Takeoffs and Landings (6 page)

Chuck was so proud.

He sat tall in his squishy banquet chair. He forgot that the banquet meal had been so small and that he was still hungry. He forgot that neither Lori nor anyone else at their table had spoken to him for the entire meal. He was in awe.

“I have five kids,” Mom said, and Chuck felt a little jolt of surprise. It was almost like he'd forgotten she was Mom. But of course she was talking about him and Lori and Joey and Mike and Emma. It was almost like they were famous, too.

Mom told a funny story about Lori when she was two, how she always took her clothes off as soon as Mom got her dressed for church on Sunday mornings. The entire banquet hall was laughing—as Pop would put it, fit to split their pants.

“You had to admire her persistence,” Mom said with a shrug and a smile, like she'd been proud of Lori even though she'd been exasperated.

Chuck turned around to whisper to Lori,
She's talking about you!
But Lori wasn't there. Chuck puzzled on that for a minute. Would she really have gotten up to go to the bathroom in the middle of Mom's speech? You never could tell with Lori. Too bad—she missed hearing Mom talk about her. But having Lori away probably saved Chuck from another nasty look. If Chuck had whispered,
She's talking about you!
Lori would have only frowned and rolled her eyes, saying without words,
No, duh! Don't
you think I recognize my own name? I'm not that stupid. Not like you.

It was just that Chuck wanted to share this moment with Lori. He wanted her to agree with him:
You're right. Our Mom is really somebody!

He turned back around to enjoy the rest of the speech.

 

WHAT JOAN LAWSON WANTED TO SAY DURING HER SPEECH IN CHICAGO:

See those two kids out there? That's right, the only two people under twenty in this whole crowd. Those are my kids.

Only, I'm not sure I have the right to call these two “my” kids anymore.

Can someone lose her own children? Not because they died, not because anyone kidnapped them, just . . . because?

I'm afraid that might have happened to me. No, I'm terrified.

You see a pretty, self-assured—maybe too self-assured—girl in a flowered dress and a slightly overweight (okay, very overweight) boy looking down at his plate.

I see echoes, memories, ghosts. Accusations.

With the others—Mike, Joey, Emma—I am still Mom.
Emma begs for bedtime stories; Mike and Joey show off their latest karate moves. They are glad when I come home.

But Lori volunteers to do the dishes when I'm around just so she can hide out in the kitchen and avoid me. Chuck won't look me in the eye.

I thought this trip would change everything. Good old magnanimous Mom, cashing in almost a decade's worth of frequent flier miles for Lori and Chuck. But they don't want what I have to give them.

Poor Chuck retched a few times on the airplane, threw up a teaspoon or two of bile and acted as shamed as a dog beaten for ruining a carpet.

Then he positively cringed when I told him the bellhop would carry his luggage.

What makes Chuck act so guilty? Why does he accept humiliation like it's his natural due?

I don't know how to help Chuck. I seem to only push him further into his shell.

Then there's Lori—I can still hear her cruel words on the plane reverberating in my ears: “Take Chuck up, of course he's going to upchuck.” I am her mother. It's my job to tell her not to say things like that, not to hurt people like that. But I could say nothing. I couldn't bear to scold her, push her further away.

I am paralyzed around my own children.

And I am supposed to be standing here telling all of you how to live your lives?

I am more frightened of giving tonight's speech than I
have been of any speech in years. Maybe ever. I am sure that my kids will see through me, will see that I don't have any answers. But I am speaking and words are coming out of my mouth and you all are listening and laughing at the right time, so I must be saying what I'm supposed to say. I just can't read my kids' expressions. I can't see what they're thinking. I can't—

Wait a minute. Where did Lori go?

 

WHAT JOAN LAWSON ACTUALLY SAID DURING HER SPEECH IN CHICAGO:

The truth is, we do have our time in a bank. Unlike any of the banks you all operate, though, we aren't ever allowed to know how much we have left in the time bank until we've spent it all. All we can know is that we get to withdraw twenty-four hours every day. Everyone from the top of the Forbes 500 list to the poorest third-world orphan gets the same amount. But what you do with your daily withdrawal of time is entirely up to you. . . .

When the day comes that—surprise!—you find that you have drawn out every last second in your account at the time bank, that is not the moment to suddenly realize,
Oh no! I was going to start my own business!
or
Oh no! I was going to leave the rat race and move to Maine!
or
Oh no! I was going to spend more time with my family!
Say your “Oh no”s right now, while you still have time in your account. Do what you need to now, so you won't have regrets when your account is closed.

Mom's speech was over and people were clapping. Chuck closed his eyes for a second, and the pounding applause became a picture in his head—swirls of sound climbing higher and higher, like stairs he could never climb.

When he opened his eyes again, someone else was at the podium, thanking Mom, praising Mom, telling everyone to applaud again. And then Mom was snaking her way through the crowd. Toward him.

She caught his eye and mouthed something, but he didn't understand. People were trying to talk to her, but she shook them off and kept walking.

Why was she in such a hurry to get to
him
?

But as soon as she got close, he understood.

“Where's Lori?” she demanded.

Of course. It wasn't Chuck she wanted. He should have known that.

Chuck glanced over his shoulder. Lori's seat was still empty.

“I don't know. Guess she had to go to the bathroom,” he said.

“But she disappeared a half hour ago,” Mom snapped. Chuck had never known Mom could sound so much like Lori. “Didn't she tell you where she was going?”

Chuck shrugged.

“Come on!” Mom commanded.

She whirled around. It was all Chuck could do to keep up with her.

Outside the huge meeting room, Mom stopped only to ask someone where the nearest bathroom was. For a minute, Chuck was afraid she expected him to follow her in. But when they got to the door of the ladies' rest room, she gave another command: “Wait here.”

Chuck stood on a rosette in the carpet. He could hear Mom calling through the wall, “Lori? Lori? Lori, are you in here?”

In seconds, Mom was out again.

They tried every bathroom on the main floor of the hotel. Then Mom raced to the front desk, dragging Chuck behind her.

“My daughter is missing,” she all but barked at the man behind the counter. “She's fourteen. Light brown hair, greenish gray eyes, about five four. She was wearing a blue flowered dress. Ankle length. Have you seen her? Did you see her leave with anybody?”

The man blinked. Mom didn't even wait for him to answer.

“You have security tapes, don't you?” she asked.
“Your security people will need to review them. Please.”

“Ma'am, calm down,” the man said. “Are you sure you haven't just missed connections with her? That happens all the time—one person thinks everyone's meeting back in the room, the other person thinks they're meeting in the lobby. . . .”

Mom looked quickly at Chuck, then looked away. Chuck understood: Mom had just decided he couldn't be trusted to go check the room by himself.

“My son and I will go look in our room,” Mom said. “But in the meantime, could you please contact security? Call me. I'll be in room 1709.”

The elevator ride felt endless. Mom kept biting her lip and looking at Chuck nervously. Chuck didn't know what to say. When the elevator reached the seventeenth floor, Mom was out the doors before they were completely open. By the time Chuck caught up with her, she'd already zipped in and out of the room.

“She's not there,” Mom said. All the color was gone from her face. “I'm going back downstairs. Call me at the front desk if Lori shows up. And no matter what you do, don't leave.”

Mom disappeared down the hall.

Chuck stood at the door, left behind.

He backed up until he was sitting on the bed. He watched the door glide toward the doorframe, and stop. And then, even though nothing moved, nothing changed, he kept watching that door, memorizing every shadow and groove, as if that could help find Lori.

Lori heard the elevator ding. She fought to regain her self-control—all she had to do was keep her sobs silent until whoever was getting on or off the elevator passed by and out of earshot. She'd found the perfect place for crying: a little alcove around the corner from the elevator on the seventeenth floor. She was thoroughly hidden by a huge, fake potted plant. And as long as Lori didn't make any noise, nobody would turn this way, because all the rooms were in the other direction.

Lori had managed to keep quiet through three elevator arrivals and departures already. She was terrified that someone—a kindly bellhop, a curious maid—might discover her and try to comfort her. Lori didn't want to be comforted. She wanted to cry and cry and cry, wail and scream, until she could face Mom and Chuck (and hundreds of bankers?) again.

All she had to do was wait a minute or two, and then she could go back to sobbing. . . .

Lori listened for the elevator to leave. She could feel the wails building inside her. Even though she had her lips clamped tightly together, a moan escaped.

Footsteps came toward her, muffled by the thick carpet.

“Lori? Oh, Lori!”

It was Mom. She held out her arms like she expected Lori to do some Prodigal Son routine, throwing herself at Mom and begging forgiveness.

Except Lori hadn't done anything wrong. Everything was Mom's fault.

Lori didn't budge.

“Where have you been?” Mom asked.

“Here.” Lori sniffed. She would have said more, but her throat betrayed her, closing over and choking out all Lori's words. Lori knew just how she looked: red eyed, runny nosed, tear streaked. It wasn't fair. Mom still looked great.

“Why?” Mom asked, looking genuinely bewildered. For a split second, Lori could have run to Mom, cried on her shoulder. Then Mom said, gently, “What happened?”

She honestly didn't know. She didn't understand at all.

“I didn't like your speech,” Lori mumbled.

Mom's expression changed in an instant, hardening into fury.