Turbulence

by Whitney Gracia Williams

  “Exactly,” he said. “He’s just like me and we’ve already discussed why you’re the better fit.”

  “Even if I was stupid enough to accept anything from you, how do you plan on explaining handing over your airline to a random stranger? You only have one son, remember?”

  “I’d come clean.”

  “About your first wife as well?”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “I would tell everything. So, is that a yes to my offer?”

  “It’s a hell no. I appreciate the offer, though. If you don’t mind, I have a flight to France in a few hours. I wish you and Evan well.”

  “You said you’d honor a dying man’s wish. This is mine, Jake. This is what I want, and I also don’t want to die with you hating me.”

  “You’ve lived with it all these years. Shouldn’t make that much of a difference when you’re six feet under.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask me how I’m dying?” He looked more vulnerable than I’d ever seen him. “What disease it is at least?” What symptoms?”

  “Doing so would imply that I cared.” I motioned for the check. “Congratulations on the success of the completed merger. I wish you nothing but the best, before you die, that is.”

  “I know that goddamn book is about you,” he said, hissing. “I know that girl is referring to her relationship with you.”

  “Then that makes two of us.” I spotted the waitress following my dad’s ‘Hold off on the check’ signal instead of mine.

  “Your brother and me covered all the tracks. He was the one who put you two on so many similar flights.”

  “Are you expecting a thank you?”

  “I’m expecting some consideration. I’m covering for you in a lot of ways and I would like something in return. Would it kill you to at least consider it?”

  “No. That answer will always be the same.” I stood up. “By the way, out of pure curiosity, how many people have FCEs at your airline?”

  “Just you.”

  “Stop bullshitting me.”

  “It’s true,” he said. “Just you. A few people have ECFs, which are Executive Clearance Forms. It means they’re high up and untouchable unless they do something heinous. I think HR just assumed the FCE was the same thing.”

  “And what exactly does FCE stand for?”

  “Future CEO of Elite.”

  I stepped away from the table and walked away. I rushed back to my car and cranked the engine, quickly speeding away.

  I had the sudden urge to call Gillian and talk to her about the meeting with my father, but I suppressed it; she was still a disappointment, just like everyone else.

  GATE C50

  JAKE

  In-flight—> France

  I stared out the windscreen of the plane, unsure as to whether I was coming or going. Everything from last week to this evening had been a blur, and I needed a break. After I made my return trip on this route, I was going to request a month of personal leave.

  “Captain Weston?” A low, familiar voice asked, interrupting my thoughts. “Captain Weston?”

  “Yes, Ryan?”

  “Um...We’re clear for takeoff, sir. We’ve been clear for three minutes. If we sit here any longer, control is going to think something is wrong.”

  “Right...” I put my hand on the control, driving the plane forward—staring straight ahead. This time, there was no adrenaline rush, no release of anxiety.

  I couldn’t feel anything anymore. I just sat still as the plane coasted through the clouds for hours, wishing I could somehow re-do the past few months of my life.

  “Can I trust you alone for twenty minutes?” I asked him, unbuckling my seatbelt. “I need a Coke.”

  “Why can’t you just ask one of the flight attendants to bring you one?”

  “Yes or no, Ryan.” I rolled my eyes. “Can I fucking trust you for twenty minutes or not?”

  “You can trust me.”

  I couldn’t trust him. I left the cockpit and stepped into the relief pilot’s space, letting him know I was stepping away from twenty minutes. I walked straight to the galley and unlocked one of the drink cases. I pulled out the first two drawers, but there was no Coke in sight. There was everything else except Coke.

  “Old habits dies hard, huh?” The sound of Miss Connors’ voice made me turn around.

  “I guess so. Where is my Coke?

  “With me.” She smiled and opened a different compartment, taking out two Cokes and handing them to me. “I moved them all once I realized you were going to be flying with me.”

  “How mature.”

  “Thank you.” She laughed and leaned against the wall. “Has anyone figured out you’re the guy in the book?”

  “What book?”

  “Funny.” She rolled her eyes. “Did you know that she called me ‘The Hawk’ behind my back all this time?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “No reason.” She shrugged. “I actually liked that part. I could’ve done without knowing all the disgusting filthy things you two did in layover cities though. And did you really have sex in the bathroom in-flight? Please tell me she made that part up...”

  An image of Gillian leaning against the door and fucking me as we flew over Paris suddenly crossed my mind.

  “She made that part up,” I said.

  “I knew it was true.” She winked at me and handed me another Coke. “Do you want your dinner at seven?”

  “Eight is fine.”

  She patted my shoulder and walked away, leaving me alone. I started to call after her to ask if she’d spoken to Gillian lately, but the plane suddenly began to shake violently and the seatbelt sign flashed on.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking.” Ryan’s voice came over the speakers and the plane swayed violently to the left. “We’re experiencing an unforeseen mechanical issue with one of our engines right now. Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts.”

  The plane swayed to the right and the passengers’ fearful murmurs became louder with each second that passed by. Glasses from the first class cabin shattered onto the floor, and the overhead bins at the back of the plane flew open, forcing luggage to topple into the aisle.

  I braced myself against the wall and made my way back to the cockpit. “What the hell is happening, Ryan?” I asked. “What mechanical issue?”

  “If I knew, I would’ve said specifically what it was.” He was sitting in my seat, his hands nervously tapping the controls. “It’s the storm ahead, see? I just thought I would say mechanical issue instead of tropical storm. Sounds better to the passengers and makes them feel safer, don’t you think?”

  Jesus Christ...

  “Just call control and ask to climb,” I said flatly, taking his seat as the plane continued to shake.

  “You should know the answer to this issue after finally passing all those simulator sessions.” I waited for him to make the call, but he simply sat there, tapping the buttons. “Ryan, call control and ask to climb.”

  “I tried that right before you got here...” He swallowed. “We lost contact with them an hour ago.”

  “An hour ago?”

  “Yeah, I told you that. I said that and you just stared ahead, remember?”

  I attempted to call control on my own, getting no signals in return. I attempted to send off emergency notices, but it was no use.

  “We’re in a stall.” His voice trembled. “Do I thrust up?”

  “No. Just hold steady.” I pulled the mechanical manual from the seat. “We’ll just reset it until we’re in steadier air. As long as you didn’t already attempt to do that without me, we’ll be fine.”

  “And if I did attempt to do it?” His eyes widened as the plane suddenly tilted forward, then down toward the ocean. “If I did attempt to do it, is there another plan?”

  Fuck...

  GATE C51

  GILLIAN

  New York (JFK)

  I woke up to ten missed calls from Meredith, five from my parents, and three fro
m Kimberly. Turning my phone off, I figured it was just the same thing as any other day. More questions about interviews, more work that needed to be completed.

  I adjusted my position in the bed and tucked a pillow under my head. I grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, flipping through the channels. I skipped Lifetime, Nickelodeon, CNN, and just as I was about to give up and settle on a DVD, I stopped at NBC—gasping when I saw the headline. When I saw Jake’s employee picture.

  What?

  The anchor was saying “Here’s what we know so far,” and the ticker at the bottom of the screen was repeating the same lines: “Elite Airways Flight 491 Missing,” “Plane Hasn’t Had Contact with Base for Two Hours” “Two Hundred Eighty-Three Aboard.”

  I vomited on the floor.

  Refusing to believe the news was true, I shakily powered my phone back on.

  I called Meredith first, letting her calm me down until she boarded a flight to return to New York. It was midnight when we were forced to get off the phone, but I needed to talk to someone else. Someone else to keep me sane.

  I called Kimberly.

  “Gillian, listen to me,” she said as soon as she picked up. “I need you to turn off your phone and your internet. Only leave the TV on.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Just do it.” Her voice was solemn. “I’m actually on my way over right now, so if you haven’t done it, I will.”

  I didn’t move.

  “Gillian?”

  I cried.

  My chest heaved up and down and I attempted to say something, but nothing came out. My head was spinning with theories, regrets, and even though I didn’t want to believe it—I knew Jake was gone.

  Memories of our recklessness played in front of my eyes like a film reel—the airport bathroom fucking, the carelessness on the international flights, the blatant dating, and I felt foolish.

  I could have tried so much harder to make him listen to me. Could’ve tried so much harder to keep us...

  ***

  I didn’t realize that Meredith and Kimberly were actually in my apartment until six in the morning, when I forced myself to go to the restroom.

  They had all three of the TVs set to different news stations. All the anchors were reporting the same thing, and while Meredith was pacing the floor, talking on the phone, Kimberly was feverishly typing on her cell phone.

  “Hold on a second, Georgia.” Meredith held her phone against her chest and looked at me. “How are you feeling?”

  I shook my head.

  She walked over and patted me on the back. “They’ve sent out the Coast Guard, and a few other countries have mobilized their own search as well...” She gave me a soft smile. “They’re saying there’s a slight chance they could have landed.”

  I’d done enough book research on aviation years ago to know they had no chance, but I returned her smile. “I’m sure.”

  “It’s not impossible,” Kimberly said, still trying. “You, of all people, should know all about the successful water landings by planes.”

  “There have only been two.” I stepped back, heading toward the bathroom. “One was in the Hudson. A river, not an ocean. The other was in the Pacific. The plane survived. Not the passengers.”

  ***

  By afternoon, the total missing time of Flight 491 was eight hours. Long range helicopters, military aircraft, and coast guard boats had all been sent to scour the area where the plane last had contact.

  Jake and his copilot’s employment histories were being repeated over and again, with the news media questioning as to why Jake was listed as the Pilot-Non-Flying instead of the less experienced Clarkson.

  Elite Airways had yet to issue a formal statement regarding the incident, but a cameraman caught CEO Nathaniel Pearson watching a TV in an empty gate at JFK. He’s been slumped in a chair, crying.

  My phone was still off per Kimberly’s suggestion, but hers had been ringing nonstop.

  Interviewers wanted me to call in to their programs and speak about what I thought regarding the event, but they also wanted to know if I ever knew either of the pilots aboard.

  Kimberly handily rejected every request, and in between her and Meredith taking care of me like I was some sort of small child, she distracted me whenever I wanted to talk about Jake’s funeral arrangements.

  In the middle of me begging her to listen to me about the type of flowers I would want there, she “Shh’d” me and turned on the TV.

  There was breaking news on CBS.

  The brunette anchor cleared her throat and hazy images of an ocean and fog played on the screen behind her.

  “Good evening, loyal viewers,” she said. “We now have an update on Flight 491. According to several sources, the plane was successfully ditched in the Pacific Ocean. The area where the plane lost contact with the control towers was three hundred miles outside of the rescue team’s previous search efforts, but they are all redirecting their efforts.” She touched her ear piece. “Sources are reporting that several passengers were able to make it off the aircraft and onto the plane’s emergency flotation rafts, but at this time we do not have a number. We will keep you posted...”

  My eyes remained glued to the TV for hours, devouring every little morsel the news offered: There were actually five crew onboard, not six. Jake Weston was the lead pilot, not Pilot-Non-Flying. The Coastguard had successfully helped seventy percent of the passengers onto its boats for treatment of hypothermia, shock, and severe injuries. No crew members were being reported alive.

  I watched until the evening hours and not a single crew member was reported alive...

  OFFICIAL ELITE AIRWAYS PRESS RELEASE

  It is with sincere sadness that we offer our condolences to the family members of the eight passengers who succumbed to their injuries shortly after the water ditching of Flight 491.

  We would also like to offer our prayers to the lead captain of Flight 491, Jake Weston, and first officer, Matthew Clarkson, who were seriously injured in their efforts to get every passenger off the plane.

  GATE C52

  JAKE

  New York (JFK)

  My head was throbbing and my throat felt as if someone had set it afire.

  I attempted to sit up, but I couldn’t move. My limbs felt too heavy, and as I strained to open my eyes, I saw Gillian sitting next to me.

  Even though she was sleeping, her face was red and her cheeks were wet. Her hand was resting on my chest, and she was holding a collectible Coke can in her lap.

  I glanced at the other side of the room and saw hundreds of flower arrangements, balloons, and

  “Get Well Soon” posters. I attempted to sit up once more, but the more I tried, the wearier I became, so I shut my eyes and sighed.

  I wasn’t sure how long I lay like that, but the next thing I heard was my father’s voice.

  “Gillian?” he called. “Gillian?”

  “Yes?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

  “You’ve been here two weeks straight. Go home and get some rest.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Maybe he’ll wake up for more than a few seconds tomorrow,” he said. “You need to take care of yourself while we wait.”

  “I said, no thank you. I’m okay. Trust me.” She sounded sincere, but even in my state, I knew she was lying.

  “With all due respect, Gillian,” he said, “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.”

  “Then who stays here? You? He hates you.”

  “I don’t think you’re in his best graces either right now, Taylor G.”

  Silence.

  “Get some rest for two days and come back. If he wakes up between now and then, you’ll be my first call.” He actually sounded believable. “And you can stay at the hotel across the street. I already set up a room in your name.”

  She sighed.

  “And thank you very much, in advance, for continuing to stay mum on your visit here, Taylor G.”

  She didn’t respond to that, and the next
thing I felt were her lips pressed against my forehead. I heard her whisper, “I love you” and then I couldn’t force myself to stay awake another second.

  ***

  Weeks later...

  “Sir! Sir!” A nurse walked into my room. “Sir, get back in the bed. Now.”

  “I’d rather not.” I looked out the window. “Where’s the doctor? Tell him I’d like to be cleared today.”

  She walked over to me and crossed her arms. “Mr. Weston, I’m going to ask you very nicely to get back into your bed.”

  “Okay.” I remained by the window. “I’ll wait for you to actually ask.”

  “Mark!” She yelled. “Mark!”

  Within seconds, a bulky man dressed in all white entered the room.

  “You, again?” he asked, shaking his head at me. “Please don’t make me pick you up and put you in your bed. I’ll be forced to use a hand strap on one of your arms this time, sir.”

  Groaning, I rolled my eyes and walked over to the bed, slipping under the thin sheets.

  “Thank you.” The nurse smiled at Mark, then scowled at me.

  “According to your chart, you’ve suffered a laceration to the head, hypothermic shock, severe right ankle sprain, and two broken fingers on your left hand. Do you honestly think you’re clear to go today?”

  “It clearly doesn’t matter what I think.”

  “It doesn’t.” She smiled and checked my vitals. “You have a visitor. Are you up to seeing anyone?”

  “Depends on who it is.”

  “It’s a Mr. Pearson,” she said, quickly lowering her voice. “The CEO of your airline, I believe.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Is that a yes or a no for him?” she asked.

  “He can come in.”

  “Alright, great.” She took my temperature and headed to the door. “Do not get out of that bed again, Mr. Weston.”

  I stared at the doorway and within seconds my father appeared, looking nothing like himself. He was dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, and the usual look of confidence in his eyes was nowhere to be found.

  “Why does it look like you were in a plane crash?” I asked.