Between Here and the Horizon

I smiled blankly at Margie, shrugging my shoulders. “I’m sure motherhood’s wonderful. It’s just not for me.”


Margie’s brow creased, as if she couldn’t comprehend what could possibly be mentally wrong with me. “That’s okay, sweetie,” she said. “You’ll probably change your mind, you know. One day you’ll just wake up and all of a sudden—” She jostled into me as the plane’s wheels touched down. Somewhere at the back of the plane, a lone person started clapping. Margie looked momentarily side tracked, while I did my best to wrestle my heart back into its rightful spot in my chest, out from where it had lodged itself high in my throat.

“There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Margie asked. She seemed to have forgotten all about the sentence she was halfway through just now. I was glad for it, too. I’d heard the whole, you’ll wake up one morning and just need to have a baby. The it’ll hit you like a wrecking ball, and you won’t be able to deny your body bit. The problem was that I’d already woken up and felt it, that call deep in my bones, but my body had denied me, and I’d been having to deal with that sorrowful reality ever since.

“Attention all passengers. Please remain seated with your seatbelts fastened until the pilot has turned off the seatbelt sign. When opening overhead lockers, please proceed with caution, as items may have moved during the flight and are at risk of falling.” Over the tinny loudspeakers, a pre-recorded message continued to loop, warning the passengers on the oversized Airbus A380—barely a quarter full—that increased security measures within the airport might mean extended waiting time for disembarkation and baggage collection. I was barely listening. I already felt too crowded, my throat swelling a little, tiny beads of sweat bursting through the pores of my skin, sending cold chills dancing over my stomach and down my arms.

“Do they still have a monument?” I asked abruptly. “You know, where the World Trade Center used to be.”

Margie stopped rooting in her cracked black leather purse and looked at me sharply. She was somewhere between feeling intensely sorry for me and a little wary of me all of a sudden. “Why, of course they do, honey. Why on earth wouldn’t they?”

I looked out of the window, away from her, not wanting to trade in strange expressions. “I don’t know. It seems like such a long time ago now. People…they forget.”

“Oh, no. No, that’s not likely to ever happen. New York doesn’t forget. We’ll remember those poor people for generations. Until the city falls into the sea. Probably longer.”





An hour and a half later, I was swearing under my breath, sweating, cursing myself out for not giving myself longer to get from the airport to the Fletcher building. West 23rd and 6th was a long old way from JFK, and I only had twelve minutes to spare as I hopped out of the cab and dashed inside the imposing, tall, spear-like glass structure that seemed to rocket up out of the sidewalk.

The lobby of the Fletcher building was modest and simple but spoke of money. The floors were cool, polished marble, and the seating area set back to the right was comprised of beautiful gray leather armchairs that looked like they cost more than my car back in L.A. I hurried to the reception desk, frantically patting down my hair, hoping against hope that I didn’t look completely frazzled, which I undoubtedly did. The woman behind the desk glanced up at me and smiled.

“How may I help you?” she asked. Her voice was smooth and cool, but not unfriendly. Her bright blonde hair was swept back into a perfectly styled coiffeur that made me want to weep with jealousy.

“My name is Ophelia Lang. I have a four o’clock appointment with Mr. Fletcher.”

“Ahh, yes. Miss Lang. One moment, please.” She rolled back in her chair and opened a drawer at her side, from which she produced a small laminated name badge with my photograph on it. She slid the laminate across the counter toward me, smiling. “It’s a good picture,” she informed me. “Most of the time they look awful.”

I glanced down at the photo and grimaced. It was more of a mug shot than an identification picture. I looked startled. My eyes, usually green, were tinged with red somehow, so I looked fairly demonic. The contrast on the image was way off, too, so that my long, light brown hair seemed almost black. My tan was non-existent, and my lips looked blood red. Basically, I looked like a vampire.

I gave the receptionist a polite, awkward smile anyway. “Thanks.”

She leaned forward and placed a hand on my forearm, speaking very softly. “Don’t look so worried. Mr. Fletcher can be a bit of a cold fish sometimes, but he’s a decent guy. He’s fair, and he’s a good boss. Everything’s going to be okay.”