Page 24 of Here One Moment

Gray kangaroos and a Scottish accent. Those two things in tandem were only of significance to me.

An elderly couple tottered by wearing silver Apple Watches, followed by a beautiful serious-faced woman who could have been Korean and could have been in her forties.

A woman in a leopard-print jumpsuit sat on a high stool at the bar and I wasn’t close enough to see for sure but her drink could easily have been a Brandy Alexander.

An incredibly tall young man loped by on long legs, followed immediately by a little boy carrying a backpack in gray and green military camouflage.

Then everyone stopped to stare because a beautiful young bride and groom came through the security gates. Still in their wedding finery, they were pulling along small wheeled bags that looked brand new.

Some people applauded and whistled.

The bride and groom weren’t familiar, but I recognized her dress.

Because it was mine.

It was my wedding dress.

I told myself, It’s just a similar style. But then, as I kept looking, I thought, No, it’s identical. High neck, empire waist, bishop sleeves. Chiffon and lace. Everything about it was the same.

They walked directly past my table and that’s when I saw the hem of her dress. I know I did not imagine it, because I was hoping I would not see it, but I did.

Six pale yellow dots forming the shape of a circle.

They were yellow pollen stains. My yellow pollen stains. Put there by my bridesmaid, my childhood friend, Ivy, who felt terrible about it. She was shaking her bouquet over her head to be charming for the photographer.

My mother said, “Those stains will never come out.” Then she said, in a lower voice, to Auntie Pat, “I tried to tell her that lilies are funeral flowers.”

Ivy said, “It looks like a little sunshine. I think it’s good luck.”

The photographer said, “I’m sure you’re right,” and lifted his camera and took her photo.

(It was good luck for Ivy and the photographer. They got married two years later. A high percentage of my wedding photos featured close-ups of Ivy.)

The bride and groom headed off to the bar and I looked away, and saw Ivy herself!

She was emerging from the bookshop, a paperback in hand, talking animatedly on her mobile phone, forty years too young to be Ivy, it wasn’t Ivy, Ivy moved to America and she never had a daughter or granddaughter, but here’s the thing: the woman who looked like Ivy wore an artificial lily in her hair.

Lilies are funeral flowers, said my mother in my ear.

A man in a black puffer jacket walked by swinging a long tube on a strap. It was canvas with a leather cap. It was my father’s fishing rod tube! How did that man get ahold of it? He had my dad’s worried expression, and then he saw someone in the distance and the worried expression vanished and he smiled with his whole face, exactly the way my dad smiled whenever he was waiting for me or my mother to get off the train.

No more, I thought, please no more.

But there was my childhood piano teacher. She drummed her fingers anxiously on the table as if she were practicing scales. Same sweet face, same long fair plait, except she was wearing a big hoodie and she wasn’t crying like my piano teacher cried, not at first, but as I watched she turned fast and knocked a can of soft drink over with her elbow, and then, as she tried to dab up the spill with paper napkins, her other elbow knocked her phone to the floor, and her face crumpled, as if she were about to burst into tears.

A man with Elvis Presley sideburns wearing a moss-green Ralph Lauren polo shirt stood with narrowed eyes checking the departures board. Ralph Lauren cologne in a green bottle and Elvis Presley sideburns. Once again, those two things together added up to something of relevance only to me and my life, my past, my memories, and Ithought to myself, nobody has long sideburns like that anymore, nobody!

Everything meant something.

I closed my eyes and tried not to see all the signs, but it didn’t help because then my other senses took over. I could smell my mother’s scent (Avon: To a Wild Rose) and my auntie Pat’s cigarettes (Pall Mall slims). I could hear my father’s laughter when he saw the expression on my face when I caught my first fish (a good-sized yellowfin bream) and I could taste my grandmother’s scones (approved by the Country Women’s Association!).

I opened my eyes and saw my veiny, age-spotted hands and I told myself, Stop it. You are being so silly. You are embarrassing yourself. You’re imagining all this. This is just an ordinary departure lounge. You are not the center of the world and this is not all about you.

I felt confused and fearful and lonely. I felt filled with rage and resentment about the errand I had to undertake. I needed a cup of tea and a Monte Carlo biscuit.

A cup of tea might have solved everything.

Chapter 20

---