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When I was twelve years old, my best friend and I went to the Ocean Beach County Fair. Rides didn’t interest me, but I loved people watching. After a lot of coaxing, Kelsey convinced me to ride the Cyclone. I’d never heard of the ride, and I had no idea what was in store for me, but I trusted Kelsey implicitly. If she said I would like it, maybe I would.
Hesitantly, I allowed myself to be dragged into the line. My churning stomach threatened to expel the funnel cake I’d just eaten, but I climbed on the ride anyway. Only then did I notice that it consisted of nothing but an open, cylindrical space. There were no seats, no handles, nothing at all to prevent us from being propelled into space.
By then, it was too late to change my mind. The door closed and the ride started. Before long, it began to spin, faster and faster, until it was turning so quickly I could barely see. My body was glued to the wall by sheer velocity, and I closed my eyes as I spun out of control. When it came to a halt, my feet met the ground and the world stopped revolving. Kelsey looked at me expectantly, and a huge smile erupted on my face. She was right; I loved it.
We exited through the gate, but all I could think about was riding it again. Giggling, we jumped right back in line and got on the ride a second time. The Cyclone started rotating, turning us around and around inside the enclosed space. My head was suctioned to the side of the ride, but this time, Kelsey told me to look down. Trusting her, I peeled my head away from the wall and stole a glance.
My body was stuck to the wall, but to my horror, I realized that the floor had vanished from beneath my feet. The only thing holding me in place was the force of the spinning ride. I didn’t enjoy it at all the second time around; I was terrified. It was amazing the perspective I got when my eyes were open.
I hadn’t thought of the Cyclone in years, but two weeks ago, the image of the out-of-control ride popped into my head on the day my marriage ended. It struck me as ironic that I’d been spinning with my eyes closed for as long as I could remember, completely oblivious to everything except the motion of my life. When I opened my eyes, I was shocked to discover that the floor had vanished from beneath me. My safety net of oblivion was gone.
# # #
Looking out the window of the airplane, I tried to ignore the knots in my stomach. Dark, dismal skies and swirling gray clouds peered back at me, a reflection of my mood. I shifted restlessly in my seat, tapping my fingernails nervously on the tray table in front of me. The walls were closing in on me, and my breathing came fast and short. All I could think about was getting off the plane. The flight attendant, who seemed to sense my agitation, quietly informed me we would begin our descent into Seattle soon.
I nodded slowly at her without making eye contact. It was embarrassing that my inability to cope was so obvious. “You can do this, Hope,” I said to myself, taking several deep breaths and trying in vain to settle my nerves. Every muscle in my body was tight, making me a giant, clenched ball of stress that refused to uncoil. I rotated my neck and tried to relax my shoulders. A dull, throbbing ache radiated across my forehead.
The events of my shattered life paraded relentlessly through my head, invading my peace of mind while I attempted to block it all out. I would not think about any of it right now; I couldn’t. But try as I might, I couldn’t fight off the memories that clawed at my brain like a vulture decimating a carcass.
I pictured my husband on that last day; I remembered the shocked look on his face as I ordered him out of our apartment. It seemed like eons had passed instead of a mere two weeks. His words pounded in my head. It was like a bad movie that played over and over in my mind.
“Please, Hope, just let me explain.” Jonathan reached out to put his hands on me, but I ripped my arm from his grasp and took two giant steps away from him. The thought of him touching me made bile rise in my throat.
“The time for that is over. There’s no possible way to explain what you’ve done. Now get out.” I pointed furiously at the front door while I tried with everything in me not to break down and cry.
“I’ll go, but this is not over. We will never be over. We’ve been together since we were kids, Hope.” Jonathan looked imploringly at me before he grabbed his suitcase and stalked out the door, glancing back once before it closed. The sound of the door slamming reverberated through the empty apartment. It wasn’t until he was gone that I dissolved in a pool of tears. At least he hadn’t seen me break.
I shook my head, willing myself back to the present. If I wanted to stay sane, which was getting more difficult every day, I needed to push those agonizing thoughts out of my head. Again I recited, “You can do this, Hope,” like a mantra. Maybe if I said it enough, I would start to believe it. Right now, it didn’t feel like I could do anything. It took every ounce of strength I had just to keep breathing. Once upon a time I was competent and capable; those days were ancient history.
Trying to distract myself, I glanced around at my fellow passengers. I wondered if any of them were nervous about our arrival in Seattle. I doubted it. I wondered if any of them were teetering on the edge of a major anxiety attack like I was. Also unlikely. I learned a long time ago that the churning, gnawing feeling in my stomach wasn’t something most people understood. I wondered what my life would be like if it weren’t there, constantly eating away at me. I couldn’t remember a time when I hadn’t felt it. The tight knots of stress in my gut were as much a part of me as my brown eyes.
I wanted off the airplane; I wanted to turn around and run in the opposite direction. But for better or worse, I was about to disembark the aircraft at the one place I’d promised myself I would never return. It was ironic that I was right back where I started when I had run away ten years ago. But it couldn’t be helped. I was trying to escape Jonathan, but he wasn’t the reason I had to go home. There were other reasons, other problems I needed to deal with, and although I wanted nothing more than to ignore them, I knew it wasn’t possible.
I’d gone over and over the choices in my mind, and this was the decision I’d made. My options were the equivalent of being put to death by lethal injection or firing squad. Either would do the trick, but one would be fast, while the other would take a little more time. It seemed most things in my life boiled down to choosing the lesser of two evils.
“Welcome to Washington. We are beginning our descent into Seattle. The weather is a mild sixty degrees on this lovely March morning. Skies are gray and you’re sure to get a taste of the Emerald City’s characteristic rain if you stick around long enough.” The pilot’s announcement over the loud speaker rose above the excited murmurs of the passengers.
Gathering my belongings, I folded my tray table, placed my seat in the upright position, stowed my belongings under the seat in front of me, and prepared myself for landing, going through the motions as I was instructed. Minutes later, we touched down at SeaTac airport. Although I wished I were anywhere but here, I was glad to be disembarking. I didn’t do well in enclosed spaces surrounded by strangers, fearing that every second one of those strangers might attempt to torture me with small talk.
Quickly making my way through the vast sea of people, I beelined straight to baggage claim, hoping my luggage would already be there waiting. I observed other travelers excitedly greeting their loved ones. There were tears, squeals of excitement, laughter, and lots of hugging. I wondered what a welcome like that would feel like. The happiness all around made me even more aware of the fact that I was alone. There was no one to greet me; no one was waiting for my arrival.
I stood in front of the conveyor belt waiting for my suitcase. The crowd pushed in around me. I tried to step away, to put some distance between me and the sea of bodies, but it was no use. There were so many people, all lobbying to be the first to pluck their luggage from the belt. Suddenly, I was pushed from behind, the force causing me to lose my balance. My knees buckled and I toppled to the ground, dropping my purse in the process. The entire contents of my bag scattered like shattered glass all over the airport floor. I scrambled to pick up each item while trying not to be trampled by the masses.
The crowd closed in on me and I was trapped. My breath came fast and short and my hands shook uncontrollably. I knew the signs all too well. If I didn’t get control of my panic, I would be in the throes of an anxiety attack right there on the airport floor.
“Let me help you, miss.” A kind, soothing voice cut through the fog in my brain as strong, sturdy hands lifted me off the floor and led me away from the crowd. The stranger’s hands supported me while I regained my balance.
My head was spinning, but I tried to slow my breathing and regain control. “Th-thank you...,” I stammered to the stranger. He released his steadying grip on me, waded back into the crowd, and crouched to pick up my items, placing them one by one into my purse.
“I’m happy to help.” He smiled kindly as he placed the bag into my trembling hands. He was around fifty years old, with graying hair and gentle, soft blue eyes. He had the look of someone who was used to taking care of people.
“I-I need....” I struggled with words, still teetering between panic and normalcy. Glancing helplessly toward the luggage turnstile, I saw my bag in the distance, circling around the conveyor belt.
“Is your bag still there?” I nodded slowly, knowing I should get my own suitcase. It wasn’t this stranger’s responsibility to take care of me. Nevertheless, I seemed incapable of movement and speech.
“I’ll get it for you. Just show me which one.” I pointed at my black suitcase, identical to every other black suitcase except for the hot-pink ribbon I’d tied to the handle. Luckily, by this time, most of the crowd had cleared and my suitcase was the only one left.
The kind stranger lifted it from the conveyor belt and placed it at my feet. He smiled again, and I gulped, trying to moisten my throat, which felt like sandpaper. My breathing was steadier, and now that the crowd had dissipated, I felt calmer. The grip of panic finally released.
“Thank you so much. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me...,” I offered weakly, although I knew exactly what was wrong. I’d dealt with panic attacks most of my life, and they never got easier.
“No thanks necessary miss. You looked a little... lost... and I just wanted to help. I have a daughter about your age.” He smiled again and the skin around his eyes crinkled. His smile was easy, and I got the impression it was something he did often.
“I appreciate your kindness more than you know.” I smiled back, finally in control of my voice again.
“Well, if you’re all right, I’ll be on my way.” He patted my arm.
“Yes, I’m fine now. Thank you again.” I felt like I should offer him something, although I had no idea what.
“Please, don’t thank me. Like I said, I have a daughter and I would like to think someone would help her if she needed it. Safe travels, miss.” The man nodded to me as he walked away. I followed him with my eyes until he disappeared in the distance.
I wondered about his daughter. I envied her, even though I didn’t know her. I pondered what it might be like to have that kind of father; someone a girl could count on for strength and for security. I certainly wouldn’t know anything about that.
My father wasn’t that sort of man. No, he was a deadbeat who had skipped town when he discovered he was about to have a child. He was certainly not someone who made his daughter feel safe and secure. In fact, I had no idea what he was like; I’d never laid eyes on him. I didn’t even know his name.
Grabbing my bag, I headed to the car rental counter. I’d left in such a hurry that I hadn’t made a reservation; I hoped there wouldn’t be any problems securing a vehicle. I did not need another thing to go wrong. Luckily, the rental process went smoothly, and the gum-chewing customer service representative had me driving away from the airport in a Toyota in mere minutes.
The practical, midsized, economy model was the polar opposite of my own car, which was now thousands of miles away. I missed my shiny, fast blue Mustang, which I’d left behind in New York. As much as I loved the car, Jonathan had bought it for me for our fifth anniversary. I told him he could have it. I didn’t want any part of him in my life. I sighed, hoping my soon-to-be ex-husband took better care of my car than he had our marriage.
I merged onto the freeway and took the exit that led me toward the coast. In less than two hours, I would be back in Woodridge. Butterflies flapped wildly in my tummy, and my sweaty hands clenched tightly around the steering wheel. Thoughts of my hometown didn’t bring about feelings of happiness and nostalgia. On the contrary, I felt nothing but dread, and I knew the uneasiness wouldn’t go away anytime soon.
Beads of perspiration condensed on my forehead and a stream of sweat ran down my neck, despite the fact that it was a comfortable sixty degrees outside. Reaching into my handbag, my fingers found the bottle of anxiety medicine prescribed by my therapist. I’d worried that they may have rolled away when my purse spilled. Not that I intended to take them; I was confident I could handle all of this without medication. My therapist, Dr. Holland, insisted I fill the prescription as a backup plan. Reluctantly, I’d agreed, and I realized that I felt an odd sense of comfort as I gripped the bottle in my hot palm.
When I left Woodridge, Washington, at the tender age of eighteen, I swore I would never go back. I said those exact words to my mother as I jumped into Jonathan’s car and drove off toward my future. I was determined to shake the dust of our small town off my feet. I was headed for bigger and better things. Woodridge held nothing but pain; memories I would spend the next ten years trying to outrun. In retrospect, I realized that I had been running away from my pain more than I had been running toward my future with Jonathan. As I approached Woodridge nearly a decade later, I was amazed to discover my long absence had done nothing to heal the hurt.
I finally understood that Jonathan Grey had just been a means to an end. I had loved my husband, but I was more in love with the idea of him. I was in love with his larger-than-life personality and the way he could light up a room. I’d always hoped some of his charisma would rub off on me, but sadly it never had.
I’d wanted a hero, a champion, someone to rescue me. In many ways, Jonathan did all of those things. He saved me from life in Woodridge and showed me a world I didn’t know existed. I’d thought Jonathan and I would be happy together, and for ten years, I assumed we were. If I’d learned one thing in life, it was that things were seldom what they appeared to be. Ten years ago, Jonathan had rescued me from Woodridge. This time, I would have to save myself.
