“We’ve got a passenger in medical distress. In business class,” she adds, knowing that sometimes makes a difference.
A look of annoyance flits across the pilot’s face. “How bad is he?”
“I don’t know. He seems pretty bad.”
The pilot twists in his seat to look directly at her, like this is her fault. “Do we need to turn back?”
“We’re almost over Trenton,” the copilot says, looking at the instruments. “Even if we turn around, we’d have to circle at JFK for an hour before we could land. It’s only another forty minutes to D.C. We can ask for priority landing and for a medical team to be waiting at the gate.”
She can tell by the glassy look in the pilot’s eyes that his mind is made up. “Yeah, sure, that’s what we’ll do. You”—he turns to the flight attendant, not having bothered to remember her name—“keep him as comfortable as possible. See if he can give you anything we can radio on ahead to Washington—the name of a doctor, what medications he’s on, anything.”
She hesitates. “Could you see if there’s a doctor on the flight?”
Both pilot and copilot exchange glances; it’s the kind of thing they hate to do. It makes the passengers nervous. Ask over the intercom if there’s a doctor on the plane and some passengers immediately assume that Ebola has broken out and start freaking out. But the pilot gives a quick nod.
By the time she gets back, Popov is having a full-blown seizure. Luckily, after the announcement on the intercom, the flight attendant from economy class came forward to help. She has the confidence of the very young and—thank goodness—remembers first aid training from her time as a lifeguard at the town pool. She’s brought the plane’s automated defibrillator with her. The two women huddle over Popov. Given his size, putting him on his side is out of the question, even in the more spacious business class seat. The attendant tucks one of the small, thin pillows under his head and spreads a blanket over him. He’s not cold—his clothes are soaked through with sweat—but she does it for privacy more than anything else.
The flight attendant notices a man has crept forward from economy class, watching from a couple seats back. He didn’t announce himself to the attendants so he’s probably not a doctor. He’s just morbidly curious. He is middle-aged but tough looking, like he’s former military. She holds out hope for a second that he’s an air marshal—she will take all the help she can get at this point—but knows they wouldn’t put an air marshal on this flight, not a midnight run.
There is a cold curiosity in his eyes. “Are you a doctor, sir?” she asks.
He says nothing, just gives a curt shake of his head.
“Then would you return to your seat, please?” she asks with only a hint of irritation. People can be unthinkingly rude; she has learned this in her ten years on the job. “We need to give him air.”
After one more look at the sick man over the attendant’s shoulder, the passenger retreats down the aisle.
The attendant turns her attention back to the Russian. She pats his hand. “Mr. Popov, is there someone we can contact for you? Someone waiting for you in D.C.?” She wishes she had thought of this earlier as the Russian is now nearly unconscious. His eyes are rolled back in his head, his face freezing in a rictus of fright and surprise. He is unresponsive to their questions. His hands are balled tightly, his arms and legs rigid and shaking. Worst of all, foam is coming out of his mouth in waves, like a washing machine gone out of control, like something you might see on a television show. She can’t imagine what’s wrong with him; she’s had passengers with food poisoning and one heart attack, but it was mild. She’s never seen anything like this. She is nearly paralyzed from fright.
She glances at her watch. Twenty more minutes. “Hang on, we’re almost there,” she tells him, though she doesn’t think he can hear her.
That’s when she sees the note. A scrap of napkin. She can’t make out what he’s written. It could be a name, but the ink has bled into the napkin’s porous fibers. If he was trying to tell her something, she’s at a loss.
The rest of the trip goes by in a blur. When she sees that he’s slipped into unconsciousness, she and her colleague in economy do as they were trained. One strips the clothing from his upper torso while the other readies a defibrillator. She breathes a silent prayer of thanks for the muscle memory of the classes; it makes what they’re doing now seem less unreal. This is something she can do. She attaches the pads to the man’s chest and side as indicated, sits back on her heels as the machine searches for his pulse. No heartbeat detected. It delivers a shock. The other flight attendant begins CPR and she waits impatiently for her turn as the machine counts off two minutes before it will check again. The pair take turns doing CPR, two cycles, four cycles . . . Before long she is damp with sweat and shaky from nerves as each time the machine says No heartbeat detected and shocks him again . . .
By the time the first wheel touches the ground—the bounce and sudden deceleration as rubber catches on the second touch—she is ready to accept that he is gone. If not dead then so far gone that it doesn’t matter.
They will not be able to keep the other passengers on the plane while waiting for the medical crew to remove the body—they are like thirsty cattle that smell water in the distance—and so she does her best. The other flight attendant ran down the aisle just before landing to
