Page 3 of Backslide
An embarrassment of sunlight is falling through the skylights at SFO like spilled lemonade. Careless in its abundance. Like there’s always more where that came from.
Isn’t San Francisco supposed to be gray?
I pit stop in the bathroom en route to baggage claim. Inside, there are bag hooks that aren’t broken and fully stocked toilet seat covers and paper towel dispensers that actually dispense paper towels.
There are trash receptacles marked COMPOSTand LANDFILL.
What are these marvels?
There are fellow bathroom users who smile at me by the sink for no apparent reason—just friendliness?
I guess this is living the good life.
And if I wasn’t about to knowingly walk into the darkest depths of hell, just weeks after my well-ordered life took a nosedive, I would be elated.
I eye my reflection with hope, then resignation. I took an early morning flight and I look like it. My gray sweatsuit is cute but rumpled. My liner has smudged under my eyes in the way it does. My hair, always wavy and untamed, is an indented tangle from the sleep mask I used on the plane.
Sorry.Triedto use on the plane. It’s hard to sleep when you’re being rammed repeatedly by a beverage cart. The flight attendant either had a vendetta or a suspended license.
Cara texts me back:
Cara
You’re here!
I am. I am here. And, if I could hop on a plane back to the East Coast grit and grunge, I would. Even though it feels like a relief to be somewhere else. Even though I am in desperate need of a break—some lightness. Some abundant lemonade of my own.
I need a minute to recalibrate. But there is no avoiding the inevitable.
Although I am all storm clouds, I text Cara:
Nellie
This week is about her, and I will not be the one to bring her down. I am an adult.Mostly. I can handle this.Maybe.
But she is not fooled. She texts:
Cara
Are you nervous?
My body has been vibrating with anxiety for weeks. But I lie:
Nellie
Me? No! It’s not MY do-over un-wedding celebration.
Cara and her husband, Ben, never had a “real” wedding—or so she keeps insisting. Faced with the prospect of a shotgun ceremony, they eloped to city hall. Now, several years and kids later, they’ve invited their closest friends to a vineyard compound in Sonoma County for the intimate shindig they never had.
Their closest friends. Includinghim.
Why Ben, always so delightful, stays tight with the devil I will never know.Blackmail? Brainwashing?
Swinging my tote back onto my shoulder, I follow the signs to baggage claim to retrieve my admittedly monstrous suitcase. It’s large and in charge. But how else was I supposed to cope with this disaster?
In the months leading up to this trip, I may have ceded control of my credit card to my anxiety. Let’s just say, when it comes to what to wear… I haveoptions. And debt.
In equal measure.
