by Aven Ellis
My phone rings again. I stop and check. This time it’s my mom.
“Mom,” I cry, panicking. “Mom, I can’t do this!”
“Sweetheart,” she says firmly, “of course you can. Daddy and I are both on the line here.”
“Hi, Pumpkin,” Dad chimes in cheerfully.
“. . . and we know you’re going to be just fine tonight.”
“Oh, is that so? What if the plane loses its hydraulic system? That’s like driving a car with no breaks or steering. What if that happens?” I snap, frustrated. I move off to the side, out of the way of all the passengers coming and going. “Or what if the plane’s tail snaps off? What if the navigation system fails and it slams into a mountain? Will I be fine if any of those things happen?”
Mom and Dad are silent for a moment. Obviously they have no idea of how to handle me and my knowledge of actual airline disasters.
“Uh,” Dad starts cautiously, “Pumpkin, did you read the tip sheet I e-mailed you?”
Oh for the love of God. As if 10 stupid tips—like “take a calming breath of air” will help me off the ledge I’m on right now.
“Yes,” I say, annoyed.
“Sweetheart, you’ll be fine,” Mom tries again. “Daddy and I just called to say we are very proud of you, no matter what happens in the meeting, because you are being so brave today. But you can do this. We know you can.”
Tears well up in my eyes. And I feel incredibly stupid for snapping at them.
“I love you guys,” I say, my voice thick.
“We love you, too. And we can’t wait to hear all about San Francisco when you get back,” Mom says.
“Have a good trip, Pumpkin,” Dad says.
I hang up with them and toss my phone back into my purse. I think about the e-mail Dad sent, mentally reviewing the ten tips in my head: breathing, not obsessing, thinking pleasant thoughts—
Oh, now that’s a good one. I’ve already picked out my pleasant thought, and it’s my new pale blue Burberry scarf I got with Sasha’s discount yesterday. Sasha got the job at the advertising firm, and alas, I didn’t have enough money for the Burberry raincoat I really wanted before she quit Saks, so I got a scarf instead. Now, it’s put a teensy dent in my budget this month, but Bree is re-paying me some money with her first paycheck, and then it will be paid for.
I head toward the Sky Cap station, thinking about my totally fabulous scarf. It’s cashmere and coordinates great with my charcoal-gray pea coat. Deke told me San Francisco can be cold and damp in July if the fog rolls in. So I’ll get to wear it when I’m there. How cool is that?
Suddenly I have another relaxing visual. Deke and I are standing in San Francisco, and he’s using my scarf to draw me closer to him. And as he holds my beautiful blue Burberry scarf in his hands, he leans down to kiss me. The kiss is—
“Next in line, please.”
I blink. I’m now ready to check my bag.
And I’m one step closer to my final destiny, for whatever fate has in store for me tonight.
My stomach rolls again as I approach the Sky Cap. I hand him my driver’s license and my “must ride” pass from Premier Airlines. Usually when an airline employee travels, they can get bumped for a full-paying customer—unless they are using a “must ride” pass for business purposes.
“Where to?” the Sky Cap asks.
“San Francisco,” I manage.
He begins typing on the computer. “One bag?”
“Yes,” I say, the fear beginning to mount again.
The computer spits out a luggage tag and a boarding pass. And as the boarding pass is coming out of the printer, I feel as though I’m being handed my death sentence.
“Flight 1978 departs out of Gate 22,” he says, handing the pass to me.
Oh God. I don’t want it. I’m getting bad vibes from it. I really think this ticket is doomed. Shouldn’t I listen to my gut on this? Didn’t my mom always tell me that, listen to your gut and you won’t go wrong?
“Miss?” he asks, sticking the ticket out further to me. “Your ticket?”
“Uh, yes,” I say, quickly taking the ticket and shoving it into my tote. I hand him some money for a tip, and then my bag is lifted onto a conveyer belt behind him.
“Thank you. Have a good flight,” he says cheerfully.
Sure. A good flight. As if there is such a thing.
I make my way to the escalator, the one leading to the open, spacious, glittery Premier Airlines terminal. My heart is now pounding furiously inside my chest. My palms are sweating so badly that I rub them on my black pants, willing that symptom of fear to go away.
Breathing gets harder as I wait in line at security. I look around, scanning the faces in line, seeing if anyone appears to be a terrorist. So far I see a woman with a Gucci handbag I’d kill for, a middle-aged business man with a pot belly and Sunday Chicago Tribune tucked under his arm, and an elderly couple with Irish accents talking behind me.
So nobody looks like a terrorist.
But that doesn’t mean there aren’t any.
Stop! I will myself. Think pleasant thoughts. Think of your cute Burberry scarf. Think of how wonderful it’s going to go with—
But what if the terrorist snuck something into the Gucci bag? That woman looks so bored that I bet she wouldn’t notice if someone dropped an explosive device in her purse.
Oh God. I really do need mental health counseling.
I try to breathe again, but my chest hurts so bad that breathing is getting harder. I robotically go through security, grabbing my things off the end of the conveyor belt, glancing down at my watch.
It’s now one hour until I meet my destiny.
But I’m supposed to meet Deke at the gate so he can shoot me.
I hurry into a restroom, and as I soon as I see myself in the mirror, I want to cry. My face is pale—even more so than usual. As in deathly pale.
Oh, shit, could that be an omen?
I ignore the thought and pinch my cheeks in an attempt to get some color. Then I wash my hands, desperate to make the sweating stop.
But nothing can stop the fear that is threatening to take complete control of me.
I exit the bathroom, into the sea of normal passengers. You know, the ones who aren’t scripting their funeral services as they lounge in the gate area. I slowly move toward Gate 22 with an overwhelming sense of dread.
I pass by a bar. I should down a martini. Maybe that would help. But the tip sheet said to avoid alcohol or caffeine or anything else that can cause the upheaval in your stomach.
And as another queasy wave rolls over me, I decide that bit of advice has merit.
I approach Gate 22, looking at the passengers relaxing there. Soft jazz is piped over the loudspeakers, fresh flowers are in vases on modern Scandinavian-styled furniture, customers are getting complimentary gourmet coffee from the coffee bar or sinking into plum-colored chairs, and killing time before boarding begins.
Nobody appears to be worried or afraid.
And I must be the only one who just knows this flight is going to end in disaster.
“Avery!”
I turn and see Deke rising from his seat. Despite my fear, I’m momentarily distracted by the sight of him.
Oh my God. He’s dressed completely different, in a crisp white shirt that he has unbuttoned at the throat and flat-front khaki pants.
And he’s DDG—Drop Dead GORGEOUS—in his nice clothes.
“Are you all right?” he asks, walking up to me. I notice his brow is creased with worry. And his eyes are focused intently on me, trying to figure out what’s wrong.
“Uh,” I gasp, desperately trying to get some air, “yes! I’m fine! I just need to take a seat.”
Because I’m starting to get dizzy.
/> “Are you sick?” Deke asks, guiding me to the empty seat next to his equipment. “God, you look awful, Avery.”
Think. What do I say? He can’t know the truth. Deke can never know the truth about this.
“Kind of,” I say, which really isn’t a lie.
“Are you sure you can fly?” he asks, a worried tone in his voice. “Because if you’re this sick, you shouldn’t get on an airplane.”
The idea flickers through me. I have an out. I don’t have to get on this plane. I can say I’m sick and that would be that.
But something else flickers inside of me as I gaze back at Deke. I think of him. Of Craig Potanski. Of being given the opportunity to present to the marketing team. Of being able to go somewhere I’ve never been.
And I know I have to go through with this.
“No,” I say quietly, “I’ll be fine to travel.” Then I bite down hard on my lower lip. “But . . . I really don’t want you to shoot me now. Please. Please don’t make me do it.”
Because I’m quite sure the stress of having to act buoyant and cheerful along with the glare of the camera light will cause me to pass out right here in the terminal.
Deke’s eyes burn into mine. “Avery,” he says softly, “you know I have to do this. This is a big moment for you. I need to get you on tape.”
I put my head in my hands, frustration now equaling the fear raging inside of me. “But I can’t. I can’t let you shoot me here.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” I say, jerking my head up. Tears prick my eyes, and he begins to blur in front of me. “I don’t want to do this. I just don’t!”
Deke rakes both hands through his sun-highlighted hair and exhales sharply. He slowly rubs his hands over his face, and when he removes them, I see the conflict in his eyes.
And then I realize what a horrible spot my fear has put him in. Deke needs this footage for work. He could get into trouble if he doesn’t have it.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” he says, standing up.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, staring up at him. “I don’t know what I’m saying. I’ll do it. Give me the mic.”
Deke takes another long look at me. And whenever he does that, I feel like he can see into my soul.
“No. I’ll figure out a way around this. I’ll be back. Oh, and give me your boarding pass.”
I don’t even question him. I reach inside my tote bag and hand it to him, wondering if he’s going to make sure he’s seated twenty rows away from me. I know Deke has to be pissed. How can I do this to him? How can I ask him to risk his assignment because I’m afraid of flying?
I draw my knees up in my chair and rest my chin on top of them. I’m about to burst into tears. I hate myself. I hate myself for letting my phobia control my life like this.
Then I jerk my head up. Where did he go? I search the gate area, but he’s disappeared.
He’s left you, I think. Like any sane person would.
I try the breathing exercises again. But it’s kind of hard to focus on serenity and relaxation when you keep looking around the terminal for any signs of Deke.
After what seems like forever, I see him heading back toward me, carrying two bottles of water.
He hands one of them to me, which I gratefully take.
“Where did you go?” I ask, feeling weak.
“I had the gate agent seat us together,” Deke explains, unscrewing the cap of his bottle and taking a swig. I take the boarding pass from his hand, relieved that he’s not mad at me after all.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Then I went to get some water. This is the brand you like, right?”
Despite how awful I’m feeling, my heart floats a bit.
“Yeah,” I say, staring at the bottle. “Thank you.”
Suddenly the music cuts off overhead.
“Welcome to Premier Airlines Flight 1978, non-stop service to San Francisco,” the agent announces in a pleasant voice. “We’re now ready to board our Luxury Class cabin.”
Panic shoots through me as I watch passengers get up. I’m paralyzed with fear. This is it. I stare out the window at the gleaming silver jet, the one with the plum “Premier Airlines” letters on the side.
I could quite possibly die on this airplane.
“Avery? Avery, what’s wrong?” Deke asks, putting his hand on my arm.
“Nothing,” I gasp, fighting for air. “Nothing at all!”
“We’d like to continue boarding Flight 1978 to San Francisco . . .” the agent says.
Flight 1978. That just sounds doomed, doesn’t it?
“Now boarding . . .”
Oh God. It’s time to get on the airplane.
Deke stands up, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. I remain rooted to my seat. My palms are practically dripping with sweat.
“Avery?” he asks, staring hard at me.
“Right,” I say, rising. But I begin to sway from dizziness, and Deke quickly rights me.
“Avery!” he says. “What the hell is wrong?”
“Nothing,” I snap defensively. “My . . . my blood sugar is just low. Let’s leave it at that.”
I pick up my purse and tote and begin moving down the jet way. Deke silently walks by my side, and I don’t have to even look at him to know he’s studying me with that thinking expression on his face.
We board the plane, and my chest is crushing me. The fear is throbbing now, like a continual drumbeat. I slowly make it to my seat, at the back of the airplane, and begin to shake as I sit next to the window.
I shove my tote bag and purse underneath the seat in front of me, kicking them into place with my foot. Then I glance out the window and immediately jerk my head away, not wanting to see the wing when it falls off the airplane.
“Oh my God,” he says, sinking down in the seat next to me as he’s just put all the pieces of a puzzle together. “You’re afraid of flying.”
I sit paralyzed in my seat. There is no way I can stare into those Caribbean Sea-colored eyes and lie. Deke would know it in a second if I tried.
And suddenly I’m overwhelmed. I’m about to burst into tears, so I just nod.
“Avery—”
“I’m . . . I’m a fraud,” I gasp between painful breaths. “This . . . this documentary is a joke! I work . . . for an airline . . . and . . .”
Suddenly Deke takes my head and pushes it down near my knees.
“Breathe,” he murmurs, his head next to my ear, his lips brushing against my hair. “Take a really deep breath, Avery.”
And as I breathe, I feel his hand stroking my hair.
“Did you know,” he says, his raspy-tinged voice soft against my ear, “that hundreds of thousands of people fly over the United States at any given time?”
Breathing instantly becomes easier as I let that thought wrap around my brain.
“Really?” I gasp.
“Uh-huh,” Deke says, his fingers slowly trailing through my hair. “And every pilot up in the cockpit is a highly-skilled, heavily-trained professional. You can’t say that about everyone next to you on the Dan Ryan Expressway, now can you?”
“No,” I admit.
“Take another breath, Avery. Then slowly exhale.”
I breathe in and exhale, the pain in my chest loosening its grip on me.
“Is that better?” he asks.
I slowly sit back up. “Yes.”
“Were you on a bad flight once?” he asks softly, studying me.
I nod. “Very turbulent.”
Deke nods in understanding. “It might help if you think of turbulence like this: when you drive your car, and you hit a pothole, you bump, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I admit.
; “And sometimes you really hit it hard, jarring the car. But you don’t get scared, do you?”
“No,” I say honestly.
“Think of turbulence like that. It might rattle the plane, but it’s just a pothole in the sky.”
I feel some of the tension ease out of my body with his words. But as soon as the engines rev up, sheer panic floods me.
“I can’t do this,” I sputter.
“Avery—”
The flight attendants move down the aisles, going through safety procedures for the aircraft. I, of course, know them by heart because I’ve studied them for two weeks in preparation for my doomed flight today. I’ve also read a freakish number of articles on the best way to survive an airline crash, too.
“All those tips,” I babble, thinking of the stupid conquer your fear e-mail. “Those tips are full of total crap.”
“What tips?” Deke asks.
I notice the plane is turning now. Oh God, I want off. Man wasn’t meant to fly. It’s not natural. We’re supposed to be on the ground, not up in the air in this metal monstrosity.
“What tips? Tell me,” he asks in a matter-of-fact-tone. As if he’s oblivious to the fact that I’m freaking out next to him.
The captain now comes on and says we are getting in line for take-off.
Oh my God we’re about to take off.
“I’m supposed to read a book or magazine,” I spit, rattled. “Like that’s going to help.”
“Avery—”
“Or I’m supposed to focus on a pleasant thought to distract myself,” I say, talking over him. “Like that is going to make me forget that I’m traumatized about flying.”
The plane turns again. The engines are roaring now. There’s no going back.