Reconcilable Differences

part 31

by Mrs. Eyre

It is a truth universally  acknowledged that staring fixedly at an airport arrivals board will not make the awaited flight arrive any sooner.  Abby was beginning to think that it might actually have the opposite effect, and went to increase Starbucks’ already unwieldy profit margins.

Any more of this stuff and I’ll be bouncing off the walls like Wile E. Coyote off the walls of a canyon

She had a bad feeling about this.  She’d taken a day’s leave only to be roped into providing cover for the previous night’s shift.  The coffee, whilst scary, was at least preferable to the alternative of falling asleep on the spot.  She’d been aware of Carter’s amusement and knew that her edginess must have been plain.

“You OK?”

“Oh, I’m just peachy.”

”Yes?”

“Why?”

“You seem a little --- brittle.”

”PMS.”

“Ouch.  Poor Luka.”

”What?”

”He’s back tomorrow, right?”

”Which has nothing  at all to do with anything.”

“Of course not.”

”You know one of these days that smirk is going to get smacked right off your face.”

”And you’re just the gal to do it.”

“There’s a line forming right behind me.”

”Relax.  It’ll be OK.”

”I’m relaxed.  What?  I am!”

“If you bump into anything you’ll shatter.”

“I’m tired.”

”And nervous.”

”No.”

”Yes.”

“Would you just let it drop?”

”How was he when he called?”

”Who?”

”Who.  I may be stupid Abby but I’m not stupid.”

“He was in Vukovar.”

”Wow.”

”Yeah.  Wow.”

“He OK?”

Abby shrugged.  “I guess.  We didn’t talk about it.”

No change there, then.   Carter bit back the wise crack which  sprang to his lips, but Abby’s face told him she knew he’d thought it.  “He just sounded --- exhausted.”

“So what’s the plan?”

”His plane gets in at ten.  I should have time to get home and shower – “

”Not that plan.”

She sighed.  “Come outside and talk.  I need a cigarette.”

The impossible humidity seemed to have reached saturation point and even breathing was an effort.

“It has to rain soon,” she said, more of a plea than a prediction.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

”I’m going to talk to him.”

”Really?  Cards on the table talk to him?”

“It has to be, doesn’t it?  I mean I can’t – I don’t want to drag on  like this, just wondering. You know  I’ve seen Luka dealing with kids, kids whose parents are hurt or dead.  Tells them everything because he believes it’s better that they  know  the truth, good or bad.  It’s better than not knowing.  He’s right, but the thing is I used to feel better not knowing, not dealing.”    

                                             
”But not now?”

”No.  Making progress, huh?”

“So, good or bad.  What if it’s bad?”

“Well that’s it.  It’ll be OK.  I’ll live.  I mean, whatever he says I have to do this for me, right?”

“OK, where is she?  Show me your hands.  Can you bend your little finger?”

“Where’s who?”

”The real Abby Lockhart. Because you’re obviously some sort of alien replicant.”

“Yeah, well it feels like it sometimes.  I feel like I’ve spent the last 30 years chained to an idiot, pulling me every which way.  Didn’t matter what I did or where I went because the idiot was always right along with me.  The thing is I wanted to cut the chain, you know?  Just seemed impossible.  If I drank I didn’t feel the chain and the idiot seemed like pretty good company.”

”Not now?”

”You don’t have to cut it.  I just had to talk to the idiot and explain that I didn’t want her along anymore.  And I had to stop buying her drinks.”

“And how did she take it?”

”Surprisingly well.  I mean, she hangs around a bit, but she doesn’t bug me like she used to.  I have a life.  I’m too busy to worry about her any more.”

“You could always send her to stay with your Mom.”

“Yeah, friends forever.  How about you?”

“I have a whole chain gang of idiots.  I’ll have to pick them off one by one.”

“You getting there?”

”Getting there.  Therapy’s helping.  I didn’t think it would. “

”Why?”

”The embarrassment factor mostly.  But it’s embarrassment or life with the chain gang, right?”

“I’m glad for you.”

They looked at each other for a long moment.  “I hope it goes – the way you want it to.”

“I know.  Thanks, Carter.”

“Look, why don’t you get off at six. I’ll cover for you and you won’t have to rush.  I mean, he’ll have been flying all night and you haven’t slept.  You’ll make a lovely couple.  This way you might be able to grab an hour’s sleep and one of you can look presentable.”

“I don’t think an hour’s sleep is going to do it.  What if I don’t wake up?”

”I’ll call you.”

”You’re a good friend, Carter.”

”Nah, I just don’t want the two of you scaring the horses.”

“””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””

The noise of the rain on the roof of the cab was deafening.  Abby was caught in the opposing pull of physical exhaustion and acute mental awareness.  Eighteen months ago the idiot would have suggested that she take a drink.  She seemed to be silent for now.

It was a short dash from the cab to the doors but not short enough to prevent her from getting soaked.  She tried to repair the damage in the ladies’ room but finished up with fragments of paper towel in her hair.  Her attempts to use the hand drier left her hair impossibly dry and fluffy and crackling with static.  She would of course choose today to wear a skirt and its hem was now sodden.

The mascara had been a bad idea too and was now smeared in muddy patches beneath her eyes.  She scrubbed it off, leaving her eyes pink.  Great, now he’d think she’d been crying.

Give it up, Abby.  He’s seen you looking worse.  Though not much.

She was half an hour early.  Ridiculous.  Planes are never early, and now the rain might actually make it late.  Buy a magazine, stop looking at the damned board.  She stared unseeing at the pages of advice, exhortations to diet, exercise, exfoliate, moisturise, condition, what to do in bed,  what not to do in bed, how to get your man, how to keep him.  >Maybe I should read that one.<  

She’d been trying hard not to think too much about what she’d do, say, feel when she saw him again

Go with the flow, Abby.  You don’t need a script.

She’d spoken the truth when she’d told Carter that she sometimes didn’t recognise herself.  There was a time, not long since, that she’d have been playing this scenario in her head, her every expectation a disappointment waiting to happen, her every disappointment a confirmation that she was right to expect the worst, wrong to want more.  But not today.  What, after all was the worst that could happen?  That he’d tell her that he’d had time to think, realised that friendship was as much as he wanted from her?  She’d rather he told her he wanted nothing at all to do with her;  the friendship thing was killing her.  She had to tell him that she wanted more or she wanted nothing, because in that instant she realised it was true. 

Abby Lockhart had decided what she wanted, and she’d decided to ask for it.  She needed a cigarette.

She shifted on the uncomfortable plastic stool and lit up, her last guilty pleasure.   The area designated for the purpose was crowded and  sordid and she thought again that she should quit.

One thing at a time, Abby, one thing at a time.