Follow Me

by Linda Caradine

Tedium had found me. That it happened at an airport was not a surprise.

“Would you like me to show you the way? Follow me.” The man gestured politely, arm outstretched and palm up. 

“Sure.” But wait a minute. Maybe I responded too quickly. Everyone knows you can’t—or you shouldn’t—trust anyone at an airport.

He was innocuous-looking enough—about thirty-five, clean-cut, and handsome, wearing jeans and a blue dress shirt with new-looking Nikes. He must have heard me ask the TSA agent how to get to International Gate C-16 and witnessed the agent’s sullen non-response. The way I saw it, this guy could be one of four things and the only way I would find out which would be to follow him. I wasn’t sure I really needed to know.

For one, he could be a nice, honest young man just looking to help a fellow flyer. We moved off in the direction of the labyrinth of gates. I found out his name was Curt. He had a wife, Cindy, and they were expecting a baby next month. Ah, an innocent. I knew time would change him, that he would probably evolve into someone much different over the years but, as for now, he was imminently followable. We walked on while he told me his story. He’d just landed a job promotion and was on his way to scout out the new city, land an apartment and set up all the peripheral systems so his wife could join him in a few weeks. 

I had little to say. My story was obvious. I was a sixty-five-year-old woman traveling alone. What more was there to add?

Curt could look forward to more promotions, more children, and probably another wife or two. Life was new and exciting. Oh, he would suffer his share of setbacks, too—not advancing quickly enough at his law firm, unrealized dreams, and the loss of both his parents. He would have moments where he would wonder if he’d sold his soul. But today he was just a playful pup, open to helping a hapless woman traveler on her way. 

We stopped for coffee. He ordered some unpronounceable, vaguely French-sounding concoction—skinny, with room. I ordered a cup of coffee. Could he really be watching his weight? Why did he order his drink skinny? Oh, yes, I knew the lingo. I just chose not to participate. But he was trim and athletic, the kind of athleticism that comes by way of good genes and not hours in the gym. Why should he be worried? Sure, in ten years, he would start to pick up weight and sag a little in all the wrong places. But, for now, he was a perfect specimen. Clearly, he hadn’t acquired an ego yet. That would come.

“What do you do?” he asked me.

“I’m retired. I used to work in insurance.”

“Sales?”

“Management.”

So far so good. He was genial enough without prying into my personal business. He didn’t need to know that I was finally free to do some traveling and making the most of it before my age caught up with me. 

“So, you’re headed to Tokyo as a tourist,” he said. “How nice! I’m afraid I won’t have the luxury of seeing the sights for some time, what with the new job and all.”

He was just being nice. He didn’t care about the sights. He cared about Cindy and the new baby and doing well at the firm. Which was as it should be.

I remembered a time in my own young middle-age when I too had had that air of casual entitlement. An ambitious spouse. Career accomplishments of my own. An intelligent and attractive child. My life was set. All I had to do was live it. All I had to do was put one foot in front of the other and reap the rewards of everything that I had confidently set in motion. That all this perfection had been encased in a delicate bubble was something I learned suddenly and without warning. The inevitable trade-offs had reared their heads, and I wasn’t often willing to make them. A perfect husband who just had the occasional affair? Career success that came with a little drinking problem and years of counseling? The promising child who wanted to find herself rather than stay grounded in convention? 

Poof! It was all gone now.

I don’t want to be married anymore. It had sounded so surprising and so improbable spoken in my shiny, updated kitchen. I saw myself in the luster of my stainless-steel refrigerator and I saw strength. In the face of fear, I saw courage.

Time had brought me peace and the knowledge that what had taken the place of perfection was itself quite perfect. Life had morphed into something I had not expected. Living an authentic life was worth the pain of losing the things I once thought I wanted. My daughter, kind and wise, had known it all along. 

We resumed walking down the brightly-lit concourse, Curt and me. I could tell he was walking a little more slowly for my benefit.

“Am I going too fast? Should I slow it down a bit? I mean, we have plenty of time.”

“No, it’s fine,” I assured him. “I’m a bit of a brisk walker myself.” Oh terrific. Now he knew I thought we were walking quickly. But what difference did it make? He would walk me to the gate and maybe continue to chitchat a bit until we boarded our plane but, after that, we would sever all ties. He would get on his computer and I would lose myself in a tour book. He would never know what I thought of the Imperial Palace and I would never know that they named their new baby Sarah. 

Look at those innocent eyes, I thought.

Or he could be the second type of person, the one who helped an old lady out of pity. He wasn’t completely raw anymore, but he didn’t know yet that his days were limited too. He’d already traded in Cindy for a newer model, Marcia. He was feeling guilty about not seeing little Sarah enough. But his career was proceeding apace and he was reasonably happy. Wasn’t he?

We sat in the gate area on adjacent chairs. He told me about the thrill of making partner at the firm, of having his name on the letterhead. I told him it was a spectacular achievement that few people would ever know. True enough.

I was already starting to dislike him for his smugness. He thought he had the world by the tail, didn’t he? I could almost feel sorry for him. If he had an inkling of how the rest of his life was going to go, he’d probably have a coronary. Not that it would be so bad, with a beautiful third wife and early retirement in the Caymans away from his grown kids and their families. It was just that it was lightyears away from what he had imagined. 

And what we imagine holds no virtue, I thought to myself. It’s who we are and what we do that matters. There were nights in my small apartment that I lost sight of that truth, times when I would have sacrificed myself to have back the creature comforts. It was only the soft sound of my daughter’s sleeping breath in the next room that held me together in those long hours. 

I am lonely, I’d said out loud, to no one. 

“You’re quite brave to be traveling on your own,” Curt said. Was he mildly impressed or simply patronizing me? Either way, I was offended. If he could go solo, why couldn’t I?

“Not really,” I said. “I have no partner and I wanted to see the world.” And, besides, I added, “I rather like to go it alone.”

Oh shit, I thought, now he would really pity me. But, again, why did I care?

“You have children?”

“Yes, a daughter. She’s fabulous.” I wasn’t about to mention her own single status at thirty-nine or her struggles with anxiety. “She’s really fabulous.”

“What does she do?” he asked, on autopilot. 

Why was that always a man’s go-to question? It was as if career was everything. And in a way it was. 

“She’s a social worker,” I lied.

“Oh. How interesting.”

“She helps a lot of people.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure she does.”

This was going nowhere. “So, tell me about your little girls.”

“This is Liza and this is Eva,” he said, flipping out a picture from his wallet and pointing to each one in turn. And then there’s Sarah. She’s ten, she lives with my first wife. I don’t see her nearly enough.”

There, I thought. I’d succeeded in putting him in his place. But I also felt a bit sorry for him. It happens. Multiple marriages. Lost children. He wasn’t such a bad guy. I probably would be a little smug too in his situation.

Just look at those shell-shocked eyes.

Perhaps he would be the third type of person. Perhaps the rarest of all, although he had to be out there. He wasn’t just being nice. He was trying to pick me up. With a bit of a mommy complex, he’d gone far in life, so eager was he to please her at every turn. His wife had left him for another woman and he hadn’t even had time to produce any kids first.

“So, where are you staying in Tokyo?” He didn’t waste any time. Or maybe it was an innocent question.

“I’m not sure. I haven’t booked a place yet.” I was traveling by the seat of my pants. “No room yet. No plans.”

There was a thoughtful pause.

“I’d like to buy you dinner tonight.” There was nothing innocent about that. At least I thought not. This would not end well.

But I was no delicate ingenue. I’d known my share of lovers. I’d known the quickening of the flesh that comes far removed from love and all its trappings. I’d felt the power and the shame of ill-advised pairings.

One night in a hotel in Reno, I’d said to a man, don’t go. The reflected neon shone in through the window and lit my yearning. Stay with me.

It was a moment that felt better than pride.

“Tell me something about yourself,” I prompted, stalling for time. I was caught between a sense of virtue and one of opportunity. He was no babe in the woods. He would have known what he was getting into. Just a pleasant dalliance for them both. Nothing more.

“I’m a partner at the law firm I work for. My mother has been telling me I’d be an attorney since I started kindergarten.” He paused, as if thinking back. “What else could I ever have become?” Another pause. “Now what about dinner?”

I knew I would capitulate eventually. Why act the coquette? I was definitely over the illusion of searching for Mr. Right. Of course, it wouldn’t be completely spontaneous. I would have to excuse myself at some point and change into a nightgown in the bathroom. He wasn’t going to see me naked. That was out of the question.

But just look at those bedroom eyes.

Or, lastly, he could have been an outright conman, eager to offer to watch my luggage so he could steal my cash and electronics. 

Perhaps he was a sociopath. He didn’t care about me or what I would do far from home without any credit cards, that was certain.

“I think I’d better find my own way from here.” I was wise enough not to fall for his offer of assistance even though he did possess a certain dubious charm, all wavy hair and five o’clock shadow.

“Just walk with me a way. I promise you I’m not a serial killer.”

“Okay, just a way. I’ve never been to this airport before.” I considered his promise to me. Probably true enough.

“That’s better. Did I tell you about my wife Angela? She’s alright, that gal. Anything I want, she’s there.”

“What do you do?” I couldn’t believe I’d asked him that. 

“Right now, I’m between jobs,” he started. “But something’s bound to come along any day now, right?”

“I’m sure it will.” God, did I sound like a sanctimonious old cow or what. “So, what brings you to Tokyo?”

“Got an ex-wife who lives here. She’s Japanese. I met her and married her online, can you believe it? I was, well, I was in prison for a while. Of course, it didn’t work out. The marriage, I mean. I guess I may have exaggerated my means just a little bit. She wound up going back home to her parents shortly after we got together. I couldn’t blame her.”

“That’s really interesting.” I was fascinated and wanted to know all about it. 

He grinned a little. “Well the thing is, I heard that her dad died and she might be in store for an inheritance. I wanted to see if she might be good to give me a little loan. I could start a business, maybe make some investments, I don’t know.”

This had turned out to be the most interesting of the iterations of Curt yet. I liked him.

So, this was the real me. Buffeted by life’s tribulations to the point of random amusement. A fraudulent marriage? Time spent in prison? A hope at nefarious profit? Tell me more.

Once, I ran into my ex-husband in the city where I’d gone to meet with my editor. The streets were choked with fallen leaves and fly-away pages of old newspapers. He tried to give me his current phone number and I just asked, What for?

It was cruel. I hugged him and turned to walk away. I wouldn’t have traded that moment for anything.

“Let me buy you a cup of coffee?” I had to know more. “Do you have kids?”

“I had a daughter. Sarah. She wound up killing herself. Geez, it was awful. What about you?”

“Yes,” I said. “I have a daughter. She’s in her late thirties. She waitresses.” I didn’t have it in me to lie to him. And what would have been the use? I had no need to impress him.

“Why don’t you go across there to the Ladies Room and freshen up or do whatever you ladies do in there? Then we can go for coffee. Go ahead. I’ll watch the bags.”

So, there it was. I knew it. Just look at those shifty eyes.

Linda Caradine is a Portland, Oregon-based writer whose work has appeared in The Oregonian Newspaper, TravelMag, Blacktop Passages, the Free State Review, Adelaide, Down in the Dirt, and other publications. She is currently working on a memoir.