“Yes, how did you know?” I say. It is very difficult for me not to lie in a situation like this. It just feels safer. I open my mouth to lie more, but I am too tired, too anxious, and I will myself to stop.
He looks at me strangely. “I think they’re all full of shit. They don’t know anything more about life than you do.”
I take in his face for a moment. I can see where he will grow old, where the crinkles will carve a path from the corner of his eyes. I bet he’s a worrier. I bet he’s a fronter-all bravado up front and a squirming mass of anxiety underneath.
“Right,” I say, picking up the emergency information card and studying it.
He looks at me for a second and then a crooked smile opens his face. He thinks I’m a bitch. Or just not worth the trouble. He puts on his headphones, pushes his sunglasses back on, and leans back in his seat.
I put on my headphones too, close my eyes, and turn away. I hope he doesn’t try talking to me again. I listen to him rustling through his bag and adjusting his seat belt. There’s a lot of show in it, like he’s trying to get my attention, but I resist, which is not so much a part of the Plan but more my nature. Show-offs repulse me.
The captain comes on: “Folks, I’m sorry for the abrupt departure this evening, but Control wanted us out before the runway got snowed in. There’s a bit of a storm ahead of us, so I’m going to have the seat belt sign on for the duration while we try to stay a step ahead of it. We’ll be heading a bit farther north than we normally do, but we should right our course just past this front and land in Chicago as scheduled. So please cooperate and try to stay in your seat if possible. Thank you for making the choice to fly West Air, and enjoy your trip.”
“Dude, where would we be going?” Paul says loudly. He looks to me with that crooked smile I’ve now come to despise. Is he talking to me? Or is he responding to the captain? I do not look at him. I pull the blanket from the netting in the seat in front of me and wrap myself up in it. I close my eyes and wait. One more unexpected benefit of the Plan, I think. I’ll never hear this Masshole’s accent again.
Chapter 10
Unbelievably, I nodded off. Or, I guess I did, because when I open my eyes, the lights are out except for a few reading lights in front. The plane is mostly empty, so it looks like a ghost town in here. Paul is asleep with a map propped on his stomach. His book is tucked underneath his elbow.
I check my watch, and it is after five. I look into my bag and pull out my pad of paper. I’ve thought about this note forever. I steady the pad, but there’s some turbulence and it makes it difficult to write. Thankfully, what I have to say is very brief.
Dear Mom,
I’m going with Dad. I’ll see you on the other side. Don’t blame yourself. I was born with it and there’s nothing to be done.
Love,
Jane
I fold it up and write M OM on the front. I tuck it into the netting of the seat in front of me. I try to place it where somebody will find it, but I am suddenly overwhelmed by a fear that the letter will go unnoticed and my mother won’t ever read it. That she’ll go through the rest of her life blaming herself for my death. I stare at it awhile, then take the letter and stuff it into my pants pocket. I unfasten my seat belt and turn so I’m facing the seat and Paul and then step over him, balancing myself until I can lift my back leg over. He stirs for a moment but does not wake.
The bathroom sits directly behind me. I check my watch, and it’s forty-five minutes since takeoff, which is cutting it close. If I dose now, by the time we land in Chicago, I should be gone. A brief shiver runs down my spine as I imagine myself clinging to life and being wheeled on a gurney through O’Hare airport. That must be hell. Focus on the now, Jane.
The lone flight attendant is sitting at the front of the plane, flipping through a magazine, probably relieved that the turbulence means she doesn’t have to wheel the drinks cart down the aisle filling orders like a waitress. Finally an element of the Plan comes to fruition. I open the bathroom door and step in. I push the bolt lock and close the door. I turn and sit on the toilet. I put my face in my hands and wonder what my mother is doing now. I cry a little, not because I’m afraid, but because I am so relieved to be here and at the same time I am sad for my mother. Something will happen to her when she hears this, something permanent. I feel sad about it, but it’s not enough to stop me.
I dip into my bag and pull out my pills. One by one, I press them through the blister packaging. The bumpiness of the flight makes it difficult, but I manage to fill a small white paper cup with what I’ll need. I pull another cup from the metal sleeve and fill it from the tiny sink. I steady myself.
I say my takeoff prayer again and hope my angels will carry me home. What works for one flight should work for all, I tell myself. I open my mouth and reach for the pills. The plane hits an air bump and jumps up and down. I quickly put my other hand against the wall and steady myself.
Sign of the cross. I stand, looking at myself in the mirror one more time, one last time. It’s the eyes, always the eyes. There’s a language in them. What do I see? Helpless. Sad. Alone. Disintegrating. Desperate. I see my great-grandfather; his eyes are mine. He was a man I never knew, but the darkness began with him, or maybe even earlier. I know his sad secrets are my own.
I put the cup to my mouth and reach for the water cup.
There’s a smack and a zap. The light flickers, then off. Blackness. For a moment I believe I am already in that pre-death dream spiral I had longed for. But then the bottom of the plane drops out on me. I fly off my feet and my head strikes the ceiling. The pills scatter from my hand like a shotgun spraying pellets.
I tumble against the wall on my way to the floor and the light flickers on, but I am dizzy. I hear screams from outside the bathroom and I wonder if they are trying to get me out. But then the attendant tells everyone to remain calm. I try to stand, but I am too dizzy. I feel a warm sensation on my right cheek, and suddenly I notice drops of red on the floor in front of me. I put my hand to my head and it is immediately covered in sticky red blood.
I push against the walls beside me but only manage to move myself into a tucked position beside the toilet and the sink. There’s a second zap and then the whole plane goes black. Again the bottom drops, but I remain jammed against the toilet this time.
A red light flashes above me and then it dies too. The plane stops whining. I can feel it just gliding along through the air, being tossed up and down. There’s no response. For a long time, we are like a dead body floating downriver, just gliding to nowhere. I wonder where I am for a second and I remember my angels and I wonder if they are holding up the plane. I wonder if this is how I am going to die.
Then there’s another big drop. Fear takes hold of me and I scream as loud as I have ever screamed. When I finally breathe again, I choke on the pills left in my mouth and cough them out even as I try to swallow them. I hear terrified screams from the front of the plane, and I start to sob and pray again and again. I realize that the nose of the plane is angled downward, and the angle grows steeper by the second. And then it levels out, and the howl of the wind shrieks like a dying bird.
My stomach flips and spins and I black out. I awake a minute or an hour later; I do not know how much time has passed. But it is silent and black and for a moment I think this is it. Heaven is black and cold and silent; that’s the opposite of hell, no? I touch the side of my face again and the blood is sticky but still moist. And then the plane drops suddenly, followed by a series of massive air bumps jolting me up and down. And then smack. Blackness descends.
Part II
