Customs

Marco and I walk the long hallways of O’Hare airport and round the many corners before arriving at the back of the customs line. We groan as we realize how long we have to wait. Maybe 20 minutes passes and my dad texts my brother and me. He tells us that Mom fainted at a funeral she was attending and he is on his way to see her in the hospital. His texts are always so formal, like an email at work.

I scoff and thank him for the update. My brother reminds him to keep us updated.

I know what will happen next. My dad will find my mom in the emergency room. She will be beet red from embarrassment and that someone actually thought it was a serious enough situation to call an ambulance. She will wish over and over again that she would have been conscious to tell them that she didn’t need an ambulance. She will wonder how they are supposed to pay for this.

The doctors will give a vague explanation, like her blood pressure being a little high or dehydration. Despite the mildness, my mom will surely blow the situation out of proportion. For the next several months, my brother and I will be reminded of her stint in the hospital and assured that we didn’t care; didn’t even visit, didn’t send flowers.

Whatever the cause of the episode, I’m fully prepared but not looking forward to having to hear about it. I can certainly wait for that drama until I’m through the endlessly long line at customs.

Another 20 minutes pass and Marco and I finally see the desks beyond several more twists and turns through ropes and stanchions. My brother calls and I answer.

“Hey,” he starts, “where are you?”

“Hey, Marco and I are in line for customs,” I say.

“Can you find somewhere to sit down?” he asks.

I roll my eyes. My brother can be so dramatic. “Sure,” I say as I duck under some ropes. I look around and realize that there is no proper seating. “Ok,” I assure, “I’m good.”

He sobs, “Mom died.”

My knees buckle. I grasp for something without finding it. I sit on my shins.

“What?” I finally manage.

I see Marco ducking ropes heading toward me, a concerned look on his face. He sits beside me. “What happened?” he asks, a little breathless.

“She died,” I hear through the phone, a voice far away.

“What happened?” Marco urges again.

My hands cover my mouth. My eyes are wide. I’m on the floor of O’Hare. “She died,” I croak.

He stares back at me, “How?” Marco is incredulous, shaking.

I cry loudly. My hand is over my mouth in an attempt to stop myself from making these noises that do not belong in an airport.

I pick up the phone, realizing that I had dropped it, realizing that my brother is still on the other end waiting for me to say something. “What happened?” I manage.

He sobs, “I don’t know. They said she died on the way to the hospital. Her heart just stopped.”

I repeat the words to Marco even though they don't make sense to me. Nothing about them make sense, she’s fine. I wait for my brother to admit that he’s joking. I wait for everything to be revealed as a cruel joke. But I know that he wouldn’t joke about this, not while crying over the phone.

I sink fully to the floor. People are staring and ask Marco if they can help. “Someone just passed,” he offers. People nod and turn away. My mask is wet from my tears. Marco takes it off me so that I can breathe and cry freely. “Fuck the mask,” he mumbles.

“When are you coming home?” I ask my brother.

“I’ll have to see what to do about work,” he responds. Rage floods my body. It feels good.

“John,” I start, “you’re coming home.”

“Yeah, yeah I know,” he says.

I hang up the phone and stare at Marco. He tries to hold me while we sit on the floor. I realize where we are and start to get up as I replace my mask. He assures me that it’s ok, that we don’t have to rush, but I want to leave.

We rise and make our way to the customs desks that are all finally available. The agent takes Marco’s passport. He asks if I’m ok and if he can help. Marco answers again that someone has passed. I stare ahead as I’m processed.

At some point we pick up our luggage and make it to the exit where we are supposed to meet Marco’s sister. I cry but the tears are forced. I’m not as sad as I should be.

What’s wrong with you? Your mom is dead. Where are your tears? Show how hurt you are. Don’t you even care?

I can’t tell if these are my own thoughts or the voice of my mother.

After some time, Marco’s sister arrives and our luggage is loaded into her car. I sit in the front seat and Marco in the back. Tears slowly roll down my face, but no one says anything. We drive toward the city in silence.

After some time, Marco and I start to discuss getting home and repacking to leave again and go to my hometown. His sister is confused. “What happened?” she finally dares to ask.

I sob before spitting, “My mom died!” I cry and cry. This time the tears aren’t forced. I see Marco’s reflection in the rearview mirror with tears on his cheeks.

This piece was featured by Write, Period on Stubstack.