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As she leaned her head against the headrest of the upholstered seat, Mason drifted into thoughts of the past two days, her visit to her father in the hospital, the time with her mother at her parents' home; and all the rest of the events of the trip. Memories, unordered, connected only by stream of consciousness, flashed through her mind unbidden.
"Macey? Is that you? Oh, it's good to see you girl. You look well, Texas air agrees with you." Her father's voice, strained with weakness, yet still with his accustomed hearty pitch, a study in contradiction.
"If we operate, it may be fatal. If we don't, it will certainly kill him within the year." The cardiac specialist, reviewing the cold facts with a distinct lack of bedside manner.
"I made it here safe and sound, Constance." Mason lowered her voice as she spoke on the phone immediately upon arriving at her destination. "No, I haven't been to the hospital yet... I just arrived. I'll give a call again tomorrow if I can, and I'll be home... returning on Tuesday night... he filled you in right?" She recalled the tone of Constance's voice as she answered; perfectly level, with a hidden - below the threshold of any listener who had not held this woman in her arms, who had not the empathic bonding that Mason and Constance had so recently established, so fragile, yet strong - note of uncertainty, even fear. "I'll be home on Tuesday," Mason said again, this time, a renewal of her promise to Constance - not to leave her. She hoped it eased the fears.
A memory picture, silent, of her father sleeping... her mother anxiously pacing, waiting for Standish, who had been supposed to be here for visiting hours, but they were almost over... the frantic look on her mother's face, and Mason going over to her silently, putting her arm around her mother and lending the support of human touch, of filial love, of simply being there when she was needed. And looking up from this moment of cherished affection to see Standish finally arriving, walking past his mother and sister to his father's bedside, examining the sleeping man and then turning to his mother, saying in a voice of the mildest reproach, "Mother, he's asleep."
Mason took another sip of the vodka and orange juice, and looked up. The plane was in the air, she had been too lost in thought even to notice the takeoff. Good, she thought, she'd be glad to be home. Then a pang of longing for her parents pierced her; how much longer would they even be alive? What would it be like to live in a world where they were dead and gone... She began to cry, wiping her eyes with an airline-logoed paper napkin.
The woman in the seat beside her, who Mason had not even noticed up to that point, made a small sound of concern. Mason looked at the woman, noting her dark brown hair sprinkled with white hairs, and her heavy-lidded hazel eyes. She seemed about the age of Mason's mother, though they looked nothing alike, and Mason had to wipe away more tears. "Is there anything I could... help with? or just listen?" the woman asked her.
Mason shook her head, but then said, "Maybe... I am just... worried about my father. He's ill... " She wiped her eye again, and was glad to feel it no longer full of tears, though it did sting slightly. She took another, larger sip of her mild screwdriver. The woman nodded sympathetically. Mason smiled fleetingly, at a thought that crossed her mind, I wonder if I'm crying because I'm pregnant?