Chapter 3 - After the Monitors Went Dark
The woman behind the blue-paneled counter tapped her keyboard one more time and then she stopped. The monitor facing us went dark and then lit up again with a plain gray screen. No flight numbers. No names. Just the airline logo bouncing slow in the corner. I stood a step behind my sister and I watched her planner lying open on the light countertop, the black pen still resting in the crease where she'd been writing.
She didn't look at me. She slid the pen into the loop on the planner's spine and then she picked up the brown leather cover with both hands. The snap was loud. A clean click that cut through the announcements overhead. She tucked the planner under her arm and with her other hand she hitched the checkered tote higher on her shoulder. The tan leather trim caught the ceiling light. She'd never let it touch the counter. Not once.
"Thank you," she said to the agent, calm and composed like she always was when she wanted to be the reasonable one. Her layered gold necklaces didn't move. "I appreciate your help."
The man beside her — her husband — put a light hand on her lower back. He smiled that polite smile he used when he wanted everyone to feel like nothing bad had just happened.
"Well. That's that then," he said, turning just enough to include me without really looking at me. He steered her away from the counter, his palm guiding her elbow toward the main walkway and the glass doors beyond the stanchions. "Let's get out of here before traffic builds up. We can figure out the rest at home."
I didn't move right away. My hands were empty. My bag was still by my feet where I'd set it when she told me I was staying home to watch her cats. I bent and picked it up. The strap was warm from my palm. By the time I stood, they were already three steps ahead, moving past the retractable belts and the overhead monitors that now meant nothing for us.
I followed at a distance. That's what "You'd slow us down" does to you. It teaches you to keep a gap. I watched the back of her tan blazer, the way her shoulder-length blonde hair didn't bounce when she walked, the way the checkered tote swung just slightly against her hip. He walked close to her, talking quietly, and she nodded once, her micro-expression tight, eyes forward. They didn't argue. They didn't need to. She'd said "Cancel everything, the entire party" in that quiet firm voice and he'd backed her, and now they moved like a unit again.
The automatic doors opened and the cold air from outside hit us. It was bright out on the curb, that flat winter light that makes the parking lot look gray even when the terminal is warm. A shuttle bus hissed to a stop and then pulled away. A curbside attendant called out lane numbers. I pulled my navy collared shirt straighter and tucked my low ponytail behind my ear. My small gold hoops were cold against my skin.
We stopped near lane two where they'd parked. Or where they'd said they'd parked when they'd all driven together that morning without me, before I'd met them inside. She turned then, finally, and faced me. She held the planner against her chest like a shield.
"So," she said. She took a breath and let it out slow. "Since we're not going, you'll still have the keys. You can just go feed them tonight. The two cats. You know their setup."
I swallowed. I could hear the highway beyond the parking structure.
I said, "You cancelled the whole trip. So I'm still watching them?"
She looked at me like I'd asked something complicated. Her eyes did that brief close, that small pause she always did before she made a decision sound like a favor.
"Well, yes," she said. "They still need to be watched. That's still the plan. You were already set to do it. Nothing about the cats changed."
Her husband nodded, hands in his dark suit pockets now. His tie was perfectly straight.
"Yeah, if you could just keep the original schedule, that'd be great," he said. "It helps us a lot. We can deal with the refund stuff later."
It was so clean the way he said it. Like I'd been volunteered and then left with the job after they'd taken away the reason for it. They hadn't asked if I still wanted to. They'd told me I would.
I felt the weight of my own bag on my shoulder. I nodded before I'd decided to. A small, automatic nod I'd learned years ago to keep the peace.
"Okay," I said. My voice was quieter than I wanted it to be. "I'll still go by."
"Good," she said, and she adjusted the tote on her shoulder one more time. The snap on her planner glinted. "Text me when you let yourself in. And lock the bottom lock this time."
He already had his phone out, pulling up the parking ticket. He touched her arm again, steering.
"We're in the garage, not here," he said to her. "Come on, we'll walk over. You want me to call the restaurant too?"
She nodded and they started toward the crosswalk toward the garage structure, their steps matched. I didn't follow. They didn't check to see if I did.
May you like
I stood on the curb with the cold coming up through my shoes and watched them go until they were past the white crosswalk lines. The shuttle came again and people got on with suitcases that were actually going somewhere. I watched the taillights of a black SUV pull away from lane three and then my sister and her husband disappeared between two concrete pillars.
I was left with the sound of the automatic doors opening and closing behind me and the cat keys heavy in my jacket pocket, and no ride home that I'd planned on.
