The Return
It is the day before my return flight. Today I have official permission to worry, but instead I think to myself, “I’ll worry later.” Gerard’s postponement strategy has become second nature. I make a list of what I am packing to go home. The list is substantially the same as it was on the way out, but I have acquired two new books that I want to remember to take. I jot down the titles and begin to fill my suitcase. Tonight I am having dinner with Gerard, and so I leave out a change of clothes. I want to look elegant. At four p.m. I am still in my pajamas.
Glancing at the clock, I pray:
Dear God,
Please guide my packing.
Let me not forget anything.
Help me to dress well for Gerard.
Let me be elegant and practical.
Guide my hand in making up.
Amen.
There isn’t a flight goes by when I don’t stare out of the window and thank my stars for what I’m seeing and feeling.
—RICHARD BRANSON, PILOT AND FOUNDER OF VIRGIN ATLANTIC
Item by item, I pack. I remember to set aside the medicines I take at bedtime. At five o’clock I slip into the shower. After toweling myself dry, I dress in a tunic and slacks.
I am meeting Gerard at Pascalou. I plan on the smoked salmon. Making up carefully, I add an extra dab of mascara. I want to look my best.
To my relief, I catch a cab as soon as I step to the curb. We nose into traffic, heading north to Pascalou. My driver is chatty. He brings up the weather (good) and the traffic (bad). Fighting congestion, we make our way block by block. We pull up at Pascalou fifteen minutes early. I pay off the cab and enter the restaurant. The maître d’ fusses over me and shows me to a choice table. I order a bottle of sparkling water and settle in to wait for Gerard. He’s quick to arrive, five minutes early. I kiss him hello.
The man who flies an airplane . . . must believe in the unseen.
—RICHARD BACH
“You’re looking spiffy,” he compliments me.
“And you’re looking debonair,” I reply.
“So how are you doing?” Gerard asks. I know that he means “about flying.”
“I’ve managed to postpone feeling terrified,” I tell him. “I used your postponement technique.”
“Very good,” he replies.
“I’m afraid I’ve saved up all my terror for tonight,” I confess.
Gerard clucks sympathetically.
“Maybe you can postpone it until tomorrow,” he ventures.
“Maybe I can try,” I venture.
“I’ll bet you could,” Gerard says thoughtfully. He turns the conversation to my teaching. I am always frightened before I teach. But in that arena, I have learned to postpone my anxiety. I have learned to look forward to the positive thrill of my students catching fire.
“So you need to look forward to the positives of flying,” Gerard suggests. “Take your flight tomorrow. You’ll be winging your way back home. And home is certainly something to look forward to.”
The Wright brothers flew through the smoke screen of impossibility.
—DOROTHEA BRANDE
Our entrées arrive, and we settle into eating. My fear of flying is successfully postponed as I focus on the delicious salmon. After dessert—profiteroles again—it’s time for me to get back to my lodgings. My flight is early in the morning. I have called a car service to pick me up at seven a.m. I don’t want to risk not finding a cab.
“Good night, then. I’m glad we got a good visit in.” Gerard kisses me good-bye. As luck would have it, a cab swerves to the curb. I clamber in.
Long flights give you more time to reflect, look around, experience your surroundings.
—MIKE FOALE, WHO HAS 374 DAYS LOGGED IN SPACE
Back at my hotel, I wait for fear to hit me, but it doesn’t. Perhaps my subconscious is respecting the blockade that postpones my fear until the morning. I finish up my packing and settle into bed. I anticipate a sleepless night, but instead I drop off to sleep in minutes. My alarm is set for six.
I wake at five forty-five, before the buzzer sounds. I climb into my clothes and do my makeup. I am ready with a half hour to spare. I take out my journal and begin my daily three Morning Pages. I race through my prayers, writing out the names of my beloveds and, in my mind, bestowing blessings on each of them. I am on page two before it occurs to me that I am not frightened. I am many other things, among them impatient. I decide to go downstairs and wait for my car.
I do one last “idiot check” just in case I have forgotten something. I have not.
Down on street level, I discover my car service has arrived early. But what’s this?
The hood is propped open and the driver is standing with jumper cables in hand. “Dead battery,” he says to me. A cab pulls alongside. The cabbie pops his hood. My driver attaches the cables. It’s five of seven. I don’t want to risk the battery dying a second time.
“Thanks. I’ll catch a cab,” I tell my driver. He is dismayed, but I do not trust that the battery is fixed. I move off down the street, lugging my suitcase, and at the corner I raise my hand. I am worried there will be no cabs, but I spot a cab a block away, and it spots me. When it pulls up, the driver hops out to help with my suitcase. I tell him which airport and which carrier.
“Sure enough,” he says. He noses the cab back into traffic. He drives assertively.
The ride to the airport is smooth and uneventful. I like my cabbie’s driving. It feels speedy but safe.
Be like the bird that, passing on her flight awhile on boughs too slight, feels them give way beneath her, and yet sings, knowing that she hath wings.
—VICTOR HUGO
When we pull up at curbside check-in, I am relieved. I have plenty of time. I tip the cabbie extravagantly. He is surprised and grateful. I tell the skycap my flight number, destination, and time of departure.
“You’re early,” he says.
“Yes, I know. It’s on purpose,” I reply, handing over my passport.
[Flying] fosters fantasies of childhood, of omnipotence, rapid shifts of being, miraculous moments; it stirs our capacity for dreaming.
—JOYCE CAROL OATES