| Subject: The Ubiquitous Mr. Lovegrove Epilogue3 |
Author:
Schnee
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Date Posted: 18:10:06 07/30/01 Mon
In reply to:
Schnee
's message, "The Ubiquitous Mr. Lovegrove" on 08:31:53 07/22/01 Sun
As the plane begins to descend, I watch the white marble monuments and buildings of the Capital grow in size. They appear just a stone’s throw away as the landing gear contacts the ground with a small jolt.
I expel the breath I had not realized I was holding. Admittedly, planes make me nervous, despite all my frequent flier miles courtesy of Section One. In spite of all the guns, explosives, and madmen I have encountered, all the close brushes with death, I still carry this fear of having my life abruptly end with the plane suddenly plummeting. And in this case it would have been not only my life at stake, as I’m reminded by a firm kick.
A jolly voice sounds over the P.A. system as the plane begins to taxi in.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, I’d like to welcome you to Reagan National Airport. The temperature here is a balmy 56 degrees Fahrenheit. If you were hoping for a White Christmas, I’m afraid you’re out of luck unless you’re planning to fly out to Minnesota where they are expecting to be buried under at least foot of snow by tomorrow. On behalf of the crew of Flight 729, I wish all of you and your families a happy and safe Holiday Season.”
Christmas? What day is it today? I struggle to remember the date as I realize that I‘ve completely forgotten Christmas was coming. Spending the last month or so in Asia, the Christmas holiday was never referenced.
“Michael, what’s today’s date?”
“It’s the 23rd.” He answers in a matter-of-fact tone.
Only two days! I’ll need to ditch Michael for a few hours sometime before then to go shopping. I can’t let Christmas pass without having a gift for Michael. Even if I am P.O’ed at him. But it’ll have to wait until after we arrive home.
Home. Why does is sound like such an ominous word?
Perhaps because Michael has made it such a mystery. I’m really beginning to dread any more of his surprises. Always making preparations and decisions while keeping me out of the loop. It’s an unpleasant reminder that his Section persona is still very much a part of him. It’s also something that needs to be discussed in a more private setting, and not on a plane surrounded by fellow passengers. But it will be discussed.
Yet wouldn’t Christmas in our own home be a good thing? He is right after all. We can’t keep traipsing around the world like a pair of gypsies. Reflecting a moment, I realize that I am tired. Tired of traveling. Tired of roaming from hotel to hotel. I am ready to have a bed to call our own instead of sleeping on hard beds with tacky floral pattern bedspreads each night. And perhaps we could even have a Christmas tree in our new home.
Maybe if I had brought the topic up sooner—the topic of finding a home—he would have shared his plans with me. But my insecurities and doubts kept me from asking. I know nothing about owning a home. My apartment, chosen and financed by Section, was the first and only place I’ve ever been able to call my own. During my entire life, I have never had the option of choosing the place where I would live. I suppose on some level I'd like to have control over that for once. Yet, does it really matter as long as I get to share that home with Michael?
He could have let me choose. He could have included me in the decision instead of taking control of every last detail. And I’m sure he did control every detail.
The confusion swirling in my head comes to a screeching halt as a chime sounds signaling that the plane has stopped. Passengers begin to scurry from their seats, some dashing down the aisle determined to be one of the first to depart the plane. I stay seated, waiting for Michael to unload our things from the overhead compartment.
Being pregnant has really made me aware of how tight quarters airplanes really are. Confined to my seat for too many hours, except for the evermore necessary trips to the lavitory, the prospect of shimmying my way out does not appeal to me much. After letting the wave of hurried passengers by, Michael motions for me. Rising slowly, my legs feel weak beneath me from sitting too long. I grasp onto the next seat as I struggle to remain upright in the narrow space between the two rows of seats. With a couple more steps, I reach the aisle, feeling a little more sure of my footing.
Michael must have sensed my brief insecurity for he cups his hand along my hip as he stands behind me.
“Are you okay, hon?”
His words have a dreamy quality to them. I can say with certainty that Michael has never called me hon or even honey before. It takes a bit of determination to stifle the laughter that is dangerously threatening to erupt. Somehow I manage a smile. I know he’s playing the part of average Joe citizen. It’s just too weird, even now. I hope he does not make a habit of it. Especially not while the baby is pressing on my bladder.
~~~~
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