34 I am sitting beside Phil in the back of a London taxicab. My heart is racing along with the traffic, and Phil must know that I am nervous. He squeezes my hand, then leans over and presses a kiss to my cheek. “You look lovely,” he says, and though I’m not sure I believe him, I’m glad he thinks so.
Our plane landed at Heathrow over an hour ago. I’m a little groggy from the time change and jet lag, but my blood brims with anticipatory adrenaline.
I am going to meet my father today.
Overcome with emotion, I bury my face in the soft shoulder of Phil’s wool coat. I feel him shift slightly, then his head tilts to rest upon mine.
He’s been beside me throughout this adventure, and I don’t know what I would have done without him. Clinging to Phil and a bottle of Valium, yesterday afternoon I boarded a British Airlines jet. Because of Phil’s steadying influence, however, I didn’t take a single pill.
Defeating my fear of leaving home hasn’t been easy, but Phil helped me see that I’d already begun to beat it when I ventured down to the lobby and up to the roof. In the two weeks it took for my passport to arrive, Phil escorted me to several meetings with a psychiatrist and an agoraphobia support group. The first time I attended the group session, I felt like I’d stumbled across a group of long-lost cousins. They spoke my language; they understood my fears in a way no one else could.
As a reward for taking a few giant steps, Phil also took me out to buy new luggage, new clothes, and a winter coat. Each excursion pulled us a little farther from the Westbury Arms entrance, and each success raised my confidence level.
One afternoon we took the subway to visit Clara in the hospital. I sat by her bed and held her hand for an hour, silently saying goodbye. Oddly enough, I couldn’t be angry at Clara for the way she’d deceived me. The lies had originated with Mother.
With my arm firmly wrapped through his, Phil escorted me to Clara’s funeral at St. Pat’s. She died without ever regaining consciousness, and I wept for her.
Clara is part of my past, and I buried my nightmares with her. I am ready to move forward.
I was tense when we boarded the plane and downright nervous when we landed in London, but Phil has negotiated every aspect of our journey. He and Bert Shields took care of details I have been too scattered to consider, including passports, tickets, and our need to let Father’s family know we are coming.
At first we planned to stay in a hotel, but Hilly Norquest, my father’s wife, insisted that we stay with the family. “All the children are home,” she told Bert Shields, “and we’ve always room for two more. You tell Aurora and her gentleman friend to plan on staying at least a fortnight.”
So Phil took a leave of absence from the college—claiming he needed a vacation anyway—and we booked open tickets. If my father does not pull through his illness, we’ll return to New York after the funeral.
I have braced myself for the worst. Two people in my life have died in as many months; I may lose a third. But I am doing everything within my power to be sure I arrive before it’s too late.
I lift my head and look out the wide window of the boxy taxi. We are riding on the left side of the road, the driver sits on the right side of the car, and this backward situation seems perfectly normal for a country on the opposite side of the ocean. I close my eyes as we speed through a roundabout without stopping, then I lean back and tell myself to relax.
I learned a remarkable lesson on the plane. When I was housebound, the thing I feared most was the sense of being out of control when a panic attack struck. But I didn’t panic on the flight because I have never felt more in control of my life. For the first time in years, I made a decision independent of my mother’s influence, and the resulting confidence has carried me safely into a foreign country.
The taxi pulls into a driveway in front of London Bridge Hospital. Phil pays the driver while I step onto the curb and blink up at the morning sky. A moment later, the driver sets our luggage on the curb. I pull one of the smaller pieces onto my shoulder, then follow Phil toward an information desk.
He pauses a moment to drop the luggage, and I surprise myself by approaching the woman at the counter. “Hello,” I tell her, a little intimidated by the mound of sternly coifed hair supporting her cap. “We’re looking for Theodore Norquest.”
“You an’ everybody else,” she says, lacing her fingers. “Mr. Norquest deserves his privacy.”
“I’m part of the family,” I answer. “Hilly Norquest is expecting us.”
I have uttered the magic words. The aide writes a number on a slip, then points to an elevator down the hall. “Take the lift up one floor, turn right. You’ll most likely find the others waitin’ in the family room.”
I take the slip and turn to reach for Phil’s hand, but he has bent to lift our luggage. And so, feeling suddenly alone, I follow the hall toward the elevator as Phil follows.
My heart is hammering my ribs again, but this time my fears are grounded in reality, not imagination. What if Hilly Norquest takes one look at me, sees my mother in my face, and turns me away? What if her sons resent my sudden appearance? What if we’re too late?
I step into the elevator and hold the door as Phil staggers forward with our bags. Other people board the car—a young woman with a tangerine pouf of hair holds the hand of a little boy. An older woman follows them, an expression of dread on her face.
I know how she feels.
No one speaks as the elevator rises. A bell chimes when the car stops, and the sound makes my heart skip a beat. When none of the other passengers move, I step off and turn right, knowing Phil will be right behind me.
The paper in my hand says my father is in room 267. A woman sits in a chair outside that room, but this is no femme fatale. This woman looks more like a sixty-year-old Betty Crocker.
I approach slowly, then stop. “Hilly Norquest?”
The woman, who is plump, soft, and rosy-cheeked, stands and opens her arms. My stomach churns as I move into her embrace, but she kisses me on both cheeks, then steps back to squeeze my hands. “We are so glad you have come.” She looks past me and sends Phil a smile. “You must be Philip.”
“Phil,” he says, stepping forward to shake her hand. “Phil Cannon.”
She ignores his outstretched hand and embraces him, too. I’m wondering if she will pepper us with polite questions about the trip, but she seems to sense my urgency. Swiveling her hazel eyes in my direction, she asks, “Are you ready?”
I answer in a weak and tremulous whisper. “Yes.”
Hilly Norquest takes me by the hand and leads me into my father’s room. The man I have seen in black-and-white photographs is propped against two pillows and lying within the rails of a hospital bed. His hair is combed, his eyes closed, and an open book rests upside down in his lap.
Somehow I push a question past the lump in my throat. “Is he better?”
Hilly’s smile blazes in the dim light of the room. “Much improved. He took a turn for the better right after we heard you were coming.”
I am about to suggest that we not wake him, but Hilly has already placed one hand on his shoulder.
“Teddy?” she whispers. “Another of your children has come home.”
My father opens his eyes . . . and those dark depths snap with love and boundless joy.
“Aurora.”
Hilly steps back as he lifts his arms. Careful of the wires and tubes, I sink into his embrace, letting my tears speak for me.
We are people who love words, but words are not necessary in this moment. Still, I need to confess something. “I’m sorry,” I whisper when I finally find my voice. “I’m so sorry for believing the lies.”
His strong hand falls upon my head. “I have always loved you.” His voice, so warm and familiar, shivers the skin of my arms. “Welcome to the family.”
I feel like a child who has stumbled for years in darkness and suddenly finds a lamp. I feel joyful and complete, but most of all I feel . . . free.