Robert Lennon - Familiar

On the way to the airport, Derek says, “Look, Lisa…”

She waits. He waits.

He sighs and again falls silent.

For a moment, she considers telling him everything. What happened to her, what she remembers, Betsy, her session with Amos, even Hugo Bonaventure. Watching him drive, she remembers how much she used to enjoy being a passenger beside him. His calm at the wheel, his deliberateness. Economy of movement. Driving her places, he made her feel safe — or rather, made her feel comfortable indulging her desire to be protected.

But today these same qualities seem to her evidence of a deep conservatism, a fear of inadvertent revelation. She can imagine very clearly what his reaction would be if she tried to explain herself now — silence, a frown, careful consideration. I believe you, he would say. I believe that you think this happened. He would apply logic, lay out possible remedies, mostly involving the solicitation of outside professional help, the application of psychoactive drugs.

Elisa doesn’t want to have that conversation. She doesn’t want to embrace his frame of reference. Now, she just wants to live in this new world, delusional or not, and see it to its end.

They are almost there. His hands are wringing the wheel as he says, in a voice edged with desperation, “Will I ever know?”

She can’t remember when she’s heard him sound this way. Or known him to be in such a position. She is tempted to pity him. “Know what?” she says.

His eyes are filmed over, his voice strangled. He stares resolutely through the windshield, exits the highway. “What this is. Why you’re doing this.”

“I’m just going to see our sons. I have to see them.”

He sighs. “That’s not an answer,” he says, nearly in a whisper. They arrive at the airport. She expects him to park in short-term and wait with her. But he pulls up in the white zone. He doesn’t even put the car in park. He seems to have gathered himself; she can tell by the set of his face that he is shifting his anger and frustration away from her and onto himself. A dangerous state — it usually leads to a fight. Not now, though — she’s leaving. He says, harder now, “You are coming back, right?”

She levels a serious look at him. “Of course I’m coming back.” She kisses him. He accepts it with taut resignation. Then she gets out of the truck and he drives off without waving goodbye.

The flight is long. She hasn’t brought anything to read. She didn’t think she’d be able to concentrate. But she can’t sleep, either. Everyone around her seems to have some kind of digital device they’re using to entertain themselves. She wants one — it would be nice to watch television, something she hasn’t done in earnest in twenty years. Though in all likelihood you couldn’t get any stations on a plane. But then what are these people watching?

They land in Denver and she changes planes and then, hours later, they land again. The light in Los Angeles is very bright; the airport workers on the tarmac are orange blurs. It’s as if her pupils can’t contract enough. She’s near the back of the plane. The man beside her stands up as soon as it’s allowed, though it will be several minutes before he’ll be able to move. He stands awkwardly at his seat, sighing impatiently at regular intervals.

Elisa expects to see bustle when she emerges into the terminal. People in sunglasses, on phones, men in African robes, strung-out rockers on tour. Instead, the concourse is nearly empty. Sam is supposed to have met her, but there’s no sign of him. She stands in the middle of the broad worn carpet and squints in every direction. Then she sits down and rummages in her bag for her phone.

When he emerges from the men’s room twenty yards down the concourse, she doesn’t recognize him. Or rather she does — it must be him, she knows it as soon as she sees him — but tells herself she must be wrong. In truth, she has been preparing herself for this moment for weeks. She understood he would be different. She imagined him thinner than was healthy, unshaven, pale-skinned. Tired. This image frightened her at first, but she has gotten used to it. She is ready for it.

But Sam looks nothing like it. He’s clean-shaven, tan, and overweight. He’s wearing a pair of pleated khaki pants, running shoes, and a golf shirt. There’s a cell phone holster on his belt and he walks with effort, as though sedated.

She stands. He acknowledges her with a nod. When he is standing before her, she cannot help herself — she throws her arms around his neck and pulls him close. “Sam!” she cries, and he’s sweaty, he smells sour, she cannot believe this bloated creature is her son.

He stiffens and she feels his hands gingerly patting her back. His shoulders are big, they’re rounded, they feel like someone else’s. But no, this is Sam. He stumbles a bit, takes a step back; she releases him. His face is obscured by flesh, but the eyes are the same. They seem to search her face for some kind of purchase.

She stands very still and lets him look at her. He sounds tired as he says, “Hey, Mom.”

“Sam.”

“You seem different.”

Her laugh is almost a sob. “I feel different.”

Sam looks down at his feet. He says, “So… you know where you’re staying?”

“It’s a chain hotel. Near your house.”

She gives him the information and he nods. “Wanna go, then?” he says, and they walk together down the concourse. He keeps his hands shoved into his pockets, and his effortful walk now reveals itself as a slight limp. One of his feet isn’t quite straight, and he grunts, nearly inaudibly, with every step. She wants to ask him what happened, but is certain that she is either already supposed to know, or has deliberately been prevented from knowing. (She remembers his fake limps from adolescence, his indulgence in others’ pity.) A smell comes off him, like an office cubicle out of which the custodian has not yet carried the remains of lunch. She gasps a bit, holding back tears, but Sam doesn’t seem to notice.

They say nothing to each other as they leave the airport. He offers a questioning look at baggage claim, and when she shakes her head he nods and continues through the automatic doors. The air is brutally hot but dry, and she suddenly wishes she were in the sun. But in fact she’s in the parking garage, getting into Sam’s car. It’s quite new, an SUV, and very large. He gets behind the wheel and puts on a pair of aviator sunglasses that match, almost perfectly, the curve of his face. He looks like a giant insect.

Sam had a toy spaceman helmet, once, that Lorraine had given him. It was yellow, like a hard hat, and covered his head entirely; a large hinged visor of reflective translucent plastic obscured the face. For a time, he wore this helmet almost all day long: he would sit on the sofa reading picture books through it, he would sneak goldfish crackers or raisins up under the visor. He wore it to dinner, wore it riding his scooter, when they went to the store. He usually took it off to sleep, but occasionally she would find him in the morning still wearing it, the visor fogged, snores echoing out from under it.

He must have been five. He didn’t seem to have any kind of fantastic identity that he associated with the helmet, no invented narrative. He just wore it. The helmet was an accessory to his personality.

Its only apparent power, real or imagined, was that his brother ignored him when he was wearing it. Occasionally Elisa would catch Silas staring at Sam, gazing at the reflective surface of the visor, perhaps at his own reflection, or perhaps just lost in thought about the impression the helmet made. But he didn’t bother Sam in any way — didn’t push or hit, didn’t steal any toys or books or food. If anything, Silas redoubled his disruptive efforts elsewhere in the house, but it was a relief to Elisa not to have to pull them apart, to settle disputes.