The Geography of You and Me

On the plane, she sank low in her seat, looking out the window while the other passengers boarded. Her thoughts drifted to Owen again, the way his eyes had flashed when he spoke about traveling the country, and she was so focused on this, so lost in the memory of him, that when someone sat down heavily beside her and she turned to find that it wasn’t him—that it was, instead, an old Englishman with red cheeks and whiskers in his nose—she was more surprised than it made sense to be.

She slept the whole way across the Atlantic, the night passing as the ocean slipped by beneath the plane, and when she woke, it was to discover that they’d caught up with the morning, the light streaming through the oval windows all up and down the length of the plane. She rubbed her eyes and squinted out at the clouds that tumbled over the city, and the fine mist of rain that clung to the plane as they landed.

There was a car waiting for her just outside the arrivals area, and she sat in the backseat and tried to keep her bleary eyes open as it glided through the rainy London streets. She realized how much she’d forgotten in the last eight years; it was half a lifetime ago that she was here, and only now did she recall the quirky details of the place: the colorful doors and the painted signs on the pubs, the roundabouts and the lampposts, the buildings that stood shoulder to shoulder along the winding streets.

The town house had long ago been sold, so her parents now stayed at the Ritz whenever they were in town. Lucy couldn’t help staring as they pulled up to the grand old building wreathed in lights, and a bellhop appeared out of nowhere to help her with her suitcase. When she told the man at the front desk that she was looking for her parents, he gave her the room number, and then pointed to the doorway behind her.

“The lift is just around the corner,” he said, and Lucy smiled all the way up to the sixth floor, wondering if there would be much difference to getting stuck in a lift instead of an elevator.

Upstairs, she knocked on the door to her parents’ room. When it opened, they were both standing there as if they’d been waiting; her mother, tall and willowy, her hair dark as Lucy’s, and her father, sandy-haired and enormous, with glasses and a haircut that made him look every inch as serious as he was. They were both generally reserved, not prone to huge amounts of affection, but before the door had even closed, Lucy found herself folded into a hug, tucked between the two of them in a way that felt so safe, so overwhelming, and most of all so surprising that she began to cry without meaning to.

“We’re so sorry,” Mom said, letting go and looking at her with concern. “If we’d known…”

“No, it’s fine,” Lucy said, wiping her eyes. “It really wasn’t a big deal. I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m just… I guess I’m just happy to see you.”

“We’re happy to see you, too,” Dad said, bringing her suitcase in from the hallway and then closing the door. “Because of—well, because of some scheduling things, we couldn’t get back. But we felt terrible that you were all alone through an ordeal like that, and we just really wanted to see you.”

Lucy felt a little dazed by all the attention. “I’m fine,” she said for what felt like the thousandth time as Mom guided her over to the bed, where they sat together on the edge, knees touching.

“So what was it like?” Dad asked as he pulled out the desk chair. Once seated, he crossed his legs and gave her a long look, the kind she’d seen him give lawyers and bankers when they’d come for dinner; it was a look that meant she had his full concentration, and it wasn’t one she was used to seeing.

“It was dark,” she said, and Mom laughed. “I was actually in the elevator when it happened.”

“We heard,” Dad said. “The boys told us.”

Lucy had called her brothers the very next day, first Charlie and then Ben, and she’d told them about climbing out of the elevator and walking up and down the stairwells; she’d told them about the doormen running around with flashlights and the masses of people moving through the streets; she’d told them about the free ice cream and the stars overhead and the heat. But she hadn’t told them about Owen. Part of it was self-preservation—she knew Ben would tease her endlessly and Charlie would get overprotective—but part of it was instinct, too. It would have been like blowing out the candles on a birthday cake and then immediately announcing what you’d wished for; logical or not, saying it out loud made it seem less likely to come true.

“Was it awful?” Mom was asking, her eyes wide with worry.

“It wasn’t so bad,” Lucy said with a smile, hoping they didn’t notice the pink that crept into her cheeks. “We were only in there for, like, half an hour.” She paused, realizing for the first time that it was true—it couldn’t have been more than thirty minutes. How had it felt like so much more? “The worst part was the heat,” she continued. “That was pretty horrible.”

They both nodded, like they wanted to hear more, but she thought she noticed Dad sneak a glance at his watch, and Mom’s foot had started to bob in the way it did sometimes when guests at their dinner parties were still there even after the coffee cups had been cleared.