Saturday, September 21st
I’m going to London.
New York—JFK Airport
“Miss James,” our driver, Larry, says with a nod as he takes my hand and helps me out of the black BMW that is pulled to the curb in front of the airport.
I give him a smile. Larry has been our family’s driver since … well, forever. He probably knows my parents as well as I do. Between driving my father to and from work and my mom’s distaste for taxis and her need to attend varying luncheons, he’s with us daily.
“Thank you,” I say as he gets out the last of my suitcases—three in total with a nice-sized duffel to top it off.
It might seem excessive for three weeks, but I hate not being prepared. The fact that I was not given any kind of an itinerary did not help. Which means I had to strategically pack for any possible outing—from cute, casual day outfits to options for going out.
And there’s nothing worse than having the most beautiful clothes and wearing them with the same shoes and bag. Each outfit is distinct and needs its own accessories, or it throws off the whole effect, and that’s not good.
Fifteen pairs of shoes later, I think I’ve done pretty well with the little amount of information I have on what exactly I’ll be doing besides sitting in a stuffy, old building in an outdated uniform. I wipe the thought from my mind, bringing my attention back to Larry. I give him a wave as he leaves me at curbside check-in, and I hand my passport to the employee behind the desk. She looks at me, a smile coming to her face.
“I see you’re traveling to London today, Miss James,” she says, obviously wanting me to be as excited by the idea as she is.
I want to reply, Unfortunately, but her smile is genuine, and I don’t really feel like being responsible for removing the sparkle in her eye. So, I give her my best I’m not faking this fake smile and nod with enthusiasm.
“I’m going to London,” I repeat, letting the words settle in.
I’ve been trying to avoid the thought as much as possible, but now, here I am, faced with it yet again for the second time today. The first time was when my mom hugged me this morning and then proceeded to cry, making me feel extremely uncomfortable. She blubbered something about missing me and being proud, but I just moved on to my dad, giving him a hug. And luckily for us, he was able to hold back his tears.
At least one of my parents can handle their emotions. My mother can never compose herself, which is one of the reasons—aside from the utter betrayal that still upsets me—that I preferred to come to the airport alone. We are born alone, we die alone, and I would like to not be coddled and suffocated for the remaining time in between.
That’s why I get along so well with my dad. He understands me. Hell, he’s practically just like me. Or I suppose, I’m just like him. He is focused and driven. He doesn’t let emotions overcome him. He understands that a firm pat on the shoulder from him makes me more emotional than a full-body hug, and his good-bye was enough warmth to last me through the next three weeks.
I take my passport and boarding ticket from the woman and watch as my luggage, one piece after another, disappears into the hidden maze that moves silently through JFK to the appropriate plane. I think back to my dad as I get in the TSA line, the image of his cool eyes settling into my chest. I caught an ounce of maybe regret in them when he said his good-bye, but he looked happy at the same time. His mixed emotions left me feeling a little sick at the thought of leaving, but there’s not much I can do about it now.
I hand my passport and ticket over at the security check and then find myself seated on the seven twenty-five p.m. flight to London Heathrow.
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