Robert Butler - A Small Hotel

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In the broad expanse of sunlight beneath the atrium in the West Lobby of the New Orleans Airport, Michael stops and looks hard into the dimness in the direction of the concourse. He was right. It’s her, her flight is early. Sam drifts this way, looking about, and even as he sees her, she turns her face in his direction. Her face brightens and she waves and he lifts his hand to her and she rushes forward. He takes a step and another toward her and they are together in the middle of the sunlight and they embrace.

They stand very still and hold each other close, not saying a thing. And Michael lets his daughter decide when to let go. He lets her decide but he’s glad she’s prolonging this, he’s glad to hold his baby in his arms. Then she gently pulls away and their hands go to each other’s shoulders and they look into each other’s eyes and he is very glad she has her mother’s dark-of-the-night eyes.

“How is she?” Samantha says.

“She’s fine,” Michael says. “She’ll be fine. She’s threatening to bite off the tube down her throat.”

“That’s a good sign.”

“Yes.”

“And you, Daddy. How are you?”

Michael fights now. He fights off all the old impulses he has to shut up, to brush everything aside and just stay where he has always stayed, alone inside his head, lost but content in the woods. “Me?” he says.

“You,” Sam says.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “That’s how I am. I’m very sorry.”

“You didn’t do this,” Sam says.

“Sam,” he says. He hesitates. But only because he has to push back the welling in him. He’s not afraid now to show his tears to his daughter, but he wants to get these words out clearly.

She waits, searching his eyes. “Yes?” she says, softly.

“I love you,” Michael says.

“Thank you, Daddy. I love you too.”

“I’ve always loved you,” he says.