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Castlebury, Angels...1

Tessa Castlebury

[email protected]

Angels In Disguise

“Are you sure you don’t need a return ticket, ma’am?” the woman

asks from behind the counter. “It’s about a thousand dollars

cheaper.”

I place my elbows on the counter before putting my head in my

hands. A large sigh leaves my mouth as pain begins to radiate from my

lower back, covering my whole body in a matter of seconds. My eyelids

fall shut, waiting for the mixture of aching and frustration to leave

my body.

“No, thank you. As I said before, I just want a one-way ticket

to London.” I had already been standing in line for over an hour just

to get a ticket for this flight, not to mention baggage check and


security waiting for me. From what I had seen from TV and movies,

they were a bitch.

“All right, Ms. Marsden. I can certainly do that for you,” she

says, refusing to meet my eyes before rapidly typing away. The sounds

of each new click of the keyboard feel like nails scratching on a

chalkboard. I shoot a quick glance behind me, laughing to myself as I

see facial expressions similar to mine on the remaining people in

line. “Okay, you’re set for flight 4321 which is set to depart at

9:45 this evening, November 29, from gate C9. That will be 1,618

dollars. How will you be paying?”

“Whichever way is quickest,” I say, feeling my patience fizzle

away as I reach into my purse to pull out my wallet while I await her

answer.

“If you have a credit or debit card that would expedite the

process, ma’am,” she says politely once again avoiding my eyes, gently

re-adjusting her dark blue blazer. It was like there was a giant sign

that hung above my head which read “I’m sick and fragile”. There were

always people like this lady that felt like any kind of look or facial

expression might break me, as if I was a pane of glass rather than a

human. I quickly pass the card across the counter, fingers tapping

restlessly on the counter.

A few moments pass and I unintentionally find my mind wandering

to that horrible moment years before, the moment I came into hundreds

of thousands of dollars in the worst way possible. I was sitting in

the lawyer’s office, reading the last will and testament of both of my

parents, documents we had never discussed before. The meeting was a


blur but I clearly remember walking out the door, my savings account

increased to an amount most people could only dream of. My foster

parents picked me up that afternoon and all I could do was sit in the

backseat, reading the documents over and over, latching on to any

words written by my beloved parents.

Never would I have imagined using their money to leave everything

I know behind.

Before I can dwell too long on the decision, she slides the paper

across the counter, my literal ticket to freedom. Without another

word I nod at the woman before picking up the piece of paper and

putting it into my purse, reaching for my two suitcases and large

duffle bag.

“Here goes nothing,” I say under my breath before walking to the

baggage check station of LaGuardia International Airport. My heart

pounds as I weave in and out of the hoards of people, the pressure and

proximity mirroring the stress of the streets of New York City. You’d

think I would be used to it after living there my whole life, but I

had never felt more uncomfortable

I walk to the back of the line, falling in behind an older man

with a worn out blue fedora sitting atop his head, gray hair peeking

out from underneath. The color of the hat clashes drastically with

the checked pattern of his tweed sport coat. The suitcase sitting

next to him is covered in bumper stickers from states all across the

United States, ranging from New York to Oregon to New Mexico and

Hawaii. A worn United Kingdom passport sticks out of his coat pocket,

presumably ready to carry this man home.


Before I even have a chance to realize it, the man is moving

forward to the counter. If only I had the time to pick his brain

about his travels, I might have a better idea as to what I’m about to

get myself into. How often do you travel abroad without any clue of

where you’re staying or when you’re coming back or if you even plan on

coming back?

All I had done to plan was sit down at the worn wooden table in

the kitchen of my Greenwich Village apartment, laptop open, searching

for any place that looked desirable to me. I opened a list of the

“Top 50 Cities to Visit Before You Die” and the top three were Rome,

Paris, and London. Simply seeing the name of the city struck a chord

with me, pushing me back ten years to when I would sit between my

parents, listening to their stories from their honeymoon in London and

how they wanted to take me one day. I dreamed of walking through

Piccadilly Circus with them or across the stress of Abbey Road, being

carefree with the two people who mattered most to me. Now all I was

taking was their money and a few photos.

Is this crazy? Yes. But I know that I want my time on this Earth

to be spent how I see fit, and if that means travelling to a foreign

country to feel even a little bit closer to my parents, then that’s

what I’ll do.

“Next customer!” I quickly gather my gear before walking forward

to the counter, greeting the older man behind it. He smiles politely,

giving off a much different vibe than the woman at the ticket

counter . “Do you have your boarding pass and ID?”


“Yes sir, give me one second,” I say, placing my large purse on

the counter before rifling through it. You would think that since I

just got this piece of paper, it would be easier to find. “Here they

are.”

“How many bags will you be checking today, ma’am?” he asks,

glancing up sporadically while entering my flight info.

“I’m going to go ahead and check two bags,” I say. I glance down

at my two plain black suitcases, looking like the polar opposites of

the one carried by the man in the fedora. But it was appropriate for

me. The plain black was almost like a blank space and a new start for

my life.

“You’re quite young to be travelling abroad alone, aren’t you?”

he asks. Was 20 that young for international travel? “Studying

abroad?”

“No, sir,” I say, remembering my dream of studying in Italy.

“I’m just travelling.” He smiles once again, quickly letting go of

the conversation when I offer nothing more.

He couldn’t really think that someone who looks like me was going

to study abroad. It was a consolation question. I’ve learned that

when you look sick, people tend to ask “normal” questions to make you

feel like you can still do everything healthy people can do.

I watch with a blank stare as the man places the bags on the

conveyor belt behind him, the worn out leather squeaking with each

movement until they disappear into the internal maze leading towards

the planes.


Time seems to inch forward as I meander through the airport,

passing through security, passing dozens of TSA agents and moving down

more corridors than necessary. It wasn’t my fault that each hallway

in the airport seemed to look the same and to be infinitely long.

Couldn’t they make it a little easier for a first-time flyer? I swear

I saw a plane going to every continent, but I couldn’t manage to find

the right gate for my plane.

How did all of these people know where to go? The signs hanging

on the ceilings weren’t that helpful. I guess we all acted the same,

each of us preoccupied with the promise of an adventure waiting on our

planes, no matter if it was our first time flying or the thousandth.

If only we could all look the same. I act like I don’t notice

the stares, countless pairs of eyes looking me up and down, almost as

if they can’t believe someone in my state is still alive. Though I

offer a smile to each one of them, my heart pounds and my hand

trembles as I pull my beanie further down on my head. I dart into the

grimy women’s room, rushing into the first stall I can find. I lean

forward, emptying the contents of my stomach into the toilet in front

of me.

Minutes pass, the nausea passing with them. With a deep breath I

stand up, readjust my clothing, and gather my bags before moving to

stand in front of the sink. My hands fish out a toothbrush and a

travel tube of toothpaste, cleansing my mouth of the horrid taste

which remains. I try to keep myself from looking up into the mirror

but end up failing miserably.


The person who looks back at me doesn’t seem real and surely

doesn’t look like me. The woman in the mirror carries purple bags

under her eyes that have sunk back into her skull. She is swallowed

whole by a sweatshirt which is only a small to begin with. She looks

like a walking ghost. I can understand why people stare and treat me

as if I’m the most frail-looking thing on the planet.

It’s because I am.

Unable to take another second in front of the mirror, I continue

my journey through the wide expanse that is the LaGuardia airport.

Gate C9 welcomes me with the glorious smell of sweat mixed with

coffee, the inevitable choice of drink for passengers travelling at

all hours of the day. I drop my bags by a chair near the window,

sitting across from a young mom cradling her newborn baby to her

chest. I can’t help but smile as the chubby baby nestles his head into

the material of the mother’s oversized sweater, complimenting the deep

purple bags under her eyes and the unwashed hair piled on top of her

head in a bun. The woman catches me watching and offers a smile in

return, one which doesn’t reach her sorrowful eyes.

“They’re definitely a handful, but they’re the best handful you

could ever want,” she says, shaking her head while releasing a sigh.

“One day I’m sure you’ll understand.”

“Your baby is beautiful,” I say, trying to hold in my tears. If

only she knew how wrong she was about my future with children. With a

final smile, the young mother turns her attention back to her baby.

I think back to my childhood, years which held so much promise

for me. I remember the laugh of my father, the comforting smell of my


mother’s perfume, the warmth of my childhood bed. Hours were spent

planning my dream wedding to Leonardo DiCaprio with my mother, my

biggest dreams to be a mom and carry on the love she gave me to

children of my own. We would spend hours sitting on the couch,

watching “Say Yes to the Dress” and imagining all of the years before

me and all I would be able to accomplish. Looking at this mother with

her baby boy just reminds me of the crushed dreams. Not only had I

lost a best friend with my mother, but I lost the chance to fulfill

any of my dreams when I got sick.

I rifle through my purse, looking for gum before my hands meet

the three folded sheets of paper that I wish I could forget about.

With a deep breath I unfold each of them carefully, smoothing them out

in my lap.

“From the office of Dr. Jasmine Delgado,” I say, reading the

words aloud to myself as my eyes follow the print fading off of the

paper. The letter was sent months earlier in February but it feels as

though my heart is breaking all over again, only this time I know

there isn’t anything I can do. This time I know that once I leave this

country, I’m not coming back. At this thought, a single tear falls

down my cheek. I swipe my thumb across my cheek before pulling my hood

up over my head, hiding myself away from the world.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. At this time we would like

to start the boarding process for flight 4321 to London. My name is

Caroline and I will be facilitating this process for you all. I would

now like to welcome our first class passengers on board. Please have

your passport and your boarding pass ready when you reach the counter.


On behalf of Delta Airlines we would like to welcome you aboard. Thank

you.”

I sigh and gently fold the papers up again, stuffing them back

into the bottom of my purse. As I stand up, I re-adjust my sweatshirt,

covering my sickly pale skin, before picking up my bags, watching the

first class passengers with eager eyes as I wait for my opportunity to

board the plane.

My eyes dart from person to person, imagining a different

situation for each of them. The middle-aged couple with multiple bags

is moving to London, trying to be closer to their family. The older

man with the long, gray beard is travelling for his work, going to

take pictures for a news channel with the large camera hanging around

his neck. The young girl, not much younger than me, is travelling

abroad for school, very unsure of what the next couple of months will

hold, biting her nails and reading over her boarding pass time and

time again.

“We would now like to welcome all passengers from Zone 1!” Maria,

the stewardess, announces. With one final sigh I walk up to the

counter. “Good evening, ma’am. Your passport, please?” With a small

smile I slide the small book across the counter, stiff from the lack

of use. She quickly glances at the image before passing her eyes to

me. “And now your boarding pass.”

“Here you go,” I say. Within seconds the process is over and

nothing's standing in my way of freedom. I stand in the doorway

leading to the bridge connecting the airport with the plane. My eyes

gaze around at my last view of America.


“Here goes nothing,” I say, beginning the long voyage down the

carpeted floors leading to the large Boeing jet. The cool, crisp air

surrounds me like a whirlwind as I step onto the plane. I follow the

path down to row 11, placing my purse in my seat before stowing my

duffle bag in the overhead bin above me. The blue leather surrounds me

as I take my seat, quickly buckling my seatbelt before taking out the

safety information card and reading it twice over.

“So you’re the type that reads over the safety card no matter how

many times you fly?”

The voice is rough, like that of a man who has smoked a pack of

cigarettes each day since he was fourteen. I look up to be met with

the older man I saw while waiting in line for baggage check. This time

I notice a set of glasses perched atop his nose, the kind with round

frames like the ones Harry Potter wears. He gently tips the bill of

his fedora towards me in a greeting. “My name is Edwin Braxton. Could

I have seen you earlier this evening while waiting in the baggage

queue?”

“I think there’s a good chance that you did,” I laugh, offering

my hand towards him. “I’m Angela. Angela Marsden.” Edwin returns the

handshake before nodding towards the safety pamphlet once again.

“You know, it’s highly unlikely that anything catastrophic would

actually occur during a flight on a large craft such as this,” he

says, gently taking the laminated paper from my hands before sliding

it back into the seat pocket.


“So I’ve heard, but that doesn’t do much to ease the nerves of a

first-time flyer,” I say. My hands move to my lap, already fidgeting

in anticipation of the impending take-off.

“Ah, I remember my first flight in 1966. I was a young lad, maybe

17, just finished my first year at university, and it was the start of

my first summer as an adult, my first trip abroad. I guess in 2017

it’s more common for you young ones to spend a summer in Europe,”

Edwin says, gazing out of the window longingly. “You get used to the

feeling of turbulence and the anxiety of the take-off.”

“As long as I get through this flight I should be just fine,” I

say, following his eyes. The tarmac spreads out for miles in front of

my eyes, almost as if the only thing left between me and the horizon

is the asphalt and the wheels of the plane.

A few moments of silence pass between us as Edwin situates

himself for the long haul. He’s a stout man, wearing a gray beard

that matches the small patch of hair on his head. He gives off an air

of friendliness as he happily wipes his glasses clean of any smudges

while whistling a little tune. Even the folks around us can’t help

but glance over and smile as they watch him.

Before long, the airplane is full and the flight attendants are

walking up and down the aisles, closing the overhead bins. My eyes

follow them, watching as they repeat the same command to buckle seat

belts for the countless rows of passengers. The head flight attendant

begins a safety presentation and I begin to feel overwhelmed. She

mentions countless situations in which the lights could go off or

oxygen masks could fall from the ceiling. What else could happen?


“Is your final destination London? I have to say I am quite keen

on London. The city’s been my home for over 30 years now,” Edwin says,

trying to calm my nerves with small talk as he notices my shaking

hands. “I’ve been in the States for a little over seven months trying

to see all of your states and I’m ready to go home.”

“It is,” I say. My heart begins to pound as I consider what

awaits me in England: a big pile of uncertainty. The most I had done

was make a small list of possibilities for hotels. “You must be ready

to go home after such a long trip.”

“I’m completely knackered!” he says, pulling a small handkerchief

from his coat pocket and swiping it across his forehead. “I miss my

daughters and my grandchildren. I’ve got four daughters and 10

grandchildren. I believe you look to be about the same age as my

oldest granddaughter actually.”

“I just turned 20 this past September,” I say, comforted by the

small talk.

“That’s just about right,” he says, pulling out a small photo

book from his pocket, flipping to a picture of a beautiful young

woman. “Katherine, my granddaughter, just turned 21 in January.

She’s in university at the moment in Cambridge.”

“She’s beautiful,” I say, offering a smile his way. He nods in

reply, placing the small book back in his pocket.

“Are you meeting anyone over in London or just travelling for

fun?” Edwin says, entwining his fingers in his lap. A minute passes

before he continues, “I apologize if I’m too forward. My girls always

tell me I could make an acquaintance with a steel pole.”


“Don’t worry. I appreciate the distraction,” I say.

Do I talk to this complete stranger? I can feel that he has good

intentions. I mean, he carries around a little book with his family

in it. I know he must be missing them terribly. It couldn’t hurt to

talk with him.

“I wouldn’t say it’s for fun or to meet family,” I say. I wring

my hands in my lap, unsure of what to say.

“You know this is a pretty long flight, Ms. Marsden, and I’ve

been told I’m a good listener,” he says, crossing his legs as he

attempts to get comfortable. I take the time to pull out a small

blanket before pushing my purse under the seat in front of me,

settling into my chair for the hours ahead.

This was the first time since my parents died that I felt willing

to talk. I had always relied on my parents for support and a

listening ear. Once they died, I shut down, cutting myself off from

friends, family, and my foster parents. The only person I was able to

talk to since the death of my parents was my doctor, a woman I met in

the most terrible circumstances. I glance over at Edwin once more,

watching as he glances out the window towards the tarmac.

“I wonder what a resume looks like for these fellows who hold the

orange torches on the asphalt,” Edwin says. For the first time in

months I actually laugh, a smile spreading from ear to ear. He

chuckles himself, accentuating the wrinkles by his eyes, formed from

thousands of moments just like these.

Just as I open my mouth to speak, the stewardess hangs up the

telephone at the end of her final announcement, the plane moving for


the first time. As it taxis down the runway I can feel each motion in

my chest. Time seems to inch by as I anticipate the lift-off. Edwin

looks over and watches as my breathing quickens and the color drains

from my face.

“You’re okay,” he says, gently patting my shoulder. I meet his

eyes and offer a small smile, thankful for even a simple act of

kindness. “Just take some deep breaths and talk to me. Tell me about

yourself.” With a final breath I tear my eyes away from the window.

“I’m sick,” I say, unsure of where else to start.

“Like a cold or the flu?” he says.

“I wish it was as simple as that,” I say. Every bone in my body

tells me not to burden this man with my problems, problems that aren’t

going away. He has his own perfect family and I don’t need another

person to feel sorry for me. “I’m just sick.”

“I lost my wife two years ago. The trip I went on was for her,

it was always a dream of hers to visit all 50 states,” Edwin says. “My

Marie always found so much joy in looking at the beautiful images of

the plains of South Dakota and the mountains of North Carolina. We

always talked about our dream trip over to the beautiful states, as

she called them, but once we started planning, Marie was diagnosed

with stage IV breast cancer. Before we knew it she was gone.”

Words don’t seem to be enough to comfort Edwin, a man whom I’ve

just met but already feel a deep connection with. He isn’t a man who

is too forward but as a man who is trying to help someone because he

understands the pain and the tribulations.


“I have cancer,” I say, pulling my knees up to my chest before

resting my head on top. “Specifically non-small cell lung cancer, and

even more specifically than that large cell carcinomas in the lung.”

“Do you smoke?” he says. One thing I notice is that Edwin does

not have pity in his eyes when he looks at me. He understands the

pain but does not pity me. He empathizes with me. For the first time

since I was diagnosed I feel like a person again, a person who has a

heart and a story, not just a disease.

“My dad did,” I say. “He smoked about a pack a day for the

longest time and I guess I was around him enough to the point where I

inhaled too much second hand smoke.”

“I’ve heard that second hand smoke is just as dangerous if not

more so than smoking the cigarette yourself,” he says. “I admit I did

smoke a lot myself as a young lad and into adulthood, but I quit cold

turkey once my Marie was diagnosed with cancer.”

“I’ve never blamed my dad for it. He was a good man,” I say.

“My parents were my best friends. I wish they were here right now.”

“Why aren’t you with them?” he says. I look back towards the

window, watching the clouds pass by.

“My parents died in a car crash when I was 17. I was in foster

care for a year until I turned 18 before I was let out on my own and

shortly after that I was diagnosed. Now here we are. I’m twenty and

on my own.” My voice cracks while tears flow down my face.

“I’m sure you have some family somewhere,” he says, offering me

his handkerchief to wipe my tears away.


“I stopped talking to all of my extended family once my parents

died,” I say. “I tried to reach them a couple of months ago when I

was very sick but no one returned my calls.”

“Don’t you have friends or anybody that can be there for you?” I

shake my head and chuckle as I hand him back the now soaked piece of

linen.

“Not anyone that means enough to me,” I say. “Besides, nothing

is really keeping me in America at this point.” I reach down and pull

out the pieces of paper from my doctor. “Unfortunately, Ms. Marsden,

the cancer cells have spread from your lungs into your lymph nodes.

We fear that they are spreading too rapidly to combat with the current

treatment plan. Though we do have other options, they are merely

trial-based and have not been proven to offer significant benefits.”

I stuff the papers back into my purse, unable to finish reading

the last paragraph.

“Basically what they’re saying is that they don’t have anything

else they can do but they want to say it in a way that makes it sound

less like I’m dying.”

“But you’ve only been sick for, what, less than two years?” Edwin

says, shaking his head incredulously. I nod in reply.

“I’ve been sick for a year and a half. But in that time I’ve

been through chemo, radiation, surgeries, and about ten years worth of

pain,” I say, thinking back to all the months I’ve spent attached to

IVs while my hair fell out and my body withered away. “Nothing

they’re capable of doing is of any help to me anymore. My body just

can’t fight off the powerful cells.”


“Why would they let you leave the hospital in your condition?” he

says, concern evident on his face.

“My doctor gave me the option to stay and keep trying different

treatments but I knew they wouldn’t work,” I say. “I was just so tired

of all of the surgeries, the needles, the medicine, the pain, the

nausea, losing my hair, and just feeling horrible all the time.” I

reach up to remove my beanie, revealing my short hair, hardly longer

than two to three inches. “I’m tired of looking so sick, looking so

skinny and so different from everyone else.”

“I understand that choice,” he says, smiling at the stewardess as

she offers us complimentary drinks and snacks. As always, she offers

the same pity-filled smile upon noticing my hair. I return the smile

before beginning to pick at the small pack of crackers before me.

“I’m sorry for dropping my sob story on you,” I say, taking a sip

of water.

“You don’t need to be sorry at all, Angela. You should never

feel sorry for being sick,” he says, once again patting my shoulder

lightly. “My hope is that I’ve been able to help a little bit, even

if it’s just letting you talk.”

“You have,” I say, letting a silence fall between us. I think

back to my parents and how they always urged me to talk about my

problems to help ease the burden. I know they would be proud of me.

“What are your plans while you’re in London?” he says a few

moments later.

“Once I got the news that nothing more could really come from

treatment I knew I wanted to make what little time I had special. My


first thought was London. When I was younger my parents always talked

about the time they spent together in London. I knew that I wanted to

spend whatever time I had left doing something they loved,” I say,

reaching for the guide book I stowed in my purse. “I’ve picked out a

few things I want to do when I get there.”

Edwin chuckles as he sees the London Eye page dog eared along

with Harrod’s, the large department store.

“If you ever need a tour guide, I know I’m much cheaper than

those bloody double decker buses,” Edwin says, chuckling at the

multitude of images featuring the large red buses that London is

famous for. “I’m sure my family would love to have you over for tea.”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude, Edwin,” I say, taking the

outstretched book back. “I’m just going to find a hotel once we

land.”

“Nonsense!” he says, shaking his head at my comment. “Come have

some tea and brunch with us and I’ll help you locate a proper hotel

for your stay in London. My grandchildren love acting like they know

everything about the city. They would have a blast showing you

around.”

“Thank you, Edwin,” I say, unable to think of anything else that

could mean as much as what he has just offered me. “Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome, Angela,” he says. “Get some rest. The

flight to London is a long one.”

Leaning my forehead against the cold surface of the window, my

eyes wander from cloud to cloud, wondering what was to come. For the


first time in years I was excited for a new adventure, no matter what

the ending would be.

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