Those that the Gods seek to destroy, they first make mad
(Euripides)
Coming Home
Heathrow was crowded, a living hell.
She usually aimed for Manchester when she returned home, back to the UK, but on this occasion, the most convenient flight landed in London.
The two of them waited patiently for their luggage alongside hundreds of other travellers who swarmed the Baggage Handling area.
Phillippa had never seen such a diverse mix. They say New York is the most cosmopolitan place on earth, but it would have to go some to beat baggage at Heathrow.
"Won't be long now, Jennifer," she said. "We'll be on the train soon."
"Whatever," her daughter replied.
Jennifer.
Silver hair, denuded of any natural colour, tapered with crimson streaks and hyper-gelled into stalks, ragamuffin style. Dressed all in black. A Manson tee-shirt (Charles, rather than Marilyn, his monster eyes). Serrated black jeans, a bullet belt, ankle boots crossed with two heavy silver straps. Black velvet gloves, a pierced lip and nose.
Phillippa hoped the look would be a passing phase, but with Jennifer the way she was, she couldn't be sure. She almost had to threaten her daughter with a court order to get her on the flight, and because of that, the two hadn't spoken anything other than functional sentences since Dayton.
As a kid, she had been a real mummy's girl. That was the worst thing. It broke Phillippa's heart at times. She'd look at Jennifer and wonder how it changed. She'd always been a bit of a thinker, but she had never been this estranged.
"I've booked a taxi online," she continued. "That will take us to Kings Cross. We travel straight to Wheatley Fields from that station."
"A shuttle train runs direct to London from the airport," Jennifer replied, offhand.
"I didn't know, sweetie. I've not been to Heathrow for a decade. If you or Dad had mentioned that..."
Without looking at her, as if reciting the alphabet, Jennifer responded quietly.
"That's right, mom. Blame him. And me. Anyone but yourself."
"He hasn't been here in fifteen years, sweetheart. He told me to get a taxi. He wouldn't know about the shuttle because he works in the Far East. But yes, I should have checked, you're right."
"Why are you telling me all this?" Jennifer said, without looking at her. "Stop with the play-by-play. You talking to get it all out or something?"
They used to play Little League Baseball together.
Soccer. The marching band competition thing.
Her troop finished in second place in Denver, Colorado.
THE National Schools Tournament.
They should have won, but on the judges panel lurked a homer.
Jennifer twirled batons with the best of them and they all loved her. Teachers, family, friends. Phillippa had been so intensely proud of her daughter. The feeling of pride she felt could not be described, the sheer power of it. The way it overwhelmed her entire being as she saw her daughter, baton in hand, her softball glove, her luminous leather football.
The girls at the Mall, the guys at the Shop.
They all loved her. America's Sweetheart in waiting.
