One of the first things I did after the plane took off was to pull out a book Wayne had presented to me as a travel gift. The chunky paperback was a travel guide to the Netherlands that he had checked out from the public library. That’s how tight our finances were and how ridiculous it was that I had charged this flight to Amsterdam on our credit card.
On the inside cover of the book was a map of Europe with the compact country of the Netherlands highlighted in red up in the top left side of the continent. Compared to the dominant land-mass of France that curved into the equally full-bodied shape of Spain, the Netherlands appeared to be the equivalent of a ruffled peony tucked behind Europe’s ear.
After the in-flight meal was served, I skimmed through the “Things to See and Do” section of the tour book. A smile came to my lips as I read one of the opening lines: “The best time to view the famed tulip fields as well as catch the final bloom of the daffodils is the middle of April.”
Today was April 13. I couldn’t have planned the timing better. But then, I was beginning to believe I wasn’t the One who had planned all this.
I snuggled into my seat and thought about how I hadn’t been anywhere internationally since Wayne and I had adopted our two oldest daughters from Korea twenty-five years ago. We had to update our passports four years ago when we attended our niece’s wedding in Toronto. Aside from that, I hadn’t traveled much.
I closed the tour book and closed my eyes. A lulling sleep settled on me. Sometimes when I get caught up in a novel, I fall asleep with the book in my lap, and I dream about the story. This time, when I dozed off on the plane, I floated into a dream with tour-book images of the Netherlands mixed with impressions of flying over the ocean.
I saw myself as if I were seated in a toy plane held in the hand of Almighty God. He was standing outside of planet Earth and propelling the toy airplane across the Atlantic Ocean with a soft whirring sound, as if the plane were a determined honeybee heading for the bright red peony fixed behind Europe’s ear.
In my half-awake, half-asleep state, I thought of Micah, our middle son. He must have been the inspiration to my subconscious for the bee image. Micah is worried about the honeybees. He says the homing devices God built into the bees have been magnetically scrambled as a result of microwave towers around the world. Bees load up with pollen and then can’t find their way back to their hives.
I sank back into the vivid dream and saw myself flitting about with Noelle inside the bright red peony, loading up sweet moments. Just as I was about to make my way back to my home “hive,” I woke up. A bit of drool moistened the corner of my mouth. I dabbed it and looked around, having no idea how long I had nodded off.
I reached for my purse and pulled out a tiny bottle of eye drops. My contact lenses seemed exceptionally dry. Noelle wears contacts as well. We know an extraordinary amount about each other for never having been in daily, side-by-side life together.
Adjusting my position and tucking the blanket around my legs, I thought about how Noelle and I knew a lot of facts about each other, but we didn’t know any of the details that make a person dimensional and real. For instance, I didn’t know what her voice sounded like. I suppose we could have called each other over the years, but we never did. I didn’t know what the back of her head and the bobbed style of her blond hair looked like. I didn’t know her gait when she walked or if she kept her fingernails short or long. Did she wear perfume?
In my half-awake state, Noelle seemed for a moment to be a character in a novel I had been reading for so long that she had become real in my imagination.
But Noelle was real.
And now I was crossing not only the ocean but also the one-dimensional world in which our friendship had grown all these years. In a few hours printed words were going to be exchanged for audible words. Photographic images of each other would come alive in three dimensions, and those “images” would move, laugh, and smile.
Noelle and I were about to meet for the first time, and I felt inexplicably shy.
Our plane slid through thick rain clouds before landing on the long, wet runway. If Noelle’s world was a place of windmills and tulips, they weren’t visible from the air.
I made sure I had all my belongings before exiting my seat and meandered down the long aisle to the front of the plane, where the flight attendant bade us farewell in both English and Dutch.
I followed the group through customs and on to baggage claim. Signs were posted in several languages, including English, so I had little difficulty figuring out what to do. I could see why the tour book said this was rated the best airport in Europe. Not that I had experience at any other European airport but simply because I didn’t feel lost.
As soon as I retrieved my luggage, I walked toward the exit and into the open area where the general public waited for arriving passengers. I walked slowly, turning my head right and left, trying to spot Noelle. My stomach fluttered with the sort of anxious butterflies I feel whenever I’m asked to stand in front of a group to speak.
I wasn’t about to stand in front of a group; I was only going to stand in front of Noelle. But still, I didn’t know what to say.
Noelle’s last e-mail indicated she would wait for me at the exit. But which exit? What if I should have gone in a different direction after collecting my suitcase? I already had passed the security line. I didn’t think I would be allowed to turn around and go back to the baggage-claim area.
Maybe I should stand in one place and let her find me.
I stopped walking and stood to the side, hopeful that she would spot me. She would recognize me, wouldn’t she? Of course she would. And I would recognize her. It was just that so many people were milling about.
Around me swirled the mixed sounds of different languages. A tall businessman on his cell phone spoke in a deep voice that echoed in the crowd. A harried mother called to her prancing child, pointing to the rest room and trotting right behind him. A young couple with pierced noses and leather jackets stopped in the middle of the traffic flow, arguing with expressive hand gestures. A young man pushed a wheelchair containing a woman who held in her lap an explosive bouquet of yellow, red, orange, and pink tulips.
Shoulders back, lips pursed in a tight smile, I looked right and left again, feeling more alone in a crowd than I had ever felt before.
What if she isn’t here? What if she was delayed and couldn’t get a message to me? What should I do?
I tried to think if I had a phone number for her. I’m sure I had her phone number at home, but in my scramble to pack, had I written it down anywhere? No, I was certain I hadn’t scribbled it anywhere. I had no backup plan. I hadn’t exchanged any dollars into euros. Should I do that now? Did the pay phones work the same as they did in the U.S.? How would I dial information? Would the operator speak English? What would I even ask the operator?
The butterflies in my stomach turned into stampeding elephants.
What if something happened, and she sent me an e-mail, but I didn’t read it because I didn’t check my messages before leaving for the airport? Or what if—
And then I saw her.
Tall, calm, walking toward me, looking older and more regal than I had pictured from her photos, Noelle spotted me and smiled.
I smiled back. We were like two third graders in our timid approach, each moving toward the other until we met halfway and shyly said, “Hi,” at the same moment.
We gave each other an awkward hug, and I laughed. All the stomping elephants and fluttering butterflies escaped in the exhale of my laughter. The stampede must have been obvious because Noelle gave my shoulder a comforting squeeze.
“You’re here.” Her voice was soft, like a really great latte.
“Yes.” Now my response came out short, quick, and breathy. “I’m here.”
“Your flight was good?”
She was so composed. I tried to mirror her, drawing my chin up and taking a deep breath through my nose. “Yes, the flight was good.”
“Good.”
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nbsp; Noelle’s navy blue peacoat was topped with a raspberry-colored scarf, which looped around her neck once and hung long down the front. Her smile was as wide as it was in all her photos. She was taller than I expected. Or maybe the thick-heeled boots she wore under her gray pants elevated her.
Despite my attempt to remain composed, I laughed again and then switched from smiling and laughing to smiling and crying.
Noelle let out a light, slightly nervous laugh. Her eyes glistened.
At the same moment we dropped all the formalities, and in a spontaneous surge, we wrapped our arms around each other again. This time we hugged as if we were sisters separated at birth who were at last reunited. On the ends of her straight, pale hair I caught the scent of sweet almonds and sugared vanilla.
In that moment I knew coming here was a good decision.
We drew back and held each other at arm’s length, both staring, taking in the three-dimensional sight now that the reality of what was happening sank in.
Noelle laughed again, and I followed, my plumped-up cheeks catching the glimmers of my teary joy.
“You have such a great laugh, Summer! And I love your hair. The last picture I saw of you, your hair was so short.”
I fingered the ends of my brown hair that almost touched my shoulders. “I’ve been growing it out for quite a while.”
“Come.” Noelle reached for the handle of my suitcase. “Let me take that for you. Do you need a rest room? Something to drink? It will be a bit of a ride home. Not too long because the traffic should be light this time of day, but if you would like, we can eat something here. Are you hungry?”
“I…I don’t know.”
Noelle smiled generously when I said I thought I had displacement shock.
“I have plenty to eat at home, and we can always stop on the way if we like. I’m afraid the weather isn’t going to allow me to show off the best parts of the countryside today, but the forecast says the rain will clear tomorrow. We’ll have time to see plenty during your visit. I still can’t believe you’re here!”
“Neither can I.”
“Come.”
I trotted beside Noelle, picking up my usual pace to keep up with her. She had a steady, brisk gait, the stride of a woman who knew where she was going. That was certainly consistent with how her life had played out.
We stole glances at each other, smiling in response, as if we both knew what the other was doing—gathering the visual data that had been missing all these years.
“You don’t look tired at all,” she said, leading the way to the car park. “Are you tired?”
“I slept a little on the plane.”
“You seem so tranquil.”
“Tranquil?” I was sure my e-mails of the past few days hadn’t come across as anything close to tranquil. She probably expected me to arrive in a complete dither.
“I thought when you arrived, you might be more… What’s the word for it? Here we say, ‘Je zit niet lekker in je vel.’”
I raised my eyebrows. I was surprised at how natural it sounded for Noelle to roll off a sentence in Dutch. “What does that mean?”
“Something like ‘You’re not sitting in your own skin.’”
“And what exactly does that mean?”
“Nervous. Rattled. That’s a better word for what I’m trying to say. You don’t seem rattled.”
“I’m not. I’m still wearing the skin I left home in.”
Noelle laughed. Her laugh was different than I had expected. It was light and airy, like very thin metal wind chimes when ruffled by a slight breeze. Somehow I always imagined her with a belly laugh.
“What about you? Have I rattled you too much by showing up on such short notice?”
“Yes.” Noelle smiled. Her blunt reply seemed honest, but at the same time she seemed to enjoy giving me her answer the way two friends enjoy teasing each other.
“I am rattled. And I’m grateful. This is a good time for you to be here, Summer. Although, to my way of thinking, anytime would be a good time for you to be here.”
“As I said in my e-mail the other day, I’m content just to be by myself when you have things to do. You don’t have to entertain me. I really hope you didn’t alter your schedule because of me.”
“Of course I altered my schedule. For all the best reasons. You came to see me. Do you think I’m going to leave you alone in your room for one minute? Not a chance. Don’t worry. All is well. We can work out the details as they come.”
Noelle reached into her pocket for her keys. She stopped at the first row of cars in the parking garage and stood behind a squared-off small blue car. It didn’t resemble any model I had seen in the U.S.
“Here she is. My little Bluebell. I got an excellent parking spot, don’t you think?”
“You did. What a cute car.”
“Yes, she is a curie. And small, right? All the cars here are small, but don’t worry. There’s room in the back for your suitcase.”
I went around to the passenger side and waited while a woman in the car parked beside Noelle’s opened her door and got out. She looked at me and said something in Dutch. I was caught off guard. She repeated her statement or question a little louder, as if I hadn’t heard her in the cavernous garage.
“Noelle?” I called out, trying to keep my expression toward the woman friendly.
Noelle popped her head up over the top of the car, and the woman repeated her statement a third time. She sounded impatient.
Noelle responded with several sentences in Dutch. The woman said something else. Noelle nodded her head and spoke again in Dutch.
With a brusque nod to me, the woman stepped past me. I slipped into the car and looked at Noelle. “What did she say?”
“She was asking about the construction. She wanted to know if this part of the terminal had a detour for the arrivals, because last time she was here, it was blocked off.”
“Oh. She certainly seemed upset.”
“Why?”
“She had such a stern expression.”
“Oh, that. Dutch people don’t come across smiling and flowery to strangers. It’s normal to be polite but to the point. Once you get to know someone, then the smiles come.”
Noelle turned the key in the ignition and glanced over at me. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. It’s just… I was… It’s so strange to suddenly be in a place where somebody says something to me and I have no idea what she’s saying.”
“Yes. Well, you don’t have to be concerned about that quite so much. If you’re trying to communicate with a Dutch person, and they’re under sixty years old, you can speak to them in English. Usually they’ll understand you and answer in English.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. Of course I’m serious. We’re a very progressive nation. A lot of our television programs are in English, so that has made a difference. Especially for the children of this generation.”
Noelle began to back her car out of the parking spot. From the other side of the adjacent row of parked cars came the sound of screeching tires.
“What is that?” Noelle looked over her shoulder and continued to back up.
The sound of the squealing tires intensified. I tried to look out the passenger window. In the side mirror I caught sight of a large utility truck barreling down our row, headed right for us.
Noelle shouted something in Dutch, jammed the car into Drive, and thrust her right arm out in front of me as if providing a flesh-and-bone safety bar to ease the anticipated impact.
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.
The utility truck missed the back of Noelle’s little Bluebell by mere inches before coming to a screeching halt when it hit a waist-high concrete barrier. Almost immediately we were confronted with the scent of burned rubber.
Noelle and I sat in a stunned sort of quiet as the driver clambered out of the truck and walked around to the front of it to examine the damage. He appeared to be uninjured.
“I can’t believe he
’s all right,” I said in a whisper.
“He must have had a problem with the brakes or some sort of engine failure.” Noelle carefully shifted into reverse and eased the car out of the parking space once again.
We slowly drove past the accident site. Several individuals had gathered around, and from what we could tell, the driver really did look like he was okay. He was talking with another man, who was on his cell phone and nodding his head.
“They’re calling for help,” Noelle said.
“That was really close.”
“Nothing like a little excitement to start your visit! If he had hit us, it could have been disastrous. He was going so fast.”
“I’m glad your instincts were equally quick. I don’t know if I would have been able to pull forward that fast.”
We spent the first half of the drive to Noelle’s home evaluating what had almost happened, followed by stories from our histories of near and actual car accidents.
I thought we had just about exhausted the topic when Noelle took a deep breath and said, “My father was in a car accident a few months ago.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that. Is he okay?”
“I think so. It happened last December.”
“This past December?”
She nodded.
“Noelle, I didn’t know.”
“I didn’t write you about it. There wasn’t much to say. My brother called and said Dad was in the hospital with a broken leg and some broken ribs. I know he spent a few weeks in the hospital, and then he was moved to an assisted-living center.”
“And you haven’t gone to see him?”
“I haven’t been back to the U.S. since my mom’s death. That was more than twenty-five years ago.”
Noelle had grown up in a small community in Wyoming. When she and I were paired up as pen pals, her first letter to me was on stationery that had a cowboy in the bottom left corner. I still have that letter.
“I’m really sorry to hear about your dad’s accident. I hope he’s on the mend.”
Noelle looked straight ahead and kept driving. “You know that he and I… we haven’t had much of a relationship ever since… well, since I left home.”