Matthew Thomas - We Are Not Ourselves

It didn’t work. By the time he got back to his seat, he had forgotten what he had felt in the bathroom. An attractive woman around his age or a few years older had taken the window seat. In the aisle sat an older businessman who couldn’t be bothered to flirt with her. Connell squeezed past him, insisting that he needn’t get up, and the man didn’t flinch.

As they waited for takeoff, Connell looked at the tiny television on the seat back, which showed a map with their location, the plane icon as big as a state. It looked as if it could cover the distance in a quick sprint, but it just sat there.

“I’ve heard that’s good.” He gestured to the book in the girl’s hands.

“Oh, it is,” she said. “It’s beautifully written. I’ve liked everything I’ve read by her.”

“What brings you to New York?”

She seemed startled by the sudden shift, but he hadn’t read the book or any of the author’s others. “I’m going to see a friend,” she said. “My college roommate. She moved there to work for a fashion house.”

“My name’s Connell.” He jammed his elbow awkwardly against the seat as he tried to extend his hand.

“Karla,” she said. “Nice to meet you.”

He thought he heard the businessman sigh.

“Have you ever been to New York?”

“I haven’t. I’m excited.”

“How long will you stay?”

“A week.”

“What do you have planned?”

“Not much,” she said. “I don’t even have a guidebook yet. All I know is I’m staying with my friend. I’m so busy, I haven’t had time to sit down and plan anything.”

“Make sure you ride the Staten Island Ferry. It’s the best view of the city, and it costs only fifty cents.”

The businessman coughed. “It’s free now,” he said.

“Sorry?”

“It was fifty cents. It’s free now.”

He resumed making notes on his stack of papers, but not before giving a look that said he knew what Connell was up to, that Connell had been away too long, that he was a fraud, that he was going to lead this girl astray.

“That sounds great, either way,” Karla said. “I love boats. And bargains.”

Connell and Karla looked at each other for a second. Her smile was charming, open. Then she resumed her reading and he took his book out of the seat pocket. After a while she asked whether New York was home, and he said it used to be, and she asked why he was going there and he told her his father might be dying after a long illness and she said she was very sorry. The revelation seemed to sink them deeper into silence, and part of him wished he had made something up. The plane took off with a rumble. He noticed she made the sign of the cross and pressed her hands together, kissing her fingertips lightly.

• • •

Near the end of the flight he asked if she liked Indian food.

“You know?” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever had it.”

“There are these two adjacent Indian restaurants,” he said, “at the top of this stoop on Second Avenue, off Third Street. They’re identical: the same décor, the same hanging lights. Strings of plastic chili peppers. They’ve been warring for years. A host stands outside each door, trying to usher you in like it’s Shangri-La on the other side of that door. You make your choice: right or left. Then you’re part of that tribe. They remember you. God forbid you go the other way the next time.”

“Which way do you go?”

“Right,” he said.

“Then how do you know they’re identical?”

“I never thought about that,” he said. “I guess I’ve been too scared to find out. You don’t know how intimidating those guys are.”

She laughed; he could feel interest stirring in her. For most of the flight, he had waited for that moment when the dynamic between them would change, when she would cease being a stranger. Maybe this was his chance.

“Maybe we should go while you’re in town,” he said. “We can go left, if you want. I’m willing to risk it.”

“I’m not one to tamper with loyalties,” she said, and she shifted in her seat. He feared he had spoken too soon. It could get uncomfortable; they still had a little ride ahead of them.

“You’re right,” he said. “Better safe than sorry.”

“Are you sure you have time? I mean — your father.”

“I can make time,” he said.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” she said. “I’ll have enough to keep me busy. You’ve got things to take care of.”

“It’ll be fine,” he said. “I’ll be able to slip away. Besides, he’s probably going to be fine. This has happened before.”

“Well,” she said, “only if it’s not a disturbance.”

“I’ll give you a call to set something up.”

They exchanged numbers. There was a hint of bafflement on her face. She seemed shocked by him, the way one is shocked and refreshed by diving into unexpectedly cold water. The way she searched his look for an extended moment, as if to ask whether he were sure he wanted to entertain her with so much else going on that was far more important, cemented his belief that he had impressed her as a man delightfully open to suggestion, with an imagination large enough to find time, even in the depths of despair, for the important things in life, those accidents without which our existence was little more than a schedule of dry routines.

They landed and filed off the plane. She had to retrieve her things from the overhead bin, and a few passengers shot between Connell and her. He waited at the mouth of the corridor, averting his gaze from the other passengers, embarrassed at the thought they could see what he was up to. It felt important to walk with her to baggage claim. She was about to greet the rest of the city; he would become merely the first in a line of men she encountered in her travels. Whatever primacy he held was about to yield to the manifestly transient quality of their acquaintanceship. He could easily be forgotten. These last few hundred meters would make a difference in ensuring that that didn’t happen.

As they snaked their way through the terminal, he made some dry observations about New York that got her laughing. He was riding a wave of euphoria. His bag felt like nothing on his shoulders. She seemed to be taking quick steps to keep up with his longer stride. He was filled with a sense of possibility: this might be the prelude to something they could continue in the city they had just left. It was the first day of his trip; there was no way of knowing what was to come. And there was this woman striding along beside him, bursting with expectation. To an onlooker he could have been her boyfriend, visiting the city for the first time himself.

They were almost running when they hit the corridor that opened onto the baggage claim area. He was turning to look at her the whole time. As they headed down he remembered why he was there and looked for his uncle Pat through the frosty glass. He couldn’t yet distinguish any faces.

The revolving doors loomed at the bottom of the downward slope, and anxiety began to creep into him. He found himself slowing his pace and flattening his smile. He was looking less at Karla and more toward the revolving doors beyond which waited his uncle Pat. And then he was really slowing down, enough that Karla asked what was wrong. He could make out the faint image of his uncle and his mother through the glass. The fact that his mother was there could only mean one thing. He was drifting slowly away from Karla and not answering. He didn’t want his mother to see him talking to her, to see him as the frivolous fool he suddenly knew he was. Soon Karla had stopped addressing him and walked on, and he walked several paces behind her, knowing what he had seen through the glass but not admitting it fully to himself until he got right up to it and could not avoid any longer the sight of tears streaming down his mother’s face. That was when he knew that his father had died while he had forgotten him entirely.