Going Home Part 29

"Mmm . . . I know what you mean. Who would believe?" and I turned away again, to look out the window, down at the clouds.

"You know something, Lillian, you look different. I almost didn't recognize you, except I never forget a face." He stared at me for a moment. "Yeah, you've changed. Something about the way you look. Not older, just different." That's right, brother, "different," but older; it's okay, you could have said it, because, baby, I earned it.

I turned away then, for the last time, and slept the rest of the way to Nice.

"Veuillez attacher votre ceinture de srete, et ne pas . . ."-please fasten . . . "We will be arriving in Nice in approximately fifteen minutes; the local time is three-thirty-five and the temperature is 78 degrees Fahrenheit. Thank you for flying Pan American. We hope you have enjoyed your flight, and wish you a pleasant stay in Nice. If you wish to make reservations for the trip home, please see our ticket agent in the main lobby of the terminal building. Thank you and good-bye. . . . Mesdames et messieurs, nous allons atterrir Nice dans. . . . Merci et au revoir."

The plane came to a b.u.mpy stop on the runway and taxied in toward the terminal building, stopping just far enough away to allow a gangway to be rolled up next to the aircraft. I came down the stairs and looked around. No sign of Gordon. And then I remembered customs. La douane. He would be waiting on the other side. I felt surprisingly calm, only a little irritated that I hadn't at least had time to comb my hair properly before landing. I had slept till the last minute and had had to do all possible repairs from my seat. I felt rumpled; it had been a long trip.

The douanier looked North African, and stamped my pa.s.sport and bags without a second glance. American pa.s.sport. Abracadabra, like magic. They hate your guts, but at least they don't rip your luggage apart. Not like in the States.

"So long, Lillian . . . see you 'round." My friend from across the aisle. Still no Gordon. Maybe he had been delayed by traffic, maybe. But what if? . . . Oh not something else. Oh please, Lord, don't do this to me. You can't hate me this much. . . . No, oh no . . . and as I began to panic I looked up and there he was. Taller than I had remembered, thinner, his beard looked fuller, his eyes bluer in the tanned face. He stood looking uncertain, as though he wasn't sure he ought to come and get me after all. All the last months stood between us, the story of it in his eyes, just as I knew it was in mine. We just went on standing there.

"Watch your step, madame, it's a very big step. Watch your step, sir." There were two steep steps down from the customs area, and a guard was warning arriving tourists. You're right, it's a very big step monsieur. And Tom's words rang in my ears: "Be brave, Gill. Don't settle for halfway. . . ." I stepped down, slowly, carefully, deliberately, looking down at the steps to be sure of my footing. Always look to be sure of your footing. Look at those steps . . . one . . . two . . . and I was at his side.

He continued to look down at me for an endless moment, doubtful, as though he didn't dare believe. He pulled me to him, slowly, holding me gently in his arms.

"I'm back," I whispered into his shoulder.

He closed his eyes then and pulled me closer. "Now I know. I thought I'd lost you too." After a moment we faced each other again, all our years reflected in our eyes, the people we had been, the people we had loved, the people we had lost in different ways . . . his wife . . . my husband . . . Juanita . . . Greg . . . Chris . . . they stood around us, and watched us go, hand in hand, going home.

end.