We rented a car for the trip to the airport. The guy who owns it said he'd gladly let me drive it to the airport and back for just a hundred, but I said I might need it for the whole day. Jonah had looked at me with a questioning eye. He's always after saving money.
I said to him, "You'd be crossing an ocean on an airplane. I'm gonna need to feel like I'm going somewhere too."
He was quiet. He paid the hundred and I paid the other hundred fifty.
Now I am at the wheel, and he is sitting in the passenger's seat with his backpack on his lap. Two suitcases are in the backseat. My hands are like rocks on the steering wheel. I let him play Muse, knowing I'd someday wish to hear it being played and listened to by him. We are silent. He has his eyes glued to the buildings passing by, to the strangers he's leaving behind unacquainted.
"I'm gonna miss this place," he says.
"Really?" I say. An automatic reply.
"Yeah. I'm gonna miss the fear of being crushed every time I'm about to cross the street, and the feeling of accomplishment I get when I actually make it to the other side."
I laugh. Why is it we still try to act normal even in times of obvious abnormality? I smile at the thought. Without looking at him, I know he is thinking the same.
"What's the first thing you're gonna do at home?" I say.
"Eat a burrito. Definitely. Or maybe a real deep-dish Chicago-style pizza."
"Oh man, don't make me jealous." Although my mouth is a grin, my hands are still rocks. The other vehicles that are always driving outside the lands are irritating me.
Jonah continues, "And then I'm gonna go to the store and buy Red Stripe, and enjoy them while watching Arrested Development."
In a playful tone I say, "Ah, I hate you!" I glance to my left to see him sneering.
He takes his hands to the dashboard and starts tapping to the beat of the music. Out of the corner of my eyes I can see the veins in his arms, innocent little hills protruding from a wide, even plain. I try to concentrate on the traffic. I am aware of the strain in calf muscles as my left foot steadily presses the clutch. My wary right leg as it pushes lightly on the gas pedal, prepared to slam on the brake. My suspicious mind as it assumes every vehicle around mine will cause an accident. I feel like an antelope, convinced a lion will jump at it at any moment. Paranoid.
There are many things I want to comment on. I want to point out expensive cars and wonder how much they cost. I want to ponder aloud the reason hard-faced middle-aged women walk in this heat alone. I want to guess how much the bakso and lontong balap peddlers make a day. I want to make jokes about sunglasses parents make their toddlers wear. Make fun of Redboxx-goers and Pizza Hut waitresses. I want to reminisce about the times we've had together. But Jonah is going home, and as soon as he steps on the planed my jokes and observations will lose relevance. My mouth is shut tight with this realization. Every part of my body is tense as if bracing itself for a titanic blow. I know it is coming.
So we make no conversation as I drive him closer towards departure. He keeps on tapping. The sound is keeping the pressure from pushing us flat. My grip on the wheel doesn't lessen. I honk the horn with too much force, and I have a feeling that the motorbike drivers swerve to the sides with scorn.
Jonah gets out of the car promptly as I pull into a spot at the airport's parking lot. He takes the suitcases out of the backseat. I fumble with the car keys a little. I make sure nothing is left behind in the car.
"I think we're ready," I say. I have my hands in my pockets. I don't even offer Jonah help with the suitcases. He drags both of them behind him. He looks like someone leaving someplace for a long time. Or forever. I walk a few paces to his left. We look like a couple having a fight, and I am the one who did something wrong.
It is not even a hundred meters to the entrance of the international flights wing. Only passengers with tickets are allowed inside. So we stand a few steps away from the beginning of the queue. We stand awkwardly, knowing we are the object of stares.
He lets go of the two suitcases. He says, "Well, I'll uh... send you pictures of pizza and tacos."
I laugh like he just told the king of jokes. My body moves exaggeratedly. "I'll send you pictures of people taking a dump in rivers. I know you'll miss that."
"Oh yeah, send as many as you can."
We just stare at each other. My hands would be fists if I hadn't put them in my pockets. I try to smile. He smiles perfectly easily, it seems. It is forty-five minutes before his plane takes off.
Jonah takes a step towards me and embraces me. I feel my defenses blown away. I feel my spirit touch the ground. I bury my head in his chest, I lock my fingers together behind him. He moves his hands up and down my back to comfort me.
Although it is already becoming irrelevant I wave away my hesitation to say it. "I love you." It is a whisper amidst a din of voices, all shouting.
Jonah kisses my hair. "I love you too," he says. "I'm gonna miss you."
I can see him stepping out of O'Hare, soon face to face with the familiar, nearly flat land of the Midwest. The corn would be in the adolescence, and the scenery along Highway 80 would be uniform green. I can see it grow in rows, like braids on a giant's head. If I were to run between two rows, I could reach the horizon without running out of green. It would swell into hills and stretch into wild and abundant fields, and I would swell and stretch with it. I would run the contours of the land as if tracing the contours of my own heart. How I wish I were going home too! I inhale, and I imagine the scent of corn on Jonah's shirt, on his neck and hair. But it mingles with the smell of grease, with the smell of smoke that wafts out of burning trash, with the smell of shrimp paste in the gado-gado we ate for lunch.
I release him. I say feebly, "Have a safe trip home."
He pulls my face to his and kisses me lightly on the lips. "I'll let you know as soon as I get there." He smiles.
My eyes follow his hands as he pulls the suitcases along, as he takes out his ticket and shows it to the inspecting lady. When the lady lets him through the gate, I lift my gaze up to his face. He is smiling at me. I wave. Then his figure is beyond the gate, obscured by the tinted glass walls.
I don't wait for him to check in and get on board the plane. I start walking back to the car, past the curiosity in people's eyes. I feel more than gravity pulling at my body; so much energy is spent just holding it up. I feel immensely tired.
In the car I tilt my head back in the driver's seat. My eyes are closed. I can hear the murmurs of rich businessmen's drivers talking to each other on the curb. Under my hands, the leather of the seat is barely registered by my touch. My breath comes out in short, anxious puffs. The heat is stifling, dampening my skin and lungs with hot moisture. I sense the residue of Jonah's presence to my left. It is burning the passenger's seat. I don't want to look at it. I am afraid I would see the hole burnt inside my heart.
When I open my eyes, the sound of a plane leaving the runway rips through the air. It sounds like a heavy complaint, as if flight was a burdensome venture. I listen to the sound until it disappears above the clouds.
There is nothing more to do here. I exhale, take out the keys from my pocket, turn on the ignition, and start driving home.
