Page 8 of Pucked and Pregnant

At some point during my internal pep talk, I must have drifted off, because the next thing I know a flight attendant is gently tapping my shoulder.

“Ma’am?”

I blink at her drowsily.

“We’ve landed. Do you need any help with your bags?” she asks.

“No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

I stand and stretch, then grab my carry-on.

Apparently, I don’t have generalized flight anxiety. I have the more specific flying in coach class type of anxiety. I should fly first class more often, clearly I’m more comfortable there. With the pay bump I just got I’ll definitely be able to.

When I get to the baggage claim, I alternate between looking for my luggage and looking for one or both of my parents.

Blue suitcase. Is that it?

No, not my name on the tag.

I spot an older couple out of the corner of my eye.

Nope. Man is too short. Woman is too tall.

Red suitcase.

Duffel bag.

Brown carpet bag falling apart.

I didn’t even know those still existed.

A few drivers are lined up holding signs but I don’t pay them any mind.

Oh! There’s my blue suitcase!

I check the tag, confirm it’s mine, and take another look around for my parents.

One of the drivers coughs obnoxiously.

Buddy, if you’re hacking up a lung, you probably shouldn’t be working today.

There’s no sign of my parents anywhere. I pull out my phone and check for any messages or missed calls.

Nothing.

The coughing driver brandishes his sign in my direction. Something about him seems vaguely familiar. I take a closer look at him—tall, broad shoulders, black beard.

It’s a fake beard. An excellent fake, but a fake, nonetheless.

Oh no.

It’s like he can read my thoughts because when I make eye contact with him again, his expression says, “Oh, yes.”

He walks toward me with an exaggerated limp. “Telemachus, I presume?”

I roll my eyes. “Yes, Penelope.”

His voice is a caricature of our Boston accent. “I’ve got the car ready for you. Follow me, ma’am.”

---