Plan A

Suitcase in hand, you head to the station. At least, that’s the plan, as you lock your door behind you and walk to the car. Perhaps you should call it Plan A. It seems like most of your plans these days change often, sometimes daily.

You open the trunk, toss in the suitcase, close the trunk and get in the driver’s seat. Then you can’t help yourself; you look at the passenger seat to your right. The seat where Jinny used to sit. It’s empty now, of course.

Taking a deep breath you detect a hint of Grasse Jasmine and May Rose, bringing along whispers of Patchouli and Vetiver, all riding on a wave of Orange. The Orange is strong enough to carry the others, but not overpowering. You’re sensing Jinny’s favorite Eau de parfum, Coco Mademoiselle. Jinny never called any scent she wore “perfume,” even if it was something you picked out, with perfume written plainly on the bottle. So it’s Eau de parfum, Coco Mademoiselle, you detect. Unless it’s the air freshener.

You glance at the small, convex rectangle clipped onto the air vent. Light green, minty fresh, much stronger and harsher than Jinny’s Coco Mademoiselle. Not the air freshener, then. But Jinny’s been gone for seven years now. Surely you can’t detect her Eau de parfum still. It must be your imagination.

You reach over to touch the ignition button. The car hums into life, quietly, surely, strongly. The air conditioner starts cooling, wafting the mint aroma from the air vent into the interior of the Mercedes. Obliterating the imagined scent of Coco Mademoiselle.

Feeling Jinny’s presence, you turn the car off and look at the passenger seat again. Mint still overpowers any other scents, real or imagined, in the car. The passenger seat is still empty. But you can almost see Jinny’s emerald green eyes, sparkling as she looks at you with love. What were you thinking? You can’t go to the station now.

You step out of the car and start to close the door. Then you hear Jinny’s light, tinkling laughter. How can this be? You peer through the open driver’s door, staring at the passenger seat. Jinny still isn’t there. Her laughter must be your imagination, just like the hint of her Eau de parfum. Why was she laughing? Or rather, why were you imagining her laughter?

You climb back into the car and sit, closing the door. Why did Jinny ever laugh? She loved life, and she lived it to the fullest. She laughed when you proposed. She wasn’t laughing at you, though. She said yes. She laughed when you bought your first house together. She cried when Sarah was born. Well, she laughed and she cried, all at the same time. But why now? Why did you imagine her laughter now? Why did you imagine her scent?

This is too much. Too much distraction, too much thinking, too much imagination. You’re not ready to drive. Taking the suitcase out of the trunk, you head into the house. To your favorite overstuffed leather chair, in the library, where you do your best thinking. You aren’t going to unpack yet because you want to think while Jinny’s scent and her laughter are fresh in your mind. You set the suitcase down by the door, and walk into the library. There you sink down in your chair to ponder.

Your first thought is “This is nice and comfortable.” The Mercedes is comfortable too, but not like this. The leather wingback chair caresses your body, supports your legs, and welcomes you into its comforting embrace. You glance over at the phone and hear Jinny laughing again. This time she’s laughing because you insisted on keeping a landline, in spite of excellent cell phone service and the latest in technology.

The black bakelite antiquity sits there, feeling comfortable in the library, surrounded by floor to ceiling shelves full of leather-bound books. A pair of soft paper-back phone books, also memories of ages past and rarely used, sit on the shelf beneath the old phone. 

The phone you used to call Sarah last night. You told her about Plan A. Take a trip to Indiana, to meet Samantha. A woman you met online, through a dating site recommended for people called “honored citizens,” or “seniors,” or just “old.” People like you, and Samantha. Your plan wasn’t too well-formed for after meeting Samantha face to face. That future plan would unfold according to your first meeting.

“No, she’s not after my money,” you assured Sarah. “She’s got enough of her own. And we’ll do a prenup, of course.”

You told Sarah “If she looks like her profile pic, and she did on Zoom, she’s pretty enough. But that doesn’t matter so much. She reads Proust, Sarah. She reads Proust.” 

Of course, Sarah’s generation thought nothing of meeting online or heading off to another state to get to know someone better. You remember what she said. “It’s about time you got out of your comfort zone, dad. Mom would approve. I know she would.” Then she laughed. Jinny’s laugh. And added “Go for it, paw-paw. I’m proud of you.”

Maybe that’s why Jinny was laughing in the car. Or why you imagined her laughing. You get up, walk to the door and, suitcase in hand, you head to the station. Again. You put the suitcase back in the trunk, close it up and get in the car.

This time, when you are behind the wheel again, you look over at Jinny and drink in the sight of her lovely face, the scent of her refreshing Eau de parfum, and the sound of her delightful laughter. “I’m going to do it, Jinny. I’m going to go to Indiana and meet Samantha, face to face. And we’ll take it from there.”

You can see Jinny’s beatific smile, or at least you can imagine it. This time you even hear the melodic sound of her sweet, sweet voice, as she says, “It’s about time you got out of your comfort zone, darling. I approve.”

Smiling yourself now, you start the Mercedes and drive to the station. You park in the long-term lot, open the trunk and, suitcase in hand, you head for the station. Plan A it is.