Shit. Now it’s going to be difficult to—
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dr. Gabriel pull a tiny pillow out of his little carry-on bag. Excellent.
I pretend to be busy writing something important in my notebook, his notebook, in the hopes that my fake busyness will discourage Dr. Gabriel from trying to talk to me. It doesn’t really work, though.
“Writing an assignment for one of your classes?” Dr. Gabriel adjusts his pillow behind his head, speaking in my direction.
“Mmmhmm,” I lie quietly, continuing to pretend to write (really, I just draw some squiggly lines in the margins of the page).
Dr. Gabriel fidgets a little in his seat. Trying to get comfortable? Almost ready to go to sleep? I hope so. “Don’t work too hard—we are heading right to our first pre-conference session as soon as we arrive. There won’t be any time to rest once we get there.”
“Okay,” I mumble, praying that he falls asleep soon…and that he doesn’t somehow projectile drool on me or something. {Chamillionaire rolls in with “Ridin’” and Krayzie Bone joins him.} I scrunch further into my seat, further away from the hopefully trying to sleep Dr. Gabriel.
Holding up the yellow cover of the notebook, just in case Dr. Gabriel decides to look over at me...at what I’m writing, I begin to write my response. I move the pen up to put the letter “Y” on the page.
But my hand doesn’t make the letter.
Because I shouldn’t be having dinner with him. Because I shouldn’t be getting close to him…shouldn’t be getting attached to the idea of him…of us. You are already attached, Callie. You are beyond attached…whatever that is…
Still. He left.
Pen down. I write a “Y” after all.
You don’t have to do that. You are already going well above and beyond what a normal doctor would do to help a patient.
I read what I wrote. It looks…sounds…stupid. Formal.
But he left. He left. He left.
I close the notebook. I sneak a glance at Dr. Gabriel. His eyes are closed. He’s breathing heavily. It’s time.
One. Two. Three. I push the notebook back through the space on the side of my seat, wondering how he’ll respond to my formal tone, my dinner invitation rejection.
He takes the notebook.
A second later, I hear a quiet, quiet sigh behind me. A slow exhale. Was I supposed to hear it? I don’t know.
I lean back in my seat and try to calmly wait for his response. I’m not calm, though.
I wait. And wait and wait. Is he not going to write back? Did he leave? Wishing I had some nail polish on my fingernails, I wait some more. Dr. Gabriel starts to snore. It’s loud. And repulsive. No projectile drooling, though. Thank God.
I try to listen for noises behind me. I don’t hear anything, though. Anything except Dr. Gabriel’s loud ass breathing. I can’t believe he is being so loud. Seriously, how is it possible that he is just as obnoxious asleep as he is—
Oh my God. His snoring head starts to droop over on his headrest—moving closer and closer to me.
Closer and closer and closer. His head, his snores, his overly-kissed mouth.
I move my head, my body, further and further away from him, squishing myself into the left part of my seat…right by the window…the window of the plane…the plane that I’m riding in right now. That—
Stop thinking about the plane, Callie. Think of a solution.
{Chamillionaire starts his refrain again.}
Concentrate, Callie.
Okay…I could push him, push his shoulder and move him away. But then I would have to touch him. And I wouldn’t be able to wash my hands afterward…unless I go to the, I’m sure, disgusting bathroom on the—
Do not think about that, Callie. {Chamillionaire gets louder and—}
Focus. Focus. FOCUS.
Dr. Gabriel’s head is now hanging mid-air. Soon, he’s going to fall over and—
Oh my God. The plane is shaking. It’s shaking. Bumping. Probably about to—
My throat dries up. My ability to breathe slows and then stops altogether.
This is it. This is how I’m going to—
{Chamillionaire. Refrain again. Super loud.} This is how it is going to happen. This is how I’m going to die. Right here. Stuck in an airplane with a human collection of diseases about to land on my shoulder.
I squeeze my burning eyes shut and lean my head back on my headrest. Tears—
My eyes spring open as I hear…I feel…a huge jolt beside me. Dr. Gabriel’s chair violently jerks as though someone behind him punched or kicked the back of it. Dr. Gabriel’s head springs up momentarily, but his eyes remain closed. Then his head falls back onto his headrest, his face pointed away from me.
Thank G—
The plane grinds up and down again.
I sit up straight in my seat. Entire body rigid. I still can’t breathe. And now I can’t swallow. I can’t—
Out of the corner of my eye, I see it.
A hand appears in the little space between the window and my seat. An upturned hand. His hand. {Damien. Very loud.}
I can’t.
I shouldn’t.
I—
The plane jerks up and down once more. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. I can’t take this. I can’t take this. I can’t take this. I—
I can’t help it. I do it. I move my hand toward his. Quickly. Onetwothree.
Contact.
Familiar contact. Achingly familiar contact.
His fingers interlace with mine and his thumb starts moving back and forth over the top of my hand. And even though I still can’t breathe…or swallow…or function, a slow warmth runs through my fingers, up my arm, and, well, right to everywhere else.
Someone gets over the loudspeaker to tell us to remain in our seats, to encourage us to put our seatbelts on. My seatbelt is already on. Still on. I don’t see how it is going to save—
He squeezes my hand. Over and over. Squeezing fuzzy heat throughout my stiff, tense limbs. My breathing resumes, but it’s shaky…inconsistent. I push myself into the back of my chair, trying to calculate how close his head, his body, must be to the back of my seat.
It has to be close. He has to be close. {The end of Enchanted plays in my mind. Amy Adams and Patrick Dempsey dance to Jon McLaughlin’s “So Close.”}
I don’t know how long I sit like that. Tense but warm. My head on my headrest, my body pressed up against the back of my chair. Holding his hand. Praying for the plane to start gliding smoothly again. Praying that we don’t die here. Realizing that if we die here at least he’s with—
A dinging from overhead knocks me out of my thoughts. I quickly realize that the plane has stopped shaking. Thank you, God. I feel a wave of relief…but I still feel tense…a different kind of tense, though. Tense and warm and tense and warm and tense and warm. {Damien takes over again. Amy Adams and Patrick Dempsey now dance to his song.}
The voice over the loudspeaker continues to talk, saying that it’s okay to move around again, that everything should be smooth from now on, that blah blah blah blah blah blah.
I don’t hear the rest.
{I just hear Damien.}
I—
Shit. Dr. Gabriel starts to stir. Loudly. He mumbles some indistinguishable phrases as his head moves back and forth erratically.
Simultaneously, our hands…my hand and his, release and pull apart. His hand, his warmth, leaves…returns to the seat behind me. And I’m left with Dr. Gabriel, who’s looking over at me sleepily. I look down at my purse, hoping he looks away from me. I wonder how that notebook is ever going to make its way to the space beside me again—how I’m ever going to get to see his response.
If he even writes a response, Callie. You turned him down. He probably won’t write back.
Well, I’m never going to know for sure, unless Dr. Gabriel falls back asleep or—
Or…unless his flight attendant somehow just reappears. As she just has. Tight outfit. Short skirt. Long legs.
Back in my sideways line of vision.
A new sigh of relief starts to—
WAIT. That’s not the same flight attendant. This one has red hair and the other one had, well, I didn’t look at her closely, but I’m sure her hair was brown or blonde or a mix of the two. Definitely not bright red. What the hell is he doing?
I try to listen to what he is saying…something about being relieved that she didn’t fall or anything during the turbulence. Like he knows her. Like he’s ever seen her before this flight, before this very moment. Like he cares about what happens to her.
This is how he gets girls…really? Girls fall for—
The redhead giggles and tosses her hair a little…well, more than a little. She’s totally falling for this…whatever he is doing to try to…I don’t know…sleep with her in the plane’s bathroom?
Now he’s asking to know her name. She giggles again and says that her name is—
I feel a nudge on my arm. I slide my hand slowly across my purse and grab the notebook that is now beside me.
He wrote back. He wrote back. He wrote back.
One. Two. Three.
I open the cover of the notebook. I immediately see that there are even more squiggly lines in the margins of the page now. A lot more. His squiggles.
My eyes wander down to the last words I wrote. My dinner rejection. Then my gaze falls further, down to his handwriting.
I’m not here as your doctor, Callie. I’m here because I ---- worry about you.
He ---- worries about me?
What is ----? What was ----?
I turn the paper over to the other side to see if I can make out whatever word is scratched out, whatever word was once part of my message. I can’t tell, though.
Trying to push my frustration aside, I read his message again. He’s not here as my doctor. So he’s here as…something else. Someone else. Someone who is worried about me. ---- worried about me.
What am I supposed to write back to that? Thank you? I’m worried about me too?
Instead of writing anything, well, any words, I add to our mess of squiggles in the page margins. Squiggle. Squiggle. Squiggle. No idea what to write. Squiggle. Squiggle. Squiggle. Squiggle. Squiggle. Squ—
The intercom dings again. Dr. Gabriel and the redhead stop talking about, well, something that involved a lot of giggling, to listen. Then the redhead slips away from Dr. Gabriel, away from my sideways line of vision, probably because, from what is being said over the loudspeaker, we are about to land.
I swallow. Hard.
If something goes wrong while we are going down, the plane will fall faster than it’s supposed to…it will slam into the ground instead of gliding smoothly, and then it will probably catch on fire and—
A new feeling on the back of my arm. Not a nudge. A firm grip. A grasp right above my bent elbow.
His thumb and finger squeeze tightly, clutching the white material of my sweater. My skin under my sweater grows warm. Hot. Burning.
The plane starts to descend. He’s holding my arm. He has me. The plane gets lower. I hold my breath. Close my eyes. I try to concentrate…not on the plane. His hand. His hand. His hand. The plane gets lower. Still not breathing. His grip. His grip. His grip. The plane gets lower and lower and lower. He has me. He has me. He has me. {Bruce Springsteen begins to sing “Secret Garden (Jerry Maguire Version)” in my already overcrowded mind.}
I feel a slight bump and my eyes spring open. Oh my God. What is happening? What—
Wait. We are gliding now, moving along. As though we are on a runway. As though we have safely reached the ground.
I think we’ve landed.
Thank God. Thank you, God. Thank you, God.
My body almost starts to relax. Almost. It’s impossible to relax…or to even really think about relaxing, while he’s clutching my arm. It’s hard to—
“Let’s get moving, Calista.” As soon as Dr. Gabriel starts to speak, the hand, his hand, disappears from my arm.
I just nod in the general direction of Dr. Gabriel, still not able to relax…now starting to wonder how this is all going to work out…how Dr. Blake can be here, can go to the conference, without Dr. Gabriel knowing…
The plane slows down to a stopped position and Dr. Gabriel stands and moves out to the aisle. He gets my travel bag down and then flings it over his shoulder.
I don’t protest. I don’t want to touch it right now anyway. Not with all of his germs on it.
Dr. Gabriel grabs his belongings next, and then he stands looking at me, waiting for me to stand up.
But when I stand up, my eyes are going to find his. I’m not going to be able to help it. I know it. I’m—
Dr. Gabriel coughs impatiently.
Okay. One. Two. Three.
I unclip my seatbelt. Then I put the yellow-covered notebook in my purse. I’m obviously not going to give it back right now. Not in front of Dr. Gabriel. Besides, I haven’t written back yet. Or even thought of an acceptable response. I—
CALLIE. Stand!
Dr. Gabriel is still waiting. His body faces mine, but his eyes are now wandering a little…probably looking for his flight attendants.
Okay. One. Two. Three.
I slowly push my body up. My head immediately begins to twist back, back to the seat behind me. I move up a little. I see the top of his head, his dark hair. Up more. I see his forehead, scrunched up in concern. Up more. I see his eyes. {Damien.} Blue, blue eyes. Staring right at me. Full of concern. Anxiety. Worry.
Full of something else too. Something more.
I think of the ---- in his message. Is that—
His eyes change, moving quickly…urgently…to the side, directing me to look at Dr. Gabriel.
Onetwothree. Without wanting to, but knowing that I have to, I turn my eyes, my head, to my traveling companion. His head is just turning my way, turning back toward me.
“Ready?” He definitely sounds like he is irritated with me. Had I known that he’d be annoyed with me for so long…and not trying to talk to me for so long, I would’ve arranged for Mandy to take me to the airport long ago.
No, I’m not ready, Dr. Gabriel. I’m not ready.
I nod, though. Then I start to move my feet toward Dr. Gabriel, forcing myself to look straight ahead. Not back.
I don’t get very far.
“Go ahead first, sir. She’s kind of slow today.” Dr. Gabriel speaks (rudely). To HIM. About ME.
My eyes and head move before I can stop them, trying to see his reaction.
And…and he has his game face on. He smiles politely at Dr. Gabriel and then quickly at me, his eyes landing on mine for only a beat before he moves out to the aisle, grabs a bag from the above compartment, and turns to walk toward the plane’s exit.
“Go ahead, Calista.” Dr. Gabriel’s voice reminds me to stop watching him. To stop seeing his every move.
I look back at Dr. Gabriel. He is motioning for me to go ahead of him…to start walking down the aisle. Right behind Dr. Blake.
Okay.
One. Two. Three.
I hold my purse close to my body and scrunch in, moving past Dr. Gabriel without brushing up against any part of him. Thank God.
Then I walk slowly. Right behind him. Black pants. White collared shirt. Sleeves rolled up partially on his arms.
We only take a step or two at a time. In between steps, we stop as passengers get into line, step out into the aisle to collect their luggage.
Each time we stop, I just stand behind him. Inches away. Breathing in and out, in and out, in and out…taking in his cologne. The closeness of him, the smell of him, almost consumes me…leaving me with only a faint awareness of my now grumbling stomach, of the people I pass who are still sitting in their seats, of Dr. Gabriel, who is mercifully leaving adequate space between us as he walks behind me.
I keep myself scrunched together. No one bumps into me or touches me. I stand only a step behind the one person I wish I could reach out and touch…and hug…and more…right now.
Eventually, too soon, it is time for him to step off the plane. I watch him move onto the platform below. A moment later, I follow, stepping one foot back onto normal, solid, not going to take off, ground.
He turns his head briefly, so briefly, as I walk my other foot off the plane. A quick look, a quick smile, and then he turns back around just as Dr. Gabriel gets off the plane behind me.
I push my body to turn toward Dr. Gabriel and then we walk side by side through the airport, to the exit doors. I walk carefully, not bumping into the people and luggage moving around me. Not bumping into Dr. Gabriel, who talks the whole time we walk—about the pre-session, about the conference, about a bunch of things that I don’t even hear. I force my head to turn to him occasionally as he talks…but my eyes, I just can’t control.
They look ahead. Far ahead. At a familiar back. A familiar walk. Familiar dark tousled hair. I watch him until I can’t anymore, until he disappears into the masses of people swarming around the airport.
Chapter 15
pre-session
IT’S 5:00 P.M. AND I HAVE to go to the bathroom.
Not this second. I can still hold it for another hour or so. But eventually, I’m not going to be able to hold it anymore. I haven’t been to the bathroom since around 7:30 this morning. At my house. In my bathroom.
But I’m not going to be able to go to my bathroom this time. Obviously.
And I’m not going to go into any of the bathrooms here…not in the lobby…not in the hallways between the conference rooms…not in the hotel restaurant…not in my hotel room—the room where Dr. Gabriel apparently sent my travel bag. The room I’m supposedly going to fall asleep in tonight.
None of these places, these bathrooms, are going to work. Too many people have used them. Too many germs. Too many diseases.
So I need a miracle. A bathroom miracle. And it needs to happen in the next hour (maybe an hour and a half).
In the meantime, I need to try to concentrate on the current speaker, the current presentation going on in front of me. I cross my legs tightly and try to focus on a lecture about contemporary genres of fiction.
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