As in Dulles International Airport in Washington DC.
DC is where we live. And Dulles is the airport Blake’s flown in and out of a million times. I’ve lost track of the number of Heathrow-Dulles flights I’ve booked for him. I joke that I’m the one who always brings Blake home, to our small apartment in Washington, to our family. You’re my guiding star, Air, he jokes. Only it’s not a joke: if it weren’t for me, God knows where Blake would end up.
Which might be the reason he got confused – maybe he thought he was just flying into Dulles, coming home, as usual, and that I’d pick him up and that we’d drive to the wedding together.
But that wasn’t the plan. And I’d told him the plan a million times:
Mum, Dad and Jude were driving down to Nashville a week ahead to make preparations for the wedding.
I’d follow a few days later.
And I’d pick him up at Nashville airport and bring him to the hotel.
Book a flight to Nashville, I’d told him, over and over, knowing it would take a while to sink in.
Nashville is where the wedding is taking place. It’s the city where Dad grew up and took us for every holiday when we were kids. And it’s the city Blake loves more than anywhere in the world.
It made sense for him to fly straight into Nashville: it allowed him to squeeze in a few extra gigs in London before the wedding. He’d already complained about having to cut his UK tour short.
I look at my phone again. I still can’t believe that he flew into Dulles. Seriously? The airports are 700 miles apart, in totally different states – in different time zones for Christ’s sake. It’s not like they’re easy to mix-up.
Though I shouldn’t be surprised. Blake is mess-up central.
Two days ago, I got this random voicemail from him. It wasn’t even from his phone – which is why I didn’t pick up. He explained that he’d lost his cell and that he was borrowing a phone. There was so much noise in the background that he was shouting. He was probably at a gig.
Then he landed the bombshell:
Can you book the return flight for me? Run out of cash. Thanks sis, got to go. Love you.
Casual. Totally casual.
Blake only ever books one-way tickets. His plans are constantly changing, so it doesn’t make sense to book more than a few days ahead. And he’s always short of cash. So I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. Only, this was different: it was forty-eight hours before our sister’s wedding.
And I’d reminded him – like a thousand times – that he had to book a return flight well in advance.
But had he listened to any of my very clear instructions about the wedding? About where it was taking place and when and at what time and which airport he had to fly into?
No. Obviously, no.
And, two nights ago, when he left that message, saying that he hadn’t booked his flight yet – like it was nothing – did I bail him out, again?
Yes. Obviously, yes.
So, even though it was three in the morning and I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open, I got out the debit card Mom and Dad set up for me, and booked the flight from Heathrow to Nashville, as planned.
Jude, Blake and I all have a card with separate accounts set up in our names. It’s Mom and Dad’s way of teaching us to be responsible with money. Only Blake keeps maxing his out and then I have to bail him out with my card. The thing is, Mom gets alerts when any of us spend more than $50 so I texted her, explaining that Blake had forgotten to book a return ticket and that he didn’t have any money but that she didn’t need to worry, I was on it. Everything was going to be fine. Blake messing up is a scenario she’s familiar with. She answered with: OK. Just get him here.
Mom never blames Blake for anything. She never even blames him for maxing out his debit card. She’s got this massive blind spot where he’s concerned. Being pissed off at how Mom is totally soft when it comes to Blake is one of the few things Jude and I bond over.
Then I sent a text message to the phone he’d called from with the flight details for the totally overpriced last-minute ticket. That I’d meet him at Nashville airport and take him to the hotel.
I sent him a few other texts too, not caring what stranger would read them first, telling him how pissed I was that he’d woken me up and how expensive the flight was and that he’d better be on time.
He never answered any of my texts.
I don’t really believe in praying: I don’t think anyone out there is listening. Except, perhaps, some life form on a planet we haven’t discovered yet. But not a God-like figure. Not someone who directs our lives. That night, though, I found myself begging that if there was some force out there who decided whether things work out or get fucked up, that Blake would get my messages. That whoever he’d borrowed a phone from would pass them on. That he wasn’t some random guy off the street that Blake would never see again.
I guess I begged – or prayed, or whatever – because I knew that this time Blake had to get his shit together. That he had to make it back for the wedding.
The next time I heard from him was the text he sent me when I was halfway to Nashville saying that he was landing in Dulles. The text was from a different number, probably another phone he borrowed.
You mean Nashville!
I’d texted back.
No. Dulles. See you soon, sis.
And then nothing.
Had he not received any of my messages when I booked his flight? Did he end up booking a flight on his own? He was always borrowing money off people; maybe he’d found a way to pay the airfare. And then he’d got it wrong: he thought we were meant to meet up in Dulles and drive down to Nashville together. But that had never been the plan. I’d explained it to him.
But then Blake’s not good at listening. Not when it comes to practical, everyday stuff.
So, this was another typical Blake fuck-up. Only worse: a fuck-up on top of a fuck-up.
I clench my hands, digging my fingernails into my palms.
Focus, I think. Just focus on finding Blake.
I’m really late. Two hours late. So, I guess all these stressed-out looking people, they’ve been here for a while already.
There’s a toddler screaming. But besides him and the red-faced yelling guy, everything’s a weird kind of quiet, people walking around with wide, glazed eyes like they’ve lost something.
I’ve been to this airport more times than I can remember – I’m Blake’s personal taxi service – and it’s never felt like this. And when I see how lost those people look, I feel bad – like I should be asking them if I can help or something – but I don’t have time to be helpful in other people’s lives right now: I’ve got to find Blake, get him into the
