Somewhere Over the Midwest
The rest of the flight felt different.
Not magically different.
This wasn't the kind of story where one question transformed three strangers into lifelong friends.
Theo still woke up twice.
Hadley still complained that the pretzels were "aggressively dry."
My back still hurt.
Marianne still seemed like someone who preferred quiet cabins and carefully ordered days.
But something between us had softened.
When Theo began fussing again, Marianne didn't sigh.
She reached beneath the seat for my diaper bag before I could bend down.
When I needed to use the restroom, she offered to keep an eye on Hadley while I carried Theo with me.
At one point, Hadley moved into the empty aisle seat across from us after another passenger relocated to sit with his family.
She and Marianne began talking.
I listened without appearing to listen.
"What was Claire like?" Hadley asked.
Marianne thought about it.
"Loud."
Hadley grinned.
"My dad was loud."
"Claire laughed loudly. She talked loudly. She sneezed loudly."
"My dad sneezed like he was trying to scare burglars."
Marianne laughed.
"What else?"
Hadley became serious.
"He made pancakes shaped like animals, but they never looked like the animals."
"That's difficult."
"No, they were really bad."
I looked away toward the window because suddenly my eyes were full.
For five weeks, most conversations about Gavin had been whispered.
People lowered their voices when they said his name.
They looked at me carefully afterward.
As though his name itself might break me.
But Hadley talked about him like he was still part of the room.
Maybe children understood grief better than adults did.
The people we love don't become forbidden subjects simply because they're gone.
The Question Marianne Asked Me
About an hour before landing, Marianne turned toward me.
"May I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"How are you doing?"
I nearly gave the automatic answer.
Fine.
Instead I looked at Theo sleeping in my arms and Hadley drawing on a napkin.
"I don't know."
Marianne nodded.
It was strangely comforting that she didn't try to fix that answer.
"I wake up every morning," I continued, "and for maybe two seconds I forget. Then I remember."
"Yes," she said quietly.
"And everybody keeps telling me I'm strong."
"I hated that."
I looked at her.
"So do I."
"People mean well."
"I know."
"But sometimes you don't want to be strong."
Exactly.
Sometimes I wanted someone else to find the missing shoe.
Someone else to wash the bottles.
Someone else to decide what was for dinner.
Someone else to answer Hadley's questions about whether Daddy could still see us.
I wanted to be weak for twenty minutes without the entire household collapsing.
"I don't feel strong," I admitted.
Marianne glanced toward Hadley.
"Maybe strength isn't feeling strong."
I waited.
"Maybe sometimes it's just getting everyone onto the airplane."
That sentence stayed with me.
Because that morning, getting everyone onto the airplane had felt like a failure.
I'd forgotten extra wipes.
I'd nearly cried at security.