Empty Arms: A Novel (20 page)

T
HE NEXT DAY
, I arrive at the airport two hours before my flight. I find an empty seat in front of a window and watch the jets race down the runway and soar into the sky. I’ve never been on an airplane before, and the idea of it has my stomach in knots. I open my purse and check for the tenth time that James’s letters are tucked safely inside along with the yellow paper that holds his address.

To take my mind off my nerves, I try to guess why the people around me are going to Cleveland. The man across from me is wearing a crisp white shirt and a paisley tie, and he’s engrossed in a copy of
Sports Illustrated.
He reminds me of the sales reps that come through the hospital peddling medical devices and prescription drugs. He’s a statins rep, I decide. Two seats down from him is a young guy with long hair, tattoo-covered arms, dirty sneakers, and a guitar case. He looks like he’s heading out into the world to follow his musical aspirations. If that’s the case, why would he be going to Cleveland? Maybe he already tried and now he’s heading home to work for his Dad. Across from him is an older woman quietly reading a book. I imagine she’s a widowed grandmother on her way to see her grandkids. As I study the people around me, I wonder what they would guess about me.

A young woman passes in front of me. She’s hunched forward, holding the hands of a little girl toddling between her legs. I watch the child place one foot in front of the other, trying to find her balance, and it reminds me of the afternoon I found Maddie Rae with her little fingers curled over the edge of her crib and her chubby little legs wobbling underneath her weight. It was the first time she ever stood up, and the look on her face told me that she was as surprised as I was.

“Look at you!” I clapped, the noise of which startled Maddie Rae and made her fall over. I lifted her from her crib and placed her on the ground between my feet, holding her hands as she wobbled on her unsteady legs.

We walked all around the house, and Maddie Rae held onto my fingers for dear life as she took one shaky step at a time. One afternoon, when Tommy was quarantined to his bedroom with an upper respiratory infection, I propped up Maddie Rae next to her wooden toy chest and sat a couple of feet away, reaching for her and urging her to walk on her own. She clung to the chest like a caterpillar on a tree trunk, debating her next move.

“Come here.” I wiggled my fingers, and a coo of excitement escaped as the prospect of taking her first step filled her with a mix of terror and adventure. “You can do it.”

Her body jerked as she stuck her delicious little foot out in front of her, let go of the toy chest, and took two wobbly steps forward into my arms. I showered her with kisses and she squealed with delight. Being there for Maddie Rae’s first step was one of the proudest moments of my life, but as with all of her amazing firsts, my happiness was diluted by the fact that I wouldn’t be there for Emily’s.

The young mother notices me watching her and smiles in my direction. I return the gesture, and a pang of longing pierces my heart.

A
S THE DEPARTURE TIME APPROACHES
, I begin to hear people asking why we’re not boarding. Finally, the flight attendant’s voice comes over the loudspeaker to inform us that our flight has been delayed an hour because of low clouds. The crowd around me erupts in anger, and I realize I’m going to have to run through Cleveland’s airport to catch my connecting flight.

When the plane finally crawls into the gate and the passengers spill out, my fingers begin tapping on the armrest, and my foot bounces restlessly. If the people around me didn’t know that this is my first time flying, they probably do now.

My heart is racing as I walk down the jetway, step onto the plane, and see the mass of empty seats in front of me. I pass my ticket stub to the flight attendant.

“You’re in 14A,” she says, “halfway down on the right.”

When I find my row, there’s a man who looks like he’s pregnant with octuplets in the seat next to mine. I smile and point to the window seat. He grunts and pulls on the seat in front of him, unwedging himself from his seat and hoisting his body out of the row.

“Thanks,” I murmur, slipping by him and sliding into the window seat. I fasten my seat belt tightly and study the aircraft safety card in the seat pocket in front of me. He falls back into the seat next to me, kicking up a whiff of body odor. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that he’s using two seat belts to fit around his large belly, and suddenly I realize that if there’s an emergency I’ll be trapped in my seat. I close my eyes and try to breathe away the panic, but all I can smell is his sweaty skin, and nausea overtakes me.

My heart paces in my chest like a caged lion as the plane races down the runway and ascends over Albany. I grip the hard plastic armrests until my knuckles are white and my fingernails threaten to break under the pressure. The plane banks, and vomit climbs in my throat as my weight shifts toward the window.

W
HEN THE PLANE LANDS
in Cleveland, I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants and breathe a sigh of relief. The other passengers deplane slowly, and it takes the man next to me a good five minutes to shimmy out of his seat.

I sprint across the terminal, pushing past old people and tripping over children, to catch my flight to Del Rio. “Wait,” I holler and wave as I bound toward the woman who’s closing the jetway door. She doesn’t hear me, and the door clicks shut just before I reach it. “I have to get on that flight,” I pant.

She turns to me and shakes her head. “Sorry, once this door is closed it can’t be reopened.”

“But I was yelling for you to wait.”

“This is why we advise passengers to arrive two hours before the flight. You might want to try getting here earlier next time so this doesn’t happen.”

“I did show up two hours early, for my flight from Albany. But it was delayed because of low clouds. I can’t help that.”

“Sorry,” she shrugs. “You’re going to have to go to the customer service desk and have them book you on a later flight, if they have one.” She slings her purse over her shoulder and walks off.

If they have one?
Her flippant attitude leaves me speechless. I approach a nearby security guard and ask him to point me in the direction of the customer service desk. When I get there, I discover that I’m not the only one with flight issues. A long line of angry customers snakes in front of the desk. It takes over an hour until I reach the front of the line. I explain my situation to a man who clearly hates his job and takes pleasure in inconveniencing his customers. His fingers crawl across the keyboard, and he shakes his head. “Sorry, the last flight to Del Rio is full.”

My eyes swell with tears. Clearly this was a huge mistake. “I give up,” I tell him, vowing never to fly again. “What should I do?”

I don’t know if it’s my tears or the fact that this whole experience has beaten me into submission, but he looks at me with pity. “Let me see what I can do.” The last ounce of hope bobs in my heart as he continues typing.

He slides a boarding pass across the counter. “You’re first in line for standby.”

“What does that mean?”

“If someone misses the flight or cancels a reservation, you’re first in line for their seat.”

“Thank you,” I say, praying that low clouds delay someone else so I can have a seat.

I kill time browsing in the shops and grabbing a bite to eat at one of the restaurants. I arrive at the gate an hour early and tell the gate agent that I’m first in line for standby.

“As of right now, that flight is full,” she says, “but I’ll let you know if something opens up.”

I wait, perched at the edge of my seat, watching as everyone around me boards the plane. As the line shrinks and the waiting area grows sparse, my last ounce of hope begins to dissolve.

“Mrs. Chase,” the woman finally calls, gesturing for me to approach the desk. Her lips are tight, and it’s obvious she’s about to tell me that I’m going to catch a flight tomorrow.

“Let me guess, I’m out of luck.”

“Actually, just the opposite. A seat has opened up. It’s yours if you want it.”

I
T’S AFTER
11:00
P.M.
when the plane lands in Del Rio. Rain is pouring down so hard that I momentarily wonder if I somehow ended up in Seattle.

I make my way to the car rental desk, but the midsize sedan I had reserved was given away hours ago. The only vehicle left is a bright yellow compact that looks like a rubber ducky that might float away at any second.

I grab a map from the desk and climb in. No sooner am I out of the parking lot than I realize the gas tank is empty. I drive in a loop around the airport but all of the gas stations are closed. When I finally find one that’s open, I discover it doesn’t have an awning. The rain pelts me as I pump the gas, and my clothes are soggy when I get back in the car. You’ve made it this far, I reassure myself as my frustration mounts, in an hour you’ll be in a nice, dry motel room.

But the one-hour drive to Eagle Pass takes three because I-277 is a log flume of tractor trailers that drown my little car every time they splash by. The windshield wipers swat relentlessly, but I can only see a few feet in front of me.

When I finally spot the sign for Maverick Motel, I exhale a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. I pull into the lot and rest my forehead against the steering wheel. It’s only then that I realize how tightly my fists have been clenched around the wheel.

I wrangle my suitcase out of the trunk and slosh through the lake that has formed in the parking lot. I didn’t bring an umbrella or rain boots because Texas is supposed to be dry and arid, so I feel like a drowned rat when I step inside the lobby. I pause in front of the counter and stare at a massive skull with two long horns protruding from its head. I glance around, but there’s not a soul in sight. I ring the bell on the counter and thumb through a display of brochures while I wait.

Eagle Pass: Where Yee-Haw Meets Olé!
Apparently people come here to fish in the Rio Grande, gamble at the Kickapoo Lucky Eagle Casino, or go down to Piedras Negras to visit the birthplace of the nacho. I slide the brochure back in its slot and take a free map of the town. A tall man with a gray handlebar mustache pushes through wooden saloon doors. His face looks like worn leather, and his long gray hair is pulled back into a ponytail and topped with a tan cowboy hat. He’s dressed head-to-toe in denim; there are little white horses embroidered on his shirt pockets, and his pewter belt buckle is shaped like a steer head. “Howdy,” he says, lifting his hat.

“Howdy,” I reply with a tentative smile. “I’m checking in. The last name’s Chase. Cath—”

He turns to the peg board behind him and picks a key ring at random. He slides it across the counter to me, and I try to remember the last time I stayed anywhere that used metal keys and not plastic cards. “I just need a credit card,” he says, pulling out an old imprinting machine.

I pass him my card, and he slides the machine over it and gives me a carbon copy receipt. “Check out’s at noon, but I can always make an exception.” He winks, and I’m not sure whether I should feel thankful or creeped out.

Maverick Motel doesn’t have an elevator, so I lug my suitcase up the stairs to the second floor. Room 208 is just past the vending machine, which is stocked with beef jerky and barbeque-flavored everything. I hope there’s a pizza place that’s willing to brave this weather at this late hour, otherwise I’ll be going to bed hungry.

My room smells like barbeque Fritos. I flip on the lights, but one of the bulbs is dead, and the other labors to cast a pale glow over the room, which looks like a place where cowboy memorabilia has come to die. There are two double beds with polyester spreads covered with so many charging horses, I feel like I’m stampeding through the western frontier. I set my purse on the first bed and hoist my suitcase up next to it. If Paul were here he’d tease for me sleeping in the bed farthest from the door. If somebody broke in during the middle of the night, what did I think five extra feet was going to buy me? Not much, probably. But when my parents took me to the shore when I was little, Daddy always put me in the bed farthest from the door so I would be safe. Back then, that extra space contained a two-hundred pound police officer who slept with a gun next to his bed … and my mother. If anyone came through the door in the middle of the night, they were either getting shot or demoralized. But if someone breaks in tonight, I’ve only got the bedspread to scare him off.

The lamp on the nightstand between the beds is a rooster dressed as a cowboy. He’s wearing a blue bandana around his neck and little leather boots with spurs. I turn on the light and find a phone book in the drawer. I dial the first pizza place that advertises fast, free delivery and order a plain pie and a bottle of water. I debate ordering the veggie topping, but I don’t want to smell like onions when I see James.

I open my purse and retrieve the little yellow paper. I spread the town map across my bed and look for 1527 Grange Road. Eagle Pass is sliced in half by Main Street and then quartered by Veterans Boulevard. I scan the street names until I find Grange Road east of El Indio Highway. I trace the route from Maverick Motel. James is about twenty minutes southeast of me. The thought makes the knots in my stomach pull even tighter.

It’s been twenty-three years since we’ve seen each other. The morning that he left, we met by the river and I melted into his arms. Tears spilled from my eyes and soaked his shirt. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“I don’t want to leave you.” He tightened his grip around me. “Promise you’ll write to me?”

I nodded and buried my head against his chest, trying to remember every single thing about him. His heartbeat was soft and steady, his skin warm. I breathed in the remnants of Paco Rabanne from his neck, hoping it would permeate my nasal passages and linger there until the end of time. My entire universe existed in the tight space between our bodies, and I couldn’t bear to think how long it would be until I felt it again.

He placed his index finger under my chin and drew it upward until our eyes and lips were only an inch apart. “We’ll see each other again.” It wasn’t a question but a promise. He pressed his lips to mine and kissed me goodbye.