The Refuge: Travel Sickness

 

There was a change to the morning routine when Henry suddenly looked up from his porridge one day and said to his husband Frank, “Your mother still hasn’t seen Sam.”

Frank didn’t look back from trying to aim mushed banana into his son’s mouth, “She sees him all the time. Here comes the aeroplane,” He furrowed his brow as Sam shook his head violently, obscuring the runway and sending the aircraft into a spin dive, “He Skyped her yesterday. He’s very technological, aren’t you?” He ruffled the tentative hairs on the baby’s head and then managed to shove the spoon in.

“I mean in person.”

“She’ll see him at Christmas,” Frank answered, trying not to sound defensive. He had a horrible idea he knew where this was going.

“He’ll be twice the size he is now by then,” Henry responded.

“Babies change. She knows that, she’ll understand.”

“We could take him next month.”

“It’s a four-hour flight!” Frank could hear the shrillness of panic in his voice. He wasn’t afraid of flying, not in the technical sense, but he suffered from horrible, debilitating travel sickness. Every second of every journey, from the moment he sat in a vehicle was sheer torture. If he could have walked to his mother in Luxembourg, he would have.

“That’s not that long.” Henry said, as though discussing a trip to the shops.

‘Easy for you to say,’ Frank thought. He said “It’s not fair on other passengers, bringing a screaming baby for four hours.”

Henry ruffled Sam’s hair, “Maybe he won’t scream. Maybe he’ll be just like his daddy,” Henry had been in the RAF.

“Well, one of his daddies flies like a brick,” Frank reminded him.

“Let’s hope there’s not too much of that daddy in him, then,” Henry said without thinking. Shortly after, he kissed Frank and Sam on the cheek and went off to work, not realising what he’d just said.

 

Henry got his way. A flight was booked and the plans made. Frank sat in his seat, Sam sat on his lap. Frank fidgeted and gripped his son like the handrail on an ice skating rink.

“Do you want me to take him?” Henry asked, ever the font of charity once he’d gotten what he wanted.

“I’m fine.” Frank responded, his breath short.

“You’re squeezing him like a stress toy.”

“I’m fine.”

The engines began to drone and Frank grimaced, his stomach turning to mud in anticipation of what was to come.

“You’re going to pop his head off,” Henry said, concerned.

“I’m-”

The plane began to move. Frank unceremoniously foisted Sam onto Henry and then dived for the sick bag.

Henry turned his infant son to face out the window, dandling him happily and saying “Isn’t daddy being silly? Isn’t daddy silly?”

Over the sound of the engines and his own vomiting, Frank could hear Sam laughing merrily. It broke his heart.

 

Molly was pleased as punch with her grandson, especially, as she kept repeating to Frank’s displeasure, as she’d thought she’d never be a grandmother.

“He’s like a bowling pin with a face!” She commented, bouncing Sam in her arms.

“Don’t say that,” Frank pled.

“It’s okay, he can’t understand me,” she looked up from her grandson, “Can he?”

“Don’t mind him, Molly, he’s just grumpy from the flight.” Henry smarmed. Sometimes, Frank really loathed his husband.

“Oh, let me guess, he vomited the entire time.”

“It was like Niagara.”

They both laughed. Frank tried not to scowl. It wasn’t just the flight that had upset him– but he couldn’t tell Henry what was worrying him. He needed to speak to his mother alone.

A stroke of luck: “Just popping to the loo,” Henry announced.

Once he’d left, Frank turned desperately to his mother. “Sam’s not mine,” he said.

Molly’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“He’s not my son, he’s Henry’s.”

“I thought you didn’t know whose…material they used?” She wrinkled her nose at the thought.

“No, but now I do.” Frank was trying not to sound whiny, he really was.

“How?”

“Sam didn’t get travel sick.”

“…So?”

Frank sighed, exasperated, “So I always do!”

“I don’t. Does that mean you’re not my son?”

“That’s not the same, we know you’re my mother.” Frank needed her to see, he needed someone else to share his anguish.

“You’re making a fuss over nothing.” She chided, “So, he didn’t get sick– I mean, do you want him to?”

“Of course not-”

“Babies change. Maybe next time he’ll throw up like a champion. And you can be so proud as you mop up the sick.” Frank rolled his eyes and Molly added matter-of-factly, “He’s your son no matter what. You know that. I know you know that.”

“Yes, but…” Frank looked down at his son, still too young to show any real signs of his parentage. Maybe there was a hint around the eyes of Henry, but then maybe he was imagining it. He smiled.

At that moment, Henry returned, “Feeling a bit better, love?” He asked Frank.

Molly answered, “Oh yes, he was just telling me how well Sammy flew.”

“Well, thank God, right? I was scared he was going to be a sickie just like his daddy. I mean, they look so much alike, I thought he hadn’t got anything from me.”

Henry busied himself rubbing Sam’s head, so he wouldn’t see Frank’s triumphant smile.

 

Rory Kelly