Traveling Mercies

It started with my son Sam, when he was maybe two or three years old. He was going on a plane trip with his mom to California to visit grandparents. I had to stay behind for work, so they were traveling alone and I found that I was very worried about him . . . worried about them getting separated . . . worried about my boy, lost in an airport and not knowing what to do . . . worried about him vanishing forever.

I saw the Adam Walsh miniseries on TV when I was much younger and it made a pretty strong impression on me. I remember Daniel Tranant playing John Walsh, sitting in a hotel room, getting the call from the police that they had found the body of his son.

Later, it was the scene in ‘The Accidental Tourist’ when William Hurt is standing in the morgue and has to say “Yes, that is my son.”

Those things stay with you. When you’re a parent, when you have a small child — so innocent, so vulnerable, so trusting of the world — you’re never free from that fear.

I’m always aware, when I’m out with the kids — in a store, at the mall, walking down the street — I’m always watching the people around me. My bubble of awareness expands to include my kids. If I don’t know where they are, if they’re not in my line of sight, I get very fretful.

Once, in a store, I was paying for my purchases. Sam was standing next to me . . . and then, suddenly, he wasn’t. I looked around and he was nowhere to be seen. I called his name . . . no answer.

I left everything on the counter — wallet, checkbook, the shirt I was buying (a French blue dress shirt from Banana Republic, I still have it) I left all of it there and took two steps, expanding my awareness to its limits, feeling for him . . . trying to find my boy on my built-in emotional radar.

Nothing.

Panic set in — and this is perhaps five seconds of time I’m talking about, it happens that quickly, that’s how fast your world can end — and I took two more steps.

He was standing, behind a rack of clothes, making faces in one of the mirrors set up around the store. I went over and got him , brought him back to the counter and finished writing the check. My signature was shaky, fretful.

Another time, in a restaurant, Sam had to use the bathroom. He was probably five years old. I was standing at the sink, washing my hands. Sam was standing at the urinal, doing his thing.

In the mirror, I saw that the guy standing at the urinal next to him was looking down at him. He was looking at him. The fucker was looking at my son while he peed.

I growled, audibly. My voice bouncing off the tiles walls.

Somehow, I was suddenly standing right next to the guy, between him and my son, my wet hands balled into fists and all the muscles in my body sprung and taut.

I don’t know what I said, but I definitely said something. And I can’t remember a time when a grown up has ever looked at me with such fear.

I can only imagine what my face looked like.

They guy left the bathroom quickly, without washing his hands. I suppose that I must have suggested this to him, in language that I suspect was pretty powerful.

When you’re a father, when you’re a parent, you’re always one step away from murder at any given moment.

Whenever they’re traveling, even if they’re with me, I always talk with the kids about what to do if they get lost in an airport. I remind them where to go (go up to the counter, any counter, talk to a lady in a uniform and tell her you’re lost . . . if you can’t find a counter, find a lady with kids of her own, find a mom and ask her for help).

And, every time they travel, I print out a little card for each of the kids to carry with them. It has their name on it, and their flight number and my name and their mom’s name and our cell phone numbers.

Like Paddington, with the note pinned to his overcoat.

Sam and Julia fly out tomorrow morning, another trip to California to see grandparents.

Sam is almost nine now. He knows the drill, he’s been through it so many times. I’ve trained him as best I can.

Julia is almost five — full of a life and joy that I could not bear to lose — and this will be her first time, really, making the trip.

So . . . tonight, I made my little cards.

Tonight, I rehearsed my instructions for them once again.

Tonight, I was completely and utterly a father . . . running scenarios and doing everything I could to keep them safe, my boy and girl.

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow, they’ll be beyond my protection, out of range of my radar . . . for almost four weeks.

Tomorrow…