Chapter Eighteen

John F. Kennedy airport buzzes with a certain frenetic energy as we make our way to the gate. Melanie, Lily, and myself, navigating the maze of kiosks and shops. Each of us equally held responsible for our own carry-on bag—including Lily's Troll's movie backpack. For her, it's the thrill of an adventure. For Melanie, it's the weight of a court order, the looming custody battle for Lily serving as a silent shadow between us and the Baxters. And for me, it's the bittersweet sting of memories. Or a ghost of Brogan present in the fragile glow of the departure lounge.

"Maxie, why are all these people running?"

It's at this moment that I realize Lily hasn't been exposed to the elements of an airport for a long time. She was only a few years old when Brogan took us to Switzerland for a conference at the World Health Organization. Of course, she was four and I'm betting has no recollection of the entire trip.

Melanie lets out a chuckle. "That's because they're bad at time management," she alludes, clutching Lily's hand as we stroll through the terminal. This isn't anything I'm not used to seeing.

"Oh, so they're lazy," Lily blurts astutely.

I nod, stopping the girls while crouching down to catch Lily at eye level. "Sort of, babe," I say. "Sort of," I add with a smirk. "But let's not say those things out loud because that could be hurtful to others—okay, munchkin?"

Lily curls her head. "Okay, Maxie."

As I rise back to my feet, Melanie takes Lily Bean by the hand again, their pacing matching a melodic cadence toward a bay of seats which overlooks a view of big planes approaching their respective terminals. Distracted by the incoming plane, Lily gasps while unclasping her grip from Mel's.

"Lily, get back here," I shout modestly. "Well?—"

She presses her head and nose up against the sizeable window, excited to see the planes come into view.

I pause, shrugging my shoulders while shaking my head. "Okay, just stay right there."

This is probably a good way to keep the munchkin distracted from the crowds at a busy airport. And I've started picking up on certain non-verbal cues and I know how to be more mindful of the stimulating factors in her direct environment. Before Brogan passed, he was usually the best at staying on top of keeping Lily from a fit. Meanwhile, I watch our little girl filled with awe, something that's become such a rarity since her daddy left us.

Melanie nudges me with her elbow and giggles. "Well, do you suppose she's gonna work out some of that energy and fall asleep on the plane?"

I nod my head. "Yeah, I reckon this Dramamine will help with that should she not spend all her energy before it kicks in."

My sister agrees. "Fair enough," she says, nodding. "Might be easier than tiring her out—how many times has she even flown so far?"

Scratching at the crown of my head, I recall the number of times we've traveled by plane with her. "Gosh, I think just the one time we went to Geneva," I reply, guiding Melanie to a row of seats near Lily at the windows.

Mel tilts her head at the subtle chime from her cellphone, alerting her of an incoming text message. "That's probably Mom."

Meanwhile, I try to ponder why I haven't heard from Durango all day. Apart from being out-of-pocket because of the flights, it's strange that I haven't received even a basic ‘thinking of you' voicemail. For him, voice calls are easiest. Where Brogan excelled at technological advances, Durango seems to repel it with the best of them. Him and that goddamn flip phone. I'm surprised it even still works.

My attention turns to Lily while Melanie calls Mom back in Westfield. And the thought occurs to me that perhaps Durango has been incredibly busy and lost track of time today. Whatever the case may be, I'm certain that he and Gage are safe. The notion of meeting his son is nerve-racking and exciting all in the same breath. On one token, it settles me to know that Lily Bean will have someone to play with right off the bat. Our move will be enough of a change for her to contend with.

On the other side of the coin, I'm not entirely sure what kind of impression Gage will get from me when we finally meet. From personal experience, children on the spectrum have their own unique social battles.

"Sweetie, your nose is running," I advise, reaching into my coat pocket for a travel-sized tissue.

If there's one thing among the many others I've quickly learned, tissues are the penultimate in parental preparedness.

Giggling slightly, I hold the thin ply of material up to Lily's nose. "Okay, missy. Blow."

Of course, I realize how much of a mommy I may seem to play in such a public place as this. The amusement is enough to place most of my nerves at ease. The custody battle has my panic piqued immensely. However, I never want to display my stress around Lily, because none of these things are her fault and I don't want to burden her with any unnecessary anxiety. For that matter, none of this is really my fault, either.

My ten years of sobriety show that I can be considered a fit parent, regardless of whether Lily is on the spectrum. Having said that, I'm ever the budding pessimist. And I know I need to take a modicum of blame for how the Baxters are dealing with this situation. Sure, they more than likely see me as a raging lunatic, because they haven't ever been a part of my life.

That said, I know I have to put a stop to that and perhaps, at least I hope, my willingness to share Princess Peach in some capacity will have them call off the hounds. And the custody case altogether. At least I know inside my heart it doesn't hurt to at least try pushing fate to the outer veil of my expectations.

"There, isn't that all better," I sigh, patting Lily on the back, all the while stuffing the soiled tissue in my pocket.

I raise my left arm to show the time from my Apple Watch. 5:02 PM.

"They'll start letting us on here in just a few minutes," I speak, not exactly directed at either of the girls specifically.

For a brief minute, I finally realize what it may have felt like being the typical modern-day housewife—spouse occupied with their phone and kids who never seem to pay attention. If this was any key moment when I felt the authentic emotions of being a solely dedicated parent, this is my glimpse into what I'll need to become accustomed to. Only, add to that a seriously hot older man in one arm, and an extra hyperactive child besides just my own. Joy. Fotherhood. At least, I figure that's how other gay fathers would refer to themselves as being both a mom and a dad. This is going to be a blast.

At the peak of our ascent aboard the Delta Airbus A350, I note Lily is already conked out completely. Thanks, Dramamine. It goes without saying, I'm happy she did fine on the shorter flight to New York, but there's no telling how our lengthy journey over the Atlantic Ocean would have made her tummy feel. Among the three columns of seats, which turn into makeshift beds, I selected the middle section so I could have an immediate grasp of Lily should something happen. Meanwhile, Melanie positions herself on the opposite side of the aisle.

"Oh my God, Mel," I sigh. "I hope they're able to come to their senses about this," I add, a lump forming in my throat. "I just need to get it over with before I have a fuckin' ulcer."

Mel shakes her head. "Max, please. Calm down," she offers. "I'm sure it's gonna be better doing this than waiting for a judge—you're doing a great job."

"Yeah, I know. It's just?—"

Melanie blows her lips like a fish. "Stop it, or I'm gonna shove some of that Dramamine down your throat," she asserts. "Do you want that?"

I know she's probably right. But the whisper of doubt always lingers at the bottom of my gut, like a festering parasite feeding off the lining of my intestines, inch by inch. What I can't shake are the feelings of Brogan's faith diminishing little bits each year we were together. As Orthodox as Orthodox could be—that's the Baxter clan through and through. However, my reluctance to convert left Brogan to consider making certain compromises. And in the later years, he'd have considered himself more of a Reform Jew than anything. Albeit, he never worked on a Saturday if he could absolutely help it.

I snicker. "Alright, I'll shut up."

"Good," Melanie retorts, reaching for the in-flight menu. "I think they're about to start the dinner service. Leave it to me to get excited about that, right?"

The mellow, friendly female voice from overhead perks me from my light slumber as I prop myself up. I wipe my eyes as if someone had practically glued them shut, stealing a glance at Lily sitting upright in her seat, watching Netflix on my iPad like a little lady. Ahh, I loved "Madagascar." I must've been asleep for at least an hour, which is a damn good thing. According to the flight attendant, our plane is about to make its descent into London-Heathrow Airport. Definitely longer than an hour, then.

Melanie glimpses out from her seat. "Good morning, sleepyhead."

With a beat, I stifle a yawn. "Did you slip a roofie in my soda when I was in the bathroom, or was that all me?" I joke.

She giggles. "I wouldn't be able to keep it a secret from you if I had," she grins. "Okay, okay. So I crushed up a Dramamine when you were in the bathroom a couple of hours ago."

I gasp. "Mel!"

"Oh, calm down, it was all you—trust me," she affirms. "You needed whatever nap you were enjoying," she stalls a moment. "What were you dreaming of? You and that hunk American version of Mr. Darcy, doing the ‘nasty nasty' on our living room coffee table? His office? The bathroom at Dunkin' Donuts?"

Melanie continues teasing me, obviously trying her best to keep me in good spirits.

"Nooo," I shake my head. "But yes—Durango and I were having a—" I begin with air quotes. "A moment—in some fancy hotel somewhere. He was just about to tell me something serious, then that blasted ding woke me up."

My recently pestering sister raises an eyebrow. "So he was taking it down pretty deep, huh? Did he choke? That's hot!" She laughs. "Is he a good lay? Lord, it's been years since I've had a meaty Subway sammy inside me."

I know she's only joking, but my newly gained parental instincts are right there at the forefront of my mind. Whether or not Lily is wearing headphones, I appreciate her efforts to get a rise out of me. Yet, I'm unconvinced it's appropriate banter for my seven-year-old princess.

"Melanie Williams," I assert, hurling my Sky Mall magazine into her lap across the aisle. "Knock it off, Sis," I plead. "We don't know if Princess Peach is paying attention or not."

Melanie clicks her tongue. "Oh, now you're sounding just like Mom," she admits, poking her head around with her left hand at the edge of her dimple. "Lily, I'll give you this apple juice if you turn around."

Lily remains propped up in the seat with her pure innocence and continues watching David Schwimmer's animated hypochondriacal giraffe character rambling on-screen.

"See?" Mel points out. "She's paying no mind."

I roll my eyes. "If this is what I'm up against for the next week—I'm doomed."

Melanie laughs again. "Ha, I'm just trying to find more about this mystery man who I've only seen one picture of, and it was his college picture from who knows how many decades ago on Classmates dot com."

"In time, Mon Cheri. In time," I affirm, tilting my head.

Lily twists around in her seat, apparently having heard us and our sibling chitchat. "What are you guys talking about?" She asks, removing the headphones from her right ear.

I let out a raucous grunt. "Politics."

"Ohh," Lily mutters, returning the headphones back to her ear and centers back in on the show.

A glare from the setting sun gleams through the window next to my seat on the train. We've been on this thing for hours, traveling from England to France. It's apparent to me I need more than a two-hour snooze to deal with the vicious in-laws. Many thanks to my lawyer back in the States, Josiah agreed to me out in person. My confidence has made great strides, hoping we come to an understanding. That being said, I fantasize about falling into a small mound of pillows and getting some decent shut eye.

However, a knot of dread twists in my stomach. The Baxters are so—well, Baxter-ish. They've been the burning ring of fire in mine and Brogan's relationship since we first met. And now, I'm going to be in the same room with them for the first time in years. I can't help but fall back into a pit of misery, worrying if they'll judge me for my past. Will they think I'm not good enough for Lily? What if this meeting tanks and they take her away from me, anyway?

As the ghoulish notions scamper through the ravines of my ceaseless thoughts, I drift off to sleep against the window.

The airport bar, a boastful oasis amidst the squeaky -clean chaos of Heathrow, called to me with the seductive promise of escape. I could smell the aged spirits as if I were taking a bath, surrounded by pools and pools of scotch. Their aroma tugged at the frayed edges of my composure while Mel and Lily, oblivious to my inner turmoil, vanished into the restroom nearby. Thus, leaving me in a sea of temptation.

Every nerve in my body screamed for release. If I could have only one shot, I'd be able to get through the week in Baxter purgatory minimally unscathed. Oh, how I longed for the numbing embrace of ethanol to wash away the crippling fear that clung to me like a second layer of skin.

"I'll have a double shot, Glenfiddich," I motioned to the bartender.

He obliged with a simple nod, dropping his rag on the counter. Within moments, wisps rose into my nostrils from the bottle of amber liquid, heckling at my senses. While waiting, I reached for a clean glass to my side, the smooth crystal serving as a chilling reminder of past failures. That was going to be the moment I reclaimed freedom. A fix to get me by. Yet, my reflection in the mirror behind the bar was a haunting specter—eyes hollow with exhaustion, skin etched with the lines of worry. That was it? That was the second I'd succumb to the dark, the abyss that threatened the sanctity of my sobriety so many times before?

The bartender, an enduring figure with a world-weary gaze, slid an old-fashioned glass across the bar. My enticing poison shimmered under the ample glow of bar lights while I closed my eyes. My fingers closed around the glass as a frigid chill seeped into my skin. Slowly, I raised it to my lips as the scent of peat and smoke triggered a potency of forgotten cravings.

But then, a vision flashed before my eyes. Lily's innocent smile, her trusting and innocent gaze, the fragile hope that I could be the father she deserved. With a strangled cry, I slammed the glass down on the surface, the force of impact ushering a shockwave through my body. A voluminous puddle of scotch splattered across the polished wood, proving to be a sacrificial offering to the gods of sobriety. As I stumbled back, my breath came in ragged gasps as the taste of bile rose in my throat. That was a battle fought on the precipice of despair, a victory snatched from the devil's jowls. But the war raged on as the demons of addition lurked beneath the surface, waiting for their next chance to strike.

Lily's chilly hands jostle me awake as I realize I've woken from a dream. The wretched decision, my moment of despair from hours ago in London, playing through my mind like a moving picture show. I push the thoughts aside and focus on Lily, who's been a trooper throughout this entire ordeal.

"Just another few minutes, munchkin," I advise, looking at the time on my watch. "We'll get to our hotel shortly. We're almost there, sweetie," I conclude, rubbing her backside.

I'm honestly surprised she's traveled so well. I hadn't the faintest idea how she would handle a few thousand-miles journey such as this, being her first long-distance trip in three years. As our train continues full steam ahead into the city of lights, I gather my phone charging cable and place it into my messenger bag. The sense of foreboding grows in me with each passing mile. Tomorrow will be a long day, and I need to be ready for it.