Hijacked

By Carol E. Anderson

The plane bounces once on the tarmac then screeches to a halt. The flight attendant opens the steel door and the heat blows through the aircraft causing my already pretzeled stomach to twist once again. I snatch my tattered backpack, sling it over my shoulder and step out. Thoughts whip through my mind like tangled streamers in a hurricane. Smells of soft pretzels, popcorn, and barbecue make me nauseous. My palms are cold and sticky even in the 100-degree heat of El Paso, Texas. Once inside the terminal, my eyes dart in all directions like piercing lasers in search of a lost object. Where is he with his tousled brown hair, rakish smile, and warm blue eyes that will reassure me all is okay. 

I haven’t heard from Michael in five days since he left me at my friend’s house in Boulder in the midst of our cross-country road trip. He said he needed a few days to think in the mountains following the recent death of his sister and promised to return. Five days later, he calls, “Meet me in Texas. Everything is fine.” 

I retrace the events of the prior week. We were so excited and in love. Mike bought a brand-new yellow Chevy truck with a cap. I shopped for bikes and a rack to mount them. I made burlap curtains and stitched Velcro onto the long side for the windows on the cab. Mike went to his brother’s wedding in Ohio and I stayed home to pack. I thought it was odd that he didn’t call once while he was gone but put my worry aside. When he arrived at my apartment Sunday afternoon, he seemed reserved, introspective. “Is anything wrong,” “No, I’m fine.” It wasn’t convincing but I let it go and we left on our trip the next morning. 

This is our first vacation together after he is finally free of his marriage. I’d waited a year for this and we’d planned for weeks. It was the start of our life together.

Panic chases me toward Baggage Claim when I catch a glimpse of him walking my way. The stubble of his beard and bloodshot eyes suggest he could be a candidate for the FBI’s Most Wanted list. His denim shirt half tucked into baggy, wrinkled shorts add to his look of a criminal on the run. My hoped-for greeting of arms thrown about each other that merge our bodies into a familiar and comforting embrace does not occur. Instead, he takes my hand and leads me to the empty seats at the next gate and motions for me to sit down. He sits across from me.   

“I have to tell you something.” I cringe. Flashes of car accidents, emergency vehicles, broken bones flare around me. I lean in and my body braces. There is no light around him here, no comforting boyish smile, no kind eyes. The airport starts to spin as though in orbit behind him and I am frozen at the center.

“I met a woman at my brother’s wedding and drove from Colorado to Alabama to see her.” I am no longer breathing, just sucking air. “I know it’s sudden but I think I’m in love with her and she’s flying to meet me in L. A.”  

I feel my heart is trapped inside a paper shredder trying to extract itself but there’s no exit.  “I’m sorry.” He says.

You’re sorry! I paid for a one-way, ticket to El Paso Texas under the pretense of continuing our trip where the only means of transportation I have now is a bicycle strapped to the bumper of your truck and you’re sorry.

How stupid could I be? He’s sorry, all right. A sorry son of a bitch. I’m sorry too. Sorry I ever met him. Sorry I loaned him $800 I’ll likely never see again. Sorry I didn’t listen to my mother.  

“Do you want to fly home?” he asks. The raspy voice of a gate attendant breaks in. “Do you want to fly home? What would I do at home? Sit around in a deep depression for weeks and listen to all my friends in alternating choruses say—”I am soooooo sorry and I told you so?”

 No, I didn’t want to fly home. I looked into his pathetic face and said, “I wanted to go to California this summer, so drive me to California.” Then I turn toward the exit and walk, big strides, boots stomping with every step—up the escalator two at a time down the large hallway, eyes forward. I fight the tears, bite my lip and march on, certain the pain will rip my flesh and leave burn marks.

 The wildness hurtles me through the airport out into the dusk of an El Paso sunset into the parking lot. Flashing neon signs selling boots and cowboy hats compete for my attention. The sun sinks in a swirl of blue and orange wispy clouds. The air is warm but I shiver. I climb into the back of the truck bed and Mike gets behind the wheel. I lie down on the sticky plastic air mattress and feel my cheek adhere to the blue synthetic surface as I roll on my side and curl up in the fetal position.

The car lurches forward and I stare out the window. The burlap curtains folded back against the Velcro look awkward and pitiful as they flap in the shred of a breeze that filters through the window. I close my eyes and hear my mother’s voice in my head.

  “Don’t ever get involved with a married man.”

Carol E. Anderson is a life coach and former organizational consultant whose passions are writing, women’s empowerment and travel photography. Carol holds a doctorate in spiritual studies, and master’s degrees in organizational development, and creative nonfiction. She is the author of the award-winning memoir, You Can’t Buy Love Like That: Growing Up Gay in the Sixties. She lives with the love of her life and their sassy pup in a nature sanctuary in Ann Arbor, MI.