Blinding Night

Chapter 1

Chapter 1May 12th, 2017“British Airways Flight 387 is now boarding at Gate 21,” the stewardess announced over the loudspeaker of the crowded airport. “Please have your boarding passes and passports ready for boarding.”

I turned to look over at my mother, who was nose deep in another one of her Jessica Lacey romance novels. I looked down at her feet where an oversized purse sat stuffed with books. My mother was practically the Mary Poppins of paperback romance. It was the craziest thing, too. She could read one book in the matter of two hours. I once timed her. She was a pro-reader.

“Mom,” I said as I nudged her elbow. “They’re boarding.”

“Hmm?” She asked, tearing her brown eyes from the page.

“They’re boarding our flight,” I repeated as I reached behind me for my phone charger.

Early on, I had beat a sticky six-year-old with an iPad for this seat. It was one of the only outlets in the whole seating area for British Airways, so I didn’t feel too bad about robbing him of electricity. I’m sure the other passengers waiting at Gate 21 were relieved, too. His iPad was so loud that I think there was a collective sigh of relief when it died ten minutes later. Besides, I had wanted to make sure my phone was fully charged for our ten-plus hour flight. We would be traveling from the Providence airport to Charlotte, North Carolina, then to the London Heathrow Airport, and finally to Athens, Greece.

“I better text your father and let him know we’re boarding,” she said mindlessly as she turned another page. I prayed as I stood and stretched that there wouldn’t be any crying babies on our flights; though, it was bound to happen in one of them. Finally, with all of my things gathered, I reached for my mother’s hands and folded the book shut.

“As spicy as Jessica Lacey’s love life may be, we need to board the plane before they leave without us.” The crowd was thinning quickly and if we got left behind, I wouldn’t be the one to tell dad that mom was too busy drooling over another romance novel to acknowledge our flight. “Please text dad.”

She dropped her book into her bag with a great huff and pulled her cell phone from her back pocket. I watched as my mother – who was terrible with electronics—began to punch out a message using her ancient flip phone. We tried to get her an upgrade one Christmas, but she refused to step foot inside the Apple store at the mall. She vehemently argued against buying a new phone, especially a touch-screen. I had never seen her react to a purchase like that since we bought our new toaster oven, which was an entirely different war that dad and I won.

My father was already in Greece. He had flown over almost a month ago to secure a place for us to stay while they worked all summer. I remember when they first told me that they would be excavating some Greek ruins with a team from National Geographic. What I thought would be a summer alone at home turned out to be a summer alone in Greece.

While the rest of my college friends boasted of spending their days next to the pool, taking selfies on Snapchat and going to the beach with all of their high school friends, I was being dragged to a foreign country, where my parents were going to go dig in the dirt. I just wanted something simple. Netflix and slushies. Barefoot and cool, air conditioned shopping malls. Maybe a movie or two with Johnny Depp. But this was their dream, so after a few fights and one week of finals, I caved.

“You don’t have to sound so ungrateful,” my mother had said to me over a burger and fries on the way home from college. “I’m sure kids your age would love to go to Europe. It’s a once in a lifetime experience.”

“I get that,” I said with a sigh, dipping my french fries into a small dollop of ketchup. “But, I just wanted to spend time with my friends. You know, travel to the city, swim in their pools, or go to the beach. Rent movies and eat way too much popcorn. Stuff like that.”

“Greece has an ocean.”

“We’re not going to be anywhere near an ocean,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“We’ll be twenty minutes away from the beach, Summer,” my mother replied, letting out an exasperated sigh. “Honey, I know you’re not thrilled... but this is your dad’s dream. This is what he’s worked so hard for. All the time he’s spent away from home has been leading up to this. And me…”

“I know, it’s your dream too,” I said, nodding. “I know.”

“Greece won’t be so bad. I promise. Who knows, you might make some friends. And maybe if we have time, we can go see where Mamá Amynta was from.”

“Your family?” My ears perked instantly. “In Vouliagmeni?”

“Yeah… In Vouliagmeni. I know we’ve always talked about going to see it.”

At least that had sounded promising. I had done enough Google searches of the seaside town to fantasize about painting my Magnum Opus while visiting. When I was little, my mom used to tell me stories of her family who had lived in Greece. She kept an enormous hat box packed with old photographs of people I knew only by the names on the back, marked with blue ink. The landscape had always captivated my imagination. In a strange way, it often felt familiar.

Underneath all the old photographs were crinkled stacks of brown parchment paper, which happened to be unreadable old newspapers. There were treasures in the hat box, too. Some frayed yellow ribbons, a pair of simple cufflinks, and an ominous looking white glove with red fingertips. I hadn't noticed the small specks the first time I found it, but when I did, my imagination ran wild. Mom said that it had belonged to one of our great-great-great-somethings—who had been poisoned by a jealous man at a party.

I wondered then if it was lipstick. Or blood.

“Boarding pass and passport?”

The voice startled me. I lifted my brown gaze to the woman, who pursed her lips impatiently. The way the scanner hung limply in her hand was a clear sign that she was obviously bored and irritated.

“Oh, sorry…” I muttered, clicking the app on my cell phone to expose my boarding pass. Once it was scanned I handed over the little blue passport book and waited for her to verify my details. It was so simple. I had memorized it weeks ago.

Summer Mavros.

Born on March 3rd, 1997 in Providence, Rhode Island.

Age 20. Brown Eyes. Brown Hair. 5’3ft.

Insert awkward photo from a delayed flash and you have me in all of my glory.

“Have a good flight,” she replied. I bit back my embarrassing ‘you too’ reply.

“Come on, Summer,” Mom said from the entrance to the terminal. Her arms were crossed over her chest, seemingly restless as her fingers tangled with the strap. As I glanced in her direction, I could see a sliver of panic flash in her eyes. As if she were afraid she’d lose me. As if she feared I’d turn and bolt in the other direction. She was strangely overbearing. If I wasn’t anywhere within view, she would lose her mind. Apparently, when I was younger, I would make a game of hiding from her in department stores, tucking myself into the clothing racks. Because I was such an expert in hiding, she’d have a hard time finding me. It took one really good hiding place and thirty minutes of fear induced panic for her to tell the manager I had been kidn*pped.

I couldn’t remember that instance in particular, but she had made sure I never forgot it. It was the reason for her over-protectiveness; the same reason why I spent more time with my dad than her. Dad was a rebel with mom’s rules. He at least let me live a little. When Mom wanted me to stay home and go to a community college, he had been the one to go to bat for me. He knew how badly I wanted to go to the University of Rhode Island.

“She’s gotta live, Demi,” he insisted over a box of pepperoni pizza. “You can’t suffocate her forever.” But the look on my mother’s face said otherwise.

To compromise, I agreed to call my mother every other night, unless I was in the middle of studying. There were several nights that I’d text the both of them and lie about having a million tests to study for, just to avoid an hour long lecture from my mother about stranger danger. Then after assuring them I would study hard, I’d walk to the art department and set myself up for a few hours of painting. While I was a part of the Art History department, I explored the options of the art studio more and more. It was a guilty pleasure. I was sure if Mom knew about my night time escapades with oil paints, she would blow a fuse. Becoming a professional artist wasn’t an option and I knew she wouldn’t be thrilled by the idea.

“You’ll never make money. How do you think you’ll support yourself?”

But I had my dream—and I was willing to go the distance to make it a reality.

As we found our seats in the tenth row, my mother lifted her bag to the overhead compartment and shoved it to the far side. She held out her hand for mine and looked at me expectantly.

“I was thinking about having it by my feet,” I said, hopeful. After all, I brought only a few things to do. She shook her head and tapped the overhead.

“Come on, Summer. Rules are rules. You can get your stuff once the plane is in the air.”

I rolled my eyes and yanked my headphones from my bag, keeping my phone firmly in my hand. I shoved the bag towards her and pushed myself as far into the window seat as possible. This was punishment–surely. And then the kid behind me kicked my seat and I had my answer. This was going to be rough.

“Attitude,” my mom remarked as she sat down beside me. “We have a long few hours ahead of us. I had hoped we could take the time to catch up…”

“Catch up?” I asked, looking at her a little confused. Hadn’t I been doing exactly that since I had come home from school?

“Yeah, about college. Boys… friends…?”

“I told you about everything already,” I insisted softly. It wasn’t like I hadn’t come home during all the breaks the college had allotted, and even some extra weekends when she had cried to Dad about how much she had missed me. Even on the day she picked me up from my dorm hall, I had spent the few hours in the car talking about my finals, some of my friends, and their summer plans. She asked me every question imaginable, as if she had to know everything, right down to the awkward coed bathroom stories. That had been a long car ride home.

“I just thought we could have some girl-bonding time,” Mom said with a shrug. “Are you sure there weren’t any boys you were interested in at school?”

I held my breath and counted to ten. There was no way this was happening–right at the beginning of our flight. Was she really asking me about boys?

“Not really,” I said, shaking my head.

“I remember when I met your father at college,” she said with a small smile. “He was really cute. He just had the most…”

“Mom,” I interjected. “I know you mean well, but… seriously, I didn’t meet any boys that I liked. I don’t think boys are the same as when you met dad.”

“I don’t know,” she said matter-of-factly. “At that age, they usually only want one thing.”

I was pretty sure my ears were about to bleed. “I’m sure not much has changed regarding that.”

She might have been right about that at least. Before college I guess I was a little more than naive. Thanks to my roommate, Melissa, I was introduced to a number of rituals that would leave me locked out for the night. I wasn’t surprised by the attention she had been getting from frat boys at parties. I just didn’t expect to find a sock on the door knob or a handwritten note on our whiteboard on various nights. At first, I didn’t get the context of the sock until I heard Melissa’s voice on the other side panting someone’s name. Chad, I think. Or Todd? I don’t remember…

“Come back after 12.” That had been the message every time Melissa had a ‘guest’ over.

To say I felt a sort of relief in leaving school had been an understatement. At least I wouldn’t have to share a room with anyone for three months. The moment my RA passed out housing applications, I filled it out and hand delivered it to the head of the housing department. Sealed and signed, in my best cursive, by Summer Mavros of Room 2C. Sadly, I was still waiting to see if my application for a single room would be accepted via email. Ever since I turned it in, I had been checking my inbox religiously.

“I’m just sort of surprised,” Mom said with a sigh as she thumbed through the booklet of airplane etiquette. The side animations that came with the instructions, showed a man holding an air mask over his face, while the other depicted how to blow up a floating device.

“You’re a really pretty girl...and, you know…” she shrugged. I looked at her a little bewildered. My mom wanted me to date? How could I have misconceived years of tyrannical rule and strict mom policies for encouragement? As if.

“What?” I asked.

“Well, you just...you never brought any boys around in high school,” she whispered. “Your father and I just weren’t sure.” Her eyes grew wide for a moment before she shrugged again. Clearly this was her awkward way of asking if I was gay.

“Mom,” I said, scooting down into my chair. “I’m not gay,” I managed without sounding too irritated.

“I’m just taking my time.”

“You know we’d love you no matter what,” she said quickly. I bit the inside of my cheek, keeping myself from responding too harshly.

“I know, Mom.”

At least my response seemed to appease her. She slid the brochure back into the pocket of the seat ahead of her… The seatbelt light came on overhead and I slid the belt around my waist. Before she or the stewardess had the chance to stop me, I slid my earbuds into place and touched the screen of my cell phone. A picture of me and my dad lit up. His smiling face greeted me as he held me to his side in front of our Christmas tree. My dad was a handsome guy; his hair was sort of burnt brown like mine, with dark brown eyes. His smile was the best part–it was completely contagious. I was happy to know in a few hours I’d see him again. I clicked open the music app and turned on my playlist, playing it loud enough to drown out the sound of the plane and my mother’s voice. Bleachers filled my ears as I scanned through my text messages before I had to switch to airplane mode.

“You’re going to have a great summer vacation!” One text message read.

“Take a TON of pictures! Don’t forget to share on i********:! They do have i********: over there, right?” I snorted at my friend’s confusion.

“Have fun–be safe.”

As I flicked the yellow plane mode on my phone, I rested my head back against the seat with a sigh. I hoped for the same: to be safe and to have fun. Whatever that fun might be.