Page 72 of The Elements
It’s simpler just to buy what he wants. After all, I’m tired.
I’m anxious. I’m undertaking a journey that might prove to be an enormous mistake.
And yet, despite my early morning crankiness, as we head toward the gate I feel a desperate desire to pull my son into an embrace, to press his body against my own and explain to him how important the next few days will be for both of us.
I can’t, of course. If I even tried to touch him, he’d push me away in mortification.
And this from a boy who once loved nothing more than cuddling up to me while we watched Pixar movies on a Saturday evening; one who would often crawl into my bed in the middle of the night until he was nine or ten, lying in the empty space next to me while he fell back asleep.
The truth is, he wouldn’t even be here now if he’d had any choice in the matter, but he’s still at an age where I have some semblance of authority over him.
He wanted to stay home alone, which was an absolute nonstarter, then tried to persuade me to allow him to bunk with Damian while I was gone. Another no.
So he’s here. But under sufferance.
One final drama before we board.
A security guard is standing by the seats we were occupying earlier, staring at our backpacks.
For all the fuss I created about Emmet remaining with them, they slipped my mind when we went to the store.
The guard, who looks as if he should be studying for his HSC, not in full-time employment, turns to me, and my first thought is that I could help him with his acne if he asked.
I’m not a dermatologist, I’m a child psychologist, but I remember enough from my days in medical school to know exactly the treatment that would sort his problem out.
“Are these your bags, sir?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “Sorry. I went to the bathroom and then my son wanted something from Relay. I should have thought.”
The boy glances at Emmet.
“Is this your father?” he asks.
“I’ve never seen this man before in my life,” says Emmet and I roll my eyes.
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” I say.
“He just came over and started talking to me and—”
“Emmet, shut up.”
The guard looks from one of us to the other. He may be young but surely he can see the resemblance between us.
“Fine, he’s my dad,” says Emmet, chuckling a little, which at least makes me smile. I like to hear him laugh.
“Can I see your passports?” asks the guard, and I take them from my back pocket and hand them across.
He takes an eternity to compare the names and photos to us and I’m this close to asking him whether there’s a problem but restrain myself, knowing there are few places in the world worse than an airport to create any sort of row.
One false move and that’s it, you’re not only off the plane, you’re on a no-fly list for life.
“You know you shouldn’t leave bags alone like this?” he asks eventually. “They’re a security risk.”
“I know,” I say. “Sorry. I’m barely awake.”
“Do you mind if I take a look inside them?”
He asks the question politely enough, and I want to say yes, I do mind actually, but if I do, he’ll probably summon a colleague and before I know it, both Emmet and I will be taken to private rooms to be interviewed separately.
Thirty minutes later, our plane will be taxiing down the runway while we’re left behind. And we simply cannot miss this flight.
“I don’t mind at all,” I say, a fake smile plastered across my face, and he studies me for a moment before unzipping my rucksack.
There’s not much in there. My laptop. A printout of a paper I’m writing for a medical journal.
A Lee Child novel. Some breath mints and hand sanitizers.
My irritation rises again, however, when he reaches for Emmet’s bag.
This feels like more of an intrusion—I don’t like him invading my son’s privacy—but, thankfully, his belongings are even less threatening than my own.
“Just be aware next time,” he says, standing up to his full height now. “When bags are just slung around the place, they’re a security risk.”
“That’s what I told my dad,” says Emmet. “But he never listens.”
“And I’ll just check your boarding passes,” he says then, and it takes all my strength not to tell him to go fuck himself, but the first-class passengers are starting to board now so I have no choice but to unlock my phone and open the on-screen wallet.
“Aaron Umber,” he says, reading my name.
“And Emmet Umber,” he adds, swiping across.
They’re perfectly in order so, somewhat reluctantly, he hands them back.
“Have a safe flight,” he adds in a tone so severe that it comes across more like an order than a pleasantry.
As if he’ll return to charge us with some crime if we don’t.
“Thank you,” I say, making my way toward the boarding gate, where the woman behind the desk is now summoning business class passengers forward.
“Sir,” says the guard before I can get more than six steps away from him, and I turn around.
“What?” I ask, raising my voice in frustration.
Honestly, at this point I’ve had enough, and my temper is rising.
I keep some Valium at home for emergencies and threw a few in my suitcase in case the week ahead proves more difficult than expected.
I should have added one in my backpack. “For heaven’s sake, what is it now? ”
“Haven’t you forgotten something?”
I frown, uncertain what he means, then realize that Emmet has returned to the very seat where I originally left him.
He’s put his AirPods in again and probably isn’t even thinking about the time.
I bark his name and he jumps up, obedient for once, and follows me.
I feel a sense of relief when both our boarding passes scan at the desk without further incident.
As we make our way along the gangway toward the plane itself, it occurs to me that he hasn’t wished me a happy birthday yet.