The Lie

Lonely, crouched on an uncomfortable hard seat in Miami International Airport, I struggled to keep the tears at bay. I was not ready to be weak. I glanced at the steadily progressing hands of my watch, then at the revolving doors to the entrance of the airport for him. All I saw were clusters of families pouring in to greet their loved ones. Everywhere I looked around me, people seemed to be reuniting, hugging and kissing tearfully. As I touched my face to brush a stray hair away, I felt a tear stop short just below my left eye. I looked up at the revolving doors and blinked as if that one blink would by chance of fate make him appear and he would scoop me his strong arms. Instead, I saw crashing trolleys and happy couples. Suddenly I stopped caring. I was no longer embarrassed to cry.

I came from an old family with our roots buried in heritage, rituals and customs. Honor and tradition ran deep ; lies were simply not tolerated. To my family, I introduced the concept of a “black sheep” – I was direct, but never rude; I was careless; but never reckless; I had passion, but it never lasted more than a month; and I fell in love, but I was doomed to be a heartbreaker. I had giggled mindlessly as an old astrologer had frowned while repeating my fortune to my mother when I was thirteen – how I would wreak havoc upon the family if I did not honor my elders. It all came back to me now, sitting at the airport and chewing down my carefully manicured nails. “Poetic justice” I thought to myself as I laughed bitterly through my tears. I deserved what I was getting.

We had met at a student conference in Sydney, where he was giving a lecture on the advancement of terrorism in Southeast Asia. I was seventeen, he was thirty seven. He was the youngest, yet by far the most accomplished speaker with eighteen published papers, four awards and already a full-time tenure at the University of Miami. His dynamic speeches on public policy, coupled with his eloquence and dashing good looks made up the classic ingredients for a heartbreaker recipe. I used every excuse in the book to talk to him about this and that, the current political standoff in Iran, and of course how my dress looked that evening while shamelessly batting my eyelashes. He complimented my immense knowledge on all topics and offered to take me out for dinner.

I knew what the invitation meant, and I trembled with excitement. That evening at dinner after my fourth glass of wine, he began caressing my thigh. By nine o clock, we could barely keep our hands off each other. The casual dinner invitation had turned into a secret rendezvous in his hotel room. Shame? The emotion never crossed my mind. All I cared was to run my hands through his thick brown hair and cover him in passionate kisses.

"Come visit me in Miami," he said in his loose American drawl on evening after we had made love. I was due on a flight in ten hours.

I sat upright with a jolt. "Really? I might."

Sure,” he responded lazily, rolled over and went to sleep. I laid awake well into the night thinking about seeing him again. I looked at his sleeping figure, leaned over and kissed him. We were practically a couple although he had not established it. Right?

Three months later as I was being interrogated by my parents in our plush living room of our three-story penthouse, I held a steady determination. With fists clenched, leaning aggressively forward, I had to make my point. “But daddy. I really want to go to Miami. You know Jess is there and I really want to go visit.”

“Why of all places Miami?” They did not understand my sudden obsession with the place. My interest in amusement parks had waned at the age of six, it was winter so wearing a bikini was out of the question and “Jess” was just short of being an acquaintance.

“I have always wanted to see Miami,” I replied quietly.

“Yes darling, in summer,” my mother replied, matching my tone.

“Just let me go,” and with this I made my exit. Later on in the night as I lay awake in bed, I could hear my parents arguing on the topic. Guilt shot through me like a speeding bullet but I closed my eyes and wished it away.

Moods were tense and conversation was strained for the next two weeks. We walked around with sullen faces, exchanging words and sentences only if necessary. I refused to show up at the dinner table and ate all my meals in my bedroom. A week later, they caved.

Our relationship had been predominantly over email, he had not given me his phone number. I craved to hear his deep voice. Regardless of my continual hints (I never dared to ask him directly), he insisted that we keep our relationship “online”. With a deep sigh I opened my email inbox and began typing an enthusiastic email to him about my arrival. A week later, his response came – “Great, thanks for your email. Let me know.”

That was it? Was this even the man I had met and fallen in love with? My disappointment was short-lived; at least I had his confirmation. Over the next eight weeks, I made various attempts to keep him updated on my travel details and each time his response was equally chilly. I was confused, was he that busy? Or did he not want to see me? He was responding to my emails, which did mean something. Needless to say, it was too late to have a change for heart for I had told a lie too big.

My parents packed in the whole house with me, or at least it felt like it. I was kissed and hugged repeatedly at the airport as though we were reunited and not leaving on a ten day holiday. My mother shed a few tears. It was a typical scene at the airport.

My flight landed early in the morning in Miami after traveling for nearly over twenty-four hours. I caught a glimpse of myself in the airport toilet mirrors and I saw a woman, ten years older – puffy eyes, runny nose and leftover scraps from plane food stuck to my sweater. I started to dust off all the bits from my clothes and then reapplied my make-up.

The airport was large and navigation was difficult, but with some help I managed to find the baggage claim. I popped my grubby suitcases on a trolley and waltzed it around and out to the arrival hall with my heart beating wildly. He had to be there, I could feel it in my bones. I scanned the sea of loving and eager faces on my tiptoes but there was no sign of him anywhere. Left of the hall, and then to the right, and the left again. I bumped into a kind old lady – “OOOOH!” – apologized and hid my face, but still no sign of him anywhere. My first instinct was to whip out my mobile and call him. The first realization of the superficiality of our relationship hit me then. I still had a shred of optimism left inside of me, and I continued looking.

Weary of my hunt, I moved away from the crowd and looked around for an empty seat among overweight ladies cradling large sandwiches with hunks of meat falling out of them. I felt a familiar rumble rise in my stomach.

“I can’t believe he’s late,” I scoffed inwardly. I started to push my trolley to begin a search for a sandwich place. Luckily, the airport had no shortage of eating places to feed its hungry population. Soon I found myself a hard seat, nibbling on a hot sandwich alone. The uncomfortable seats and harsh lighting of the airport brought back memories of the comfort and warm glow of home. Home, mum, dad. I suddenly felt a rush of emotions. I looked at the fat lady chomping her sandwich sitting next to me and I wondered, was I going to end up like her? Alone, with my meat-filled sandwich, sitting on an airport seat with nobody to pick me up? Just waiting for fate to interfere with my life and ever-expanding waistline?

I was beginning to feel convinced that he was not just late, but he was not going to come at all. I had nowhere to go. Panic-filled thoughts flooded my mind. I was all alone in a foreign country with limited supply of money. A brief calculation brought on the realization that I was carrying enough money to last me for five days, when I was going to stay for ten. I had taken everything for granted. My slapdash lie had come back to haunt me. I felt sick to my stomach.

“Darling, are you alright? Do you need a tissue? Or a lozenge?” I heard a distinct European twang. I looked up to see a middle-aged European woman with two children in tow, bending over holding a clean tissue. She had such kind eyes. I remembered my mother.

“Thanks,” I mumbled and accepted her kind gesture.

“Is anybody here for you, love?” She continued, bending even lower to look at my face. I dropped my head completely. Two nods and a flick of my hand was enough to make her leave. A tide of shame overcame me. Our eyes met as she walked away and I saw her hold her children close to her protectively. I knew then and there what I had to do.

I dialed.

“Mum, I have some bad news.” I started to cry.