by the high population of the retirement communities. Here, we had Southern culture, lived a more slow-paced life, ate the food steeped in the traditions of the South. We said Ma’am and Sir and respected our elders. We welcomed visitors with open arms, still very much accustomed to showing people Southern hospitality.
In short, I was trying to plan a vacation away from the very place that many people vacationed to.
As I lay there in the dark, my mind was devoid of ideas. Sure, there were all kinds of places I’d always dreamed of going, but I couldn’t afford any of them—not for a weekend, let alone a whole month.
I closed my eyes and shifted under the covers, savoring the feeling of being snuggled up in bed. With the odd hours I kept, I didn’t spend much time between the sheets, but when I was there, it was like heaven.
Think, Dellie, I ordered my brain. If you could go anywhere right now, where would you go?
To the bathroom.
The thought came so suddenly it almost made me giggle, which, given my current circumstances, would probably test my bladder far beyond its limits.
I tossed aside the bedsheet and blanket and shuffled down the hall to the bathroom, fighting back a grumble of frustration that was forming over my forced departure from the comfort of my bed, even if it was only a momentary one.
I flicked the light switch and blinked rapidly as my eyes tried to adjust to the harsh brightness. I tripped over my own feet as I blindly made my way further into the bathroom and somehow managed to knock over a small bottle of perfume I’d had resting on a narrow shelf above the towel bar. The stopper fell out; and perfume began to pour onto the shelf before I could set it upright again, releasing the heady scent of a fragrance that I’d never worn, one that my grandmother had loved while she was alive.
“No!” I howled, reaching for the upended bottle and trying to stop the spill before every drop was lost. I’d been foolish to place such a top-heavy bottle in such a precarious position on such a narrow shelf, but it was so pretty that I’d wanted to put it somewhere that I could see it and be reminded of my grandmother. My cramped little bathroom needed all the decorative help it could get, and the elegant, sparkling bottle had seemed the perfect way to spruce things up just a bit.
“No, no, no!” I moaned, seeing that there was only the smallest amount left. The liquid that had pooled onto the shelf began dripping onto the floor.
I was about to let out another whimper when a thought shot through my mind.
Grammie’s.
I wanted to go to Grammie’s.
Not that she was there anymore, but that was the way I would always think of the house in Hampton that she had shared for more than fifty years with my grandfather. I hadn’t been there in so long. Far too long. I’d missed the funeral earlier that year, explaining that I couldn’t take time away from work, that I didn’t have the money for the plane ticket.
Would Grandpa be welcome to the idea of me coming there to stay with him for a whole month?
But even if he was, there was still the issue of a plane ticket. And a car to use while I was there. And…
I shook my head, trying to shake away all the questions and quiet my mind. They would have to wait until tomorrow, when I could do some research and find out what plane tickets cost and I could call Grandpa to pose the question for myself. All the wondering in the world would get me nowhere if I never did that.
I finished in the bathroom, cleaning up the mess from the spill and doing what I’d come in to do in the first place, then toddled back to bed, trying to hush my overactive brain enough to let sleep come. Tomorrow was Saturday, one of the two days I allowed myself get the amount of sleep that a normal human being needed to function properly, and I savored those extra hours.
Once I was up, I’d start the quest for information.
And make a phone call that I should have made long ago…
My fate, it would seem, was literally in my hands as I stared at the flight itinerary that had been so thoughtfully sent to me by US Airways.
I was all booked on a flight out of Pensacola to Newport News, with a three-hour layover in Charlotte. It was real, set in stone—or whatever the Internet equivalent of stone might be. The flights were set and paid for, the seats that would anchor my overanxious ass preassigned and awaiting the arrival of my rump. The plane might have been ready, but I was not.
At least, not mentally.
My bags were hungrily awaiting their sartorial satisfaction, and every other bit of pre-trip preparation that needed to be taken care of had been thoroughly executed. Bette was happily counting down the minutes until she could take over her pied-à-terre, and my family was all quietly celebrating the victory of finally having convinced me that I really and truly did need some time away.
And so, less than a week after the initial proposition was made, cyberspace served up a bit of adventure and notified me that I could no longer keep the idea of a trip in that someday-maybe-I-should realm of unrealized musings.
Best to bite the bullet.
I clicked around awhile on my laptop, idly wondering what might be going on up in Virginia’s swingin’ city of Hampton during my month there, hoping I would find something to mitigate the overwhelming nervousness I felt.
I shook my head, wishing I could find that almost explosive sense of glee that I had always had as a child getting ready to go to my grandparents’ house. True, I wasn’t a child anymore, but Hampton was still Hampton. What had changed more than anything, I realized as I sightlessly wandered around the world in Wi-Fi, was the fact that Grammie was no longer there. The magic she had so unwittingly brought to her surroundings was now gone—residual, perhaps, in the memories—but no longer to be captured.
So was that what I was so afraid of? Facing that feeling of…loss?
Or was it that I was afraid to face myself, to push myself out of the hole I had created for myself and so deeply burrowed into?
It was safe there. It was secure.
It was controllable.
Nothing about this trip, if I was honest, was comfortable or truly controllable.
Which scared the absolute you-know-what out of me.
I picked up my phone and started punching out a text to Bette.
Wondering what to wear on flight to Virginia…and how many in-flight cocktails are allowed.
I plinked the words out, then hit Send.
I stared at the message of carefree bravado on the screen.
It sounded so que-sera-sera. So easy breezy.
So far removed from the roil of emotions that was actually running through me.
So very, very much braver than I felt. So very, very much the brave woman I wanted to be.
Fake it ’til you make it.
And I was determined to make it. Part of a new project I’d begun since booking my tickets was to make a bucket list of things I wanted to do: some were things that were completely new for me. Some were things that I’d once enjoyed but that had been cut from my life, once I’d let my fear start running the show. One of those bucket-list items was to take a trip, which I hadn’t done since before I’d gotten married, even. Once upon a time, I’d felt bold and adventurous and audacious in hitting the road or booking a flight all on my own. Anxiety had shut me off from that, had robbed me of the excitement I used to feel and replaced it with a sense of dread at being out of control, away from the zone of safety to which I’d confined myself. Taking this trip to Hampton was one way to combat that, to try to reclaim even the smallest sense of adventurousness that I used to have. I’d felt a thick mixture of fear and triumph as I’d crossed that one off my list, determined