pulling a bit of fabric from my pocket, I blotted my clammy hands before realizing what I clutched. The silk square my wife had given me the night before.

  “I have a present for you,” she’d said with a grin, handing me a flat, squishy package with a bow on top. “A going away gift.”

  “Jess, you didn’t have to get me anything,” I’d protested.

  “I know,” she said. “I wanted to. I made it this afternoon.”

  She’d made… what? I eyed her suspiciously. “I thought you stayed home from work because you were sick.”

  She’d stuck her tongue out at me. “After lying on the couch all morning drinking tea, I felt well enough to sit up and move a needle and thread. A bit of bad shrimp doesn’t make me totally incapable of doing anything.”

  Curious, I’d peeled the tape from the wrapping, leaving the bow where it was, and pulled out a large white rectangle. It looked vaguely familiar. I peered closely at the fabric, at the white whorls throughout. Up close, I recognized it.

  “Is this from your wedding dress?”

  “It is,” she said. “I knew you’d be nervous about your flight and the interview, so I made you a pocket square for your suit. I thought you’d like something to remind you of the happiest day of our lives.”

  Sometimes, I loved her so much, emotion overwhelmed me. Tears had formed in my eyes. “Oh, Jess, you shouldn’t have destroyed your dress for me. You loved that dress.”

  She’d shrugged. “It’s no big deal. Someday, we’ll cut it down to make a christening gown for our kids anyway, right? Besides, I took it from the lining. No one would ever know.”

  I’d pulled her close, breathing in the scent of her, as if I created a physical imprint of her to carry with me. She put her arms around me, breathing deeply.

  “I love you,” I’d said into her hair. “Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome.” Her voice cracked slightly. “I love you, too.”

  Now I held the square over my face and inhaled deeply. Lilac and jasmine from her perfume combined with the vague undertones of the unique scent of Jess to soothe me. Not enough to go back out there, but enough to take another breath and confront my reflection.

  My face matched the colorless bathroom walls. I glowered at the bathroom mirror, hating the face reflected there. I wasn’t unattractive, or scarred, or pimply, or even the wrong weight for my frame. Nothing like that. The face simply didn’t reflect the way I saw myself. In the mirror, I saw the man who played football because it was expected, dated the prom queen because it was expected, and chose the career path of least resistance, going into computers because Dad said it was the way of the future and I didn’t know what else to do.

  As soon as I hit puberty, I grew a beard to hide the too-heavy brow, the angles of my jaw. My face wasn’t what I should see in the mirror. It didn’t reflect me, who I needed to be. The beard looked horrendous, took me further from my true self, but it removed the need to stare at myself for twenty minutes every morning while shaving.

  Jess hated the beard. I hated it too, but I couldn’t explain to her what it is—what she was, even. Camouflage. A way for me to hide.

  I loved Jess with all my heart, but our marriage was a mistake when we said “I do” and a mistake now. Marrying me was, quite simply, the worst thing Jess possibly could have done. I shouldn’t have proposed, should’ve broken up with her instead, but everyone expected us to get married. I really did love Jess, so figured if I went with it, we’d eventually be happy.

  I needed to man up and get on the plane, go to the interview. Since I couldn’t be honest with her, or even myself, at least I could be the husband my wife deserved.

  The guy from the waiting area entered the bathroom, interrupting my loathing. To hide that I’d been examining my face, I washed my hands again, keeping my face averted. When I turned to find the hand dryer, our eyes met in the mirror, and I paused. His eyes were as red as mine. Something twisted in my gut.

  “You okay, man?”

  He shook his head. “It’s hard, saying good-bye to my kids. They’re only going to visit their grandma for a week, but we couldn’t afford the extra ticket. I knew the separation would suck for them, but I didn’t realize how hard it would hit for me.”

  The electric hand dryer clicked off, and Alanis Morrisette’s voice filled the restroom, pumped in on tinny speakers. Of course. Just the song I needed. Halfway through the first verse, the shakes returned. Sweat poured down my face. Perfect. I couldn’t do this. Before Alanis got to the end of her question, I started to bolt.

  A voice stopped me. “What about you? You a’ight?”

  “No. I am one hundred percent terrified of flying. The last thing I want in the world is to get on that flight.”

  He gestured at the speakers. “Isn’t it ironic? I’d give my left nut to board.”

  Something in the back of my mind clicked. I didn’t want to fly. I didn’t want to go to Los Angeles, didn’t want to interview, didn’t want any of this. And this guy did. Before I stopped to think about it, I wiped my wet hands on my ass and pulled my boarding pass out of my back pocket.

  “Here.”

  “What?”

  I shook the pass at him. “Take it. Get on the plane. Go be with your kids.”

  “No way, man. I can’t.”

  “Sure you can. Consider it a… random act of kindness. Today’s your lucky day.”

  He stared at me for a long moment. I didn’t flinch. “You’re like a fucking fairy godmother, aren’t you? I can’t believe it. Thank you!” A moment later, this stranger wrapped his arms around me in a hug so tight it brought tears to
my eyes.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Give me your address. I’ll pay you back when I can.”

  I shook my head. “Someday, when you’re in a better place, help someone who needs it. And be good to those kids.”

  He made it halfway out of the restroom before turning back and offering a fifty-dollar bill and a business card identifying him as Dan. “You ever need anything, dude, look me up.”

  If I didn’t take it, Dan would never get on the plane and I risked changing my mind. “Sure thing. Have a safe flight.”

  Flashing me a thumbs-up, he vanished. I waited by the sink, wondering how pissed Jess would be when she found out what I’d done. But I couldn’t get on the plane.

  When I got back to the terminal, the people in the waiting area were boarding at the gate to my right. I slowed from a sprint to a walk. Behind me, a stewardess spoke into the intercom. “Last call for Flight 175 to Los Angeles. Passenger Cooper, please proceed to the boarding area immediately. Paging Brett Cooper. Your flight is about to take off.”

  The thought of boarding a plane made me hyperventilate again. A chill went down my spine that wasn’t just from the air conditioning hitting the sweat on my brow. I couldn’t do it.

  Dan trotted up to the gate and handed her my boarding pass. “I’m Cooper.”

  No turning back now. What I’d just done was probably illegal. Time to go home and face the music. Thinking about the chilly reception awaiting me, I shivered.

  Sorry, Jess. If you need to leave Massachusetts, we can move somewhere within driving distance.

  I couldn’t get on the plane, but I also couldn’t head home and tell my wife what I’d done. Not without a plan. Instead, I turned off my cell phone and left the airport. The MBTA would take me downtown, where I could walk around until I figured out what to do. Later, I’d catch a train home to face my wife. Try to figure out how to tell her that this wasn’t the life I wanted, that I couldn’t take the job in Los Angeles. That I was sorry she’d gotten herself chained to me, that she should walk away and be free.