Page 35 of Torn
I SATup, wanting nothing more than to flop back down. But a very long flight lay ahead of me, first to New York City and then on to Chicago. The day would be brutal, and I knew I only had a few hours before Boutros and I would head for Heathrow.
I told myself that getting out of bed, breathing some fresh air, and having a bite to eat would make me feel better, despite my gut arguing audibly to the contrary. My only rationale for this notion was that it had worked in the past.
Despite my desire to remain in bed until the very last minute, I forced myself to get up and find a pair of jeans and a T-shirt in the clothes scattered on the bedroom floor. I pulled these on, along with my Nikes, and hobbled to the bathroom. On the way there, I could hear Boutros snoring in the living room, or the lounge as they liked to call it over here.
In the bathroom, I bent over the sink to splash some water on my face and to dampen my wild hair. When I rose and looked in the mirror, I noticed the whites of my eyes had a sickly, yellowish tinge. I peered closer at myself in the mirror, asking my reflection, “What the hell?”
Mystified, I brushed my teeth and headed for the front door.
OUTSIDE, Iknew I should have felt better. It was one of those mornings when the world felt newly washed, clean. Even in a metropolis like London, the breezes were fresh, sweet.
But I felt used up, like trash.
I wandered through a small street that closed to traffic in the morning to allow stalls to hawk their wares—cheap jewelry, produce, and baked goods mostly. Sugar was what I concentrated on. I bought myself a treat that would normally thrill me—a big roll glazed with melted sugar. A few days ago, this pastry would have had my mouth watering. Now, as I watched the sixtysomething white-haired lady put it in a bag for me, it might as well have been a turd.
I stopped in at a Pret a Manger to get something to wash it down with. I didn’t think my stomach could handle the acid in coffee, tea, or orange juice, so I bought myself something called an orange squash.
Breakfast in hand, I headed for the park where I’d met up with Walt the night before.
Since it was so early, the park was nearly empty. For company, there was an old man sitting on a bench, reading an Agatha Christie mystery, and a young woman in jogging clothes walking briskly with a Boston terrier in a red harness.
I crossed the grass and sat down on a bench. I opened the bottle of squash and drank some of it. Encouraged, I opened the wax-paper bag containing my pastry and peered into it. The sugar-glazed treat still looked unappetizing. My stomach heaved.
I took it out, anyway, trying to be a sport, trying to cling to the belief that a little food would actually settle my stomach. I nibbled a small bite but could barely swallow it. I feared I’d throw it right back up, but I closed my eyes, willing my tummy to still. I breathed in a few slow, deep breaths.
It worked, although I still felt lousy. I managed to drink the squash, but there was no way I would risk eating the pastry. I ended up feeding it to the pigeons. Imagine their delight!
THE AIRPORTwas another ordeal. Somehow, I had been bumped from our flight and put on standby. Bad enough I was really ill, but the terror of having to navigate my way home alone was more daunting.
Boutros, God bless him, offered to stay with me so that we could fly together if I couldn’t get on our original flight.
I waited and waited to learn if I was going to be onboard.
At last, the announcement came that I would be able to fly with Boutros to New York. The only thing was, the terminal we were to fly out of was switched at the last minute.
My last memory of England: dashing through the huge puzzle that is Heathrow International Airport with only minutes to spare, covered in a thin glaze of sweat and fearing I would not only not make the plane but would throw up in the process of getting there.
Fate was on my side. I made it and even managed to keep the meager contents of my stomach where they belonged.
I couldn’t wait to get home.
PRESENT DAY
KIND READER,I hope you’ll be gratified and relieved to know I made it home in one sad piece from England that long, tortuous day. Diseased, but alive.
The flight to New York from Heathrow was not without incident, the principal one being a huge blowout between Boutros and a flight attendant over a vegetarian meal. Vegetarian or not,anyfood selection wasn’t an option for me. I wanted to die.
To make matters even more delightful, I was picked at random for a luggage search. Or maybe not so random—I was a sickly yellow by the time I got to New York, and perhaps that, combined with my irritated demeanor and scruffy beard, marked me as some sort of malcontent or drug abuser. Terrorists were pretty much unheard of back in ’95.
Once again, I found myself late for boarding and running for my flight to Chicago too. It was my day to be winded and on the verge of vomiting.
Once I got home, the universe, in its magnanimous wisdom, had more horrors in store.
My illness climbed new heights of agony. I found I could barely get out of bed the rest of the Friday after I returned. On Saturday, I planned more of the same, bedrest and maybe a “spot of tea,” hoping my friend Mary, who’d taken care of my cat, wouldn’t mind doing the feline boarding thing for a couple more days, even though I didn’t have the strength to ask her. I knew my beloved, fat black-and-white cat was safe with her in her Lake-Michigan–adjacent condo in Evanston.
I was wrong. The phone rang early on Saturday morning, and Mary, who knew I’d gotten back the day before, barked into the phone, “Come and get your cat” and hung up.
Okay, maybe I should have called.
