Lost from the First Step

Lost from the first step.

That’s how it felt flying United. From the first step I took into Bush International, I was lost. I didn’t know how to get my boarding pass. I didn’t know how to check my baggage. I felt thoroughly underprepared for this trip. My mum had said something about business class which, frankly, sounded beautiful. Unfortunately, she was wrong. What we had was Premier Access.

So, I danced back and forth between baggage check and boarding, attempted to go through customs without my boarding pass, only to be sent back to the Premier Access lane where the employees judge me skeptically as I’d grabbed an extra baggage tag, stupidly thinking that somehow it might be required on even carry-ons. I was running back and forth like a rabid cat, sans foam.

It took no time at all for TSA to determine that I was not a threat, and suddenly I was at international departures. My bag was heavy, my shoes were wrong—I could hear my boyfriend in my mind telling me off for my foolishness and I missed him already. Then suddenly, there was my mum. She too, was lost from her first step. The last time either of us had been on a plane was in 2012, and the years since then had been so turbulent and dramatic that neither of us remembered the experience clearly.

There was relief in our meeting. We had a drink. It would be the first of many on this trip. It was so comfortable sharing a drink with my mother. It was like we had slipped into new versions of ourselves who had forgotten every fight, every irk, every worry and who had stumbled upon the path to a strange, delightful and unknowable place.

We stood in line for an hour, and I struck up conversation with a very sweet woman who had lived in Houston for 30 years. A regular at Stages and the Alley—we had a surprising amount to talk about. She was going on a cruise. My mum meanwhile found herself deep in conversation with a man from Nigeria—it had been 45 years since the last time she’d step foot there. They discussed how the country had changed.

Next thing I know, I’m saying goodbye to the sweet woman from Kansas, blundering forward with a close-knit crowd in priority boarding, passing the comfortable wide seats of Business Class and stepping back into the close-knit lies of Economy-Plus.

I’m lost once more—as I grin weakly at that same woman from Kansas who is sitting in our row. I’m lost at the site of one-person seating arrangements all over the plain while I find myself lodged between my mum and this stranger who’s friend was sitting alone right in front of her.

I want the window seat. So does my mum. I’m willing to let it go. She is not. She’s a pushy woman, my mother. It’s one of the things I love about her. I think she was uncomfortable with our seating arrangement. It was tight-quarters. There’s something about the elbow-room that comes with not having to stretch out. I won’t realize that for another ten minutes though.

There is a massive shift as my mum moves about, completely unaware of anyone around her, or perhaps not caring. She takes down her suitcase, shoves a pain-killer in her mouth and a takes a swig of sleeping medicine. I don’t like this combination. I don’t say anything. It doesn’t matter—not really. She’s been lost for years. I’m hoping this trip will solidify her place in the world. She looks at me, grins and points toward forward to three empty seats right next to the wings.

Moments later we’ve moved up to the front, where a steward asks us when we got his permission to move. He’s teasing. I laugh. My mum laughs. He gives us ice cream which we each take a bite of and immediately hate.

My mum insists on putting it in his cart. I tell her that we should at least wait for him to get back. She takes it. She claims she’s found the rubbish. She puts them in with a bunch of beer cans. He’s not happy. I feel terrible. There’s no TV in the front row. My mum moves back.

Here I am—lost again with eight hours of flight ahead of me and a laptop for company. From Houston to London. Something small erupts in my stomach; something I had thought died a long time ago. I press my face to the freezing window and stared out over the clouds. I am finally going home again.