thing. She talked the entire flight to Toronto, hardly stopping for breath. She was also headed to London, on the same connecting flight, and insisted we sit together on that flight as well. As odd of a friend as she was, her constant prattle about her son and grandkids waiting for her kept me sane. I could just listen to her talk and forget about the flight.
Because of the time change, we wouldn’t be landing at Heathrow Airport in London until 6:30 AM, so at some point I force myself to nap uncomfortably in my seat.
As we begin our final descent into Heathrow, my friend still dozing in the seat beside me, the reality of what I have done begins to hit me. I can’t help but think of my dad, and hope he never finds out what I’ve done. It’s not just the fear of flying that has turned my stomach into a cold, hard knot, but also the lingering guilt from running away like this without telling him. Before that guilt takes over, I can easily imagine what he would say to me right now if given the chance. He would tell me I’m being just like my mom, impulsive and stubborn. I never liked it when he compared me to her, even on the rare occasion he meant it as a compliment. Who would want to be compared to the woman who abandoned her family the way she did? This isn’t the same thing, I tell myself.
By the time we land my stomach is back where it should be instead of feeling like it’s lodged my throat. I say goodbye to my new friend and wish her a good visit with her grandchildren. I realize as I walk away I never told her what I was doing in London, but I guess she never asked either.
London is five hours later than the East coast, so even though the clock says seven AM, to me it feels more like two in the morning. My body is telling me to find a hotel room and crash, while my brain is urging me to find Jason’s apartment and get started trying to find him.
I quickly hail a cab and give him Jason’s address. I feel like I’m in a daze as we head straight through downtown London, passing all the landmarks I’ve only seen in pictures and on TV. The cabbie helpfully points out Big Ben, though I would have recognized the famous clock tower anywhere. Next we pass Parliament, and finally, Buckingham Palace. I feel more than a little overwhelmed by it all until the cabbie finally pulls off onto a frighteningly narrow side road that puts us in a more residential neighborhood. The street is full of towering apartment buildings and little shops. At last we pull up to the curb and I pay him quickly with what little cash I had transferred into pounds.
I stand on the curb for a few minutes looking around and trying to gather my courage, which has already been pushed to the limits just by getting here. I can’t help but wonder what I will find inside Jason’s apartment. Will he still be there, safe and sound? Or is he already on the run, fleeing for his life?
I glance around nervously, wondering if the place is being watched. Up until now I haven’t even thought about the possibility. The front door to the apartment building is the kind where you have to be buzzed in from the inside or have a key, but someone has propped it open with a brick. I duck inside without a second thought.
Right away I’m faced with my first obstacle, three flights of stairs I must climb to get to his floor. Thinking of all I’ve accomplished so far, I grip the handrail, look down at my green Converse and take them one step at a time. I’m to the third floor in no time, slightly out of breath, but feeling victorious.
When I reach his door, D6, I pause momentarily to consider again what I might find inside. I picture myself knocking, only to have Jason open the door, a look of surprise on his face. I can’t help but hope this will come true, no matter how crazy he’ll think I am.
But my fears are not allayed. No one answers my knock and when I try the doorknob the door swings open easily. Immediately I know something is wrong, just like I knew
Because of the time change, we wouldn’t be landing at Heathrow Airport in London until 6:30 AM, so at some point I force myself to nap uncomfortably in my seat.
As we begin our final descent into Heathrow, my friend still dozing in the seat beside me, the reality of what I have done begins to hit me. I can’t help but think of my dad, and hope he never finds out what I’ve done. It’s not just the fear of flying that has turned my stomach into a cold, hard knot, but also the lingering guilt from running away like this without telling him. Before that guilt takes over, I can easily imagine what he would say to me right now if given the chance. He would tell me I’m being just like my mom, impulsive and stubborn. I never liked it when he compared me to her, even on the rare occasion he meant it as a compliment. Who would want to be compared to the woman who abandoned her family the way she did? This isn’t the same thing, I tell myself.
By the time we land my stomach is back where it should be instead of feeling like it’s lodged my throat. I say goodbye to my new friend and wish her a good visit with her grandchildren. I realize as I walk away I never told her what I was doing in London, but I guess she never asked either.
London is five hours later than the East coast, so even though the clock says seven AM, to me it feels more like two in the morning. My body is telling me to find a hotel room and crash, while my brain is urging me to find Jason’s apartment and get started trying to find him.
I quickly hail a cab and give him Jason’s address. I feel like I’m in a daze as we head straight through downtown London, passing all the landmarks I’ve only seen in pictures and on TV. The cabbie helpfully points out Big Ben, though I would have recognized the famous clock tower anywhere. Next we pass Parliament, and finally, Buckingham Palace. I feel more than a little overwhelmed by it all until the cabbie finally pulls off onto a frighteningly narrow side road that puts us in a more residential neighborhood. The street is full of towering apartment buildings and little shops. At last we pull up to the curb and I pay him quickly with what little cash I had transferred into pounds.
I stand on the curb for a few minutes looking around and trying to gather my courage, which has already been pushed to the limits just by getting here. I can’t help but wonder what I will find inside Jason’s apartment. Will he still be there, safe and sound? Or is he already on the run, fleeing for his life?
I glance around nervously, wondering if the place is being watched. Up until now I haven’t even thought about the possibility. The front door to the apartment building is the kind where you have to be buzzed in from the inside or have a key, but someone has propped it open with a brick. I duck inside without a second thought.
Right away I’m faced with my first obstacle, three flights of stairs I must climb to get to his floor. Thinking of all I’ve accomplished so far, I grip the handrail, look down at my green Converse and take them one step at a time. I’m to the third floor in no time, slightly out of breath, but feeling victorious.
When I reach his door, D6, I pause momentarily to consider again what I might find inside. I picture myself knocking, only to have Jason open the door, a look of surprise on his face. I can’t help but hope this will come true, no matter how crazy he’ll think I am.
But my fears are not allayed. No one answers my knock and when I try the doorknob the door swings open easily. Immediately I know something is wrong, just like I knew
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