Breathe in and out. In and out.
“Sorry,” murmured the man.
“Don’t worry about it.” The response was one hundred percent genetic. Applegates were polite, even with anxiety attacks looming.
At the fringe of her consciousness, the scent of burning cotton. Sweet, like leaves burning in autumn.
Stop it, she told herself.
For the past twelve years, her mother had referred to Jillian’s refusal to fly as her daughter’s “little thing with flying,” but it had nothing to do with flying, or airplanes, or airports, even though Jillian avoided them all.
The sweet burnt-leaf scent was joined in her imagination by the acrid scent of burning feathers.
Stop it!
Her stomach clenched. Her heart had been racing ever since the “Airport Exit” sign on US 101. Any minute now, her extremities would start tingling and she wouldn’t be able to breathe.
Desperately, she turned her attention to the baking school flyer: “Il Pane Perfetto—Pastry Chef Certificate Program in Italy.” She had to get on this plane. She had to prove to her parents she was capable of flying to Italy. Had to prove it to herself.
Breathe in and out.
Applegates kept it together. Applegates excelled at keeping it together. “Keep it together” could be the family motto.
Breathe in and out. Keep it together, Applegate.
The suitcase struck her a fourth time.
“Ouch!”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
It wasn’t okay. Nothing was okay.
You can do this you have to do this you will do this . . .
Feathers, burning. The stink of it in her nostrils. Her Pottery Barn Kids couch on fire. Branson in the doorway. A burst of flame.
No—stop! She was in San Francisco. At the airport. There was no smoke. No fire. No danger.
She should try counting; sometimes counting helped when working with breathing didn’t help. One, two, three, four, five. Five people remaining in front of her, ready to descend the Jetway and board the plane. Then four people. All flying. People flew. Flying was normal. Not scary. Three people to go. Jillian’s arms began to tingle. Soon she wouldn’t be able to feel her fingers.
Two people.
One person.
The gate attendant reached for Jillian’s boarding pass. “Oh, honey, we called first class ten minutes ago.”
“So sorry,” murmured Jillian.
“Not a problem for us if it’s not a problem for you!” The agent was still holding her hand out for the boarding pass.
Jillian shifted the pass out of the agent’s reach. She was shaking. Her legs wouldn’t keep her up much longer. Her nostrils remembered the sting of inhaled smoke.
Jillian spoke. “Is it okay if I . . .”
“Yes?” The agent waited for Jillian to finish her question.
From behind her, the Achilles tendon basher asked, “Is there a problem?”
Jillian turned from the gate agent to the man. “You go ahead. I’ll just . . .” Another unfinished sentence. The tendon basher advanced, held his phone over the scanner, and strode down the Jetway.
Apologizing to the gate agent, to the other passengers, to the world as a whole, Jillian stumbled toward an abandoned wheelchair emblazoned with the United Airlines logo and collapsed. She was having a full-blown panic attack.
The window. Crouching on the sill. Branson’s voice: I’ve got you. Firemen shouting from three stories below: Jump! The roar of fire behind. Branson speaking softly to her. I’ve got you. You’re going to have to jump. See? They’ll catch you.
No!
We’ll both jump. I’ll be right behind you, but you have to go first.
Jump with me!
I can’t, Jilly. If I fall wrong, I could hurt you. Go ahead. Jump now!
No!
“Sweetie, you okay?” the gate agent called to Jillian between customers. “You need assistance?”
Jillian blinked. She was here. She wasn’t seven. She was afraid of falling, not flying. She had a plane to catch. She looked again at the crumpled culinary program brochure: Il Pane Perfetto. Then she looked at her boarding pass: “Dep. San Francisco 8:15 a.m., Arr. Santa Barbara, 9:31 a.m.” In two hours, she could be sitting in her kitchen, telling Branson all about her culinary school plans.
The brochure beckoned, reminding her of what was at stake. She had to get on this flight to prove to her parents she could manage the flight to Italy, which would last eight times as long as this one. She had to do this. She could be sipping one of Branson’s perfect espressos by 10:30 . . .
She wanted to fly. She desperately wanted to fly.
“Honey?”
The gate agent was approaching her. Jillian’s stomach seized.
“That’s the last passenger except you,” said the agent. “Marva,” read the badge swinging from her lanyard. “Are we flying today?”
Jillian swallowed back a sudden rush of saliva. She would not be sick here in front of the agent. She would get on that plane. She would—
“Is it sickness or a little case of the nerves?” Marva asked softly.
It was nerves. And not a little case. This was tsunami-size. Catastrophic. The most awful case of nerves in medical history. Even before she replied, Jillian knew she wasn’t flying today.
“I . . . can’t,” said Jillian, her breath coming in short gasps.
“Nobody’s making you do anything you can’t do,” said the agent, “but I need to know if you’re planning to board the flight or not.” She lowered her voice. “Do you need medical assistance?”
Jillian shook her head. The gate swam before her eyes. “No,” she managed to say, shutting her eyes.
“Did we check a bag today?”
“No bag.”
As soon as Jillian squeaked out the confession, the agent nodded and rushed off to take care of the passengers or to put Jillian’s name on a no-fly-ever roster, or whatever it was gate agents did in these cases.
Rigid as stone, Jillian remained in the wheelchair, counting to one hundred, once, twice, three times, like the stupid Get Calm app on her phone suggested. She counted and she waited for her heart rate to slow. For feeling to return to her extremities. For the world to end.
How was she going to fly to Italy if she couldn’t even get on a one-hour flight from San Francisco to Santa Barbara? She was never going to become a baker. She was going to be stuck at the University of California, Berkeley, finishing a degree in marketing and making her parents proud, while everything that made her want to get up in the morning was eroded away, chip-chip-chip, until nothing but a cold, shriveled remnant of Jillian lingered. A tear slipped down her cheek. It was so unfair.
She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when Marva returned.
“Listen, sweetie, you sure you don’t need some help?”
Jillian shook her head. The lightheadedness, which had made her dizzy before, was gone, replaced with a dull ache gripping her head, viselike.
“Are you going to need assistance getting home?”
“I’m not afraid of driving,” murmured Jillian. “Just . . . just . . .” It would sound so stupid out loud: I’m afraid of falling out of the sky.
“Relax, honey. It’s okay. People get scared. My sister-in-law used to be afraid to fly. But then I took her ballooning and everything changed. You ever ridden in a hot air balloon?”
Jillian shook her head.
“It might help,” said Marva. “Small steps. Start with one success and build from there.”
“Thank you,” Jillian murmured politely. She even tried to sound as if she meant it.
“It took my sister-in-law years to get as far as clearing security, and look at you! You made it all the way to the gate! Ninety-five percent of the way there, sweetie. Everyone has their off days. Don’t give up, okay? Small steps.”
Jillian tried to smile as the agent gave a little wave goodbye. Then she gathered her dark brown hair, smoothing
it and pulling it into a ponytail. Neat and tidy. Rising on unsteady legs, she headed for car rentals. She had a pasted-on smile ready when the agent behind the desk greeted her.
“I’d like a one-way rental, dropping off in Santa Barbara,” said Jillian, handing over her license and her American Express Platinum. “I’m aware of the young-driver fee and I’ll pay it.”
The agent began typing. “And how was your flight today?”
“About as expected.” Jillian kept her smile firmly in position.
Applegates: keeping it together since Ralph de Apelgard, AD 1200s.
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A Thief in Time (Thief in Time Series Book 1) Page 26