“Our dear cameraman, Stan, has just…”
She waited, sniffed, and looked forlorn. “Passed. For those of you out there today, we are encouraging you to stay home. Stay away from places where there are crowds… ummm…” She cringed. The ums and the ahs and the ohs were taboo, and she couldn’t help it. “Please, take my advice and… stay home? Maybe gather your belongings and hunker down, prepare for the worst. I don’t have any word on when aid will reach us. When we last touched based with our reporters at the airport, they, she… Cynthia, was it? Said that there was quite a bit of activity there that should be avoided, so avoid that.”
Annabelle put her hands over her face and took a deep breath.
It was pointless. Stan, or whatever, was dead. The producer was gone, Laticia gone. Not a single soul stepped in and told Annabelle what she was supposed to do next. The anchor job was not even a reality—there would be no anchors. She knew that. She must have been silent for twenty or more seconds, and she stared at the blood on her shirt.
“Forgive me, viewers, but I simply can’t fake this anymore. I don’t know what’s happening, and no one can tell me. I’m lost and alone. Mom and Dad… if you can hear me, I love you and I’m going to come home. Okay? So, wait for me. And be safe. Everyone… just be safe.”
She stripped the microphone off her collar and pulled the pack off her waist. Gently, Annabelle set the pack on the anchor desk and walked away. She walked straight to the back of the studio and pushed open the double metal doors—sunlight greeted her, real light, not artificial studio light, and she blinked back its brightness. The TVs in the adjoining room danced and flipped through image after image of the bleak reality outside of the studio walls. She watched as planes fell from the sky, cars piled up on the freeway, and bodies collapsed in the street.
It was then she realized that the photo stream, with its ticker underneath, was a national newscast.
And they were showing it on their channel. Seconds ago, Annabelle thought the local viewers had watched solemnly as she tearfully took her leave of the anchor desk, but she dropped her head and her shoulders slumped. They’d cut away from the mess of her broadcast and who knows how long ago, too. She didn’t know if she was relieved or devastated.
Annabelle looked around. The station was deserted. Laticia. The producer. No one was left. And even if she went back and tried to salvage what was left of the news, no one would be on the other end to watch it. Annabelle felt sick. Her parents. She had hoped her on-air call to them had been enough, but if it hadn’t reached them, then she had endured this tragedy without attempting to see if they were okay. She spun and tried the door back to the studio, to see if she could navigate back toward her purse, her phone, but it was locked. Several times, she pulled and tugged on the metal door, and then she banged her fist against it, but it was no use. She rubbed her scalp and felt the small, plastic extensions at her crown. Her feet felt heavy and her eyes itched.
No, her eyes felt like they were on fire.
Annabelle dug the heels of her hands into her eye sockets and cried out.
Her chest seared with pain and she felt compelled to cough; it came on suddenly and unexpectedly, and she didn’t know what to do, so she let her body explode with a coughing fit so ferocious that she felt the pain in her legs. When Annabelle looked down, she realized her lace top was now covered in blood.
Was it her blood? Stan’s blood? It couldn’t be her blood.
She wiped her mouth and smeared a line of red across the back of her hand. Annabelle coughed again. A bright light flashed in her line of vision. Her first thought was that someone was taking a picture of her—did she have a fan? Was someone taking a studio tour? Her vision blurred, and the bright flashing became more intense. Annabelle’s stomach ached. The nausea was unbearable; how lucky she was to throw up off camera. Her eyes burned. She coughed again and fell to her knees. So, this was what it feels like, she thought as everything around her began to blur.
She wished she had known before. She wished she would’ve been able to tell the people at home. “It will hurt… you’ll be sick… your eyes won’t close and you’ll see the world fall and you’ll feel every ache and for a second, you won’t mind that you are dying because you want to die. Dying is better than this.”
Annabelle’s cheek hit the tile, and a warm pool of blood grew around her open mouth. But her eyes could still see the TVs in front of her right as it cut to the national anchorwoman. She looked great, poised, and unafraid. Stoic and sincere. Annabelle was jealous.
DARLA’S DAY – Portland International Airport
The airplane hit a small patch of turbulence and bounced once or twice in quick succession. Darla reached out and put a protective arm over her son Teddy, who was blissfully unaware of the bumpier-than-usual morning; he colored with precision in a Mickey Mouse coloring book and didn’t even flinch as the plane rolled and shook. A few seats in front of them, a drink cart rattled up the aisle, and the sour flight attendant with the ascot and a gold pair of wings affixed to her navy blue uniform stared at each Coke can with scorn as she poured.
Darla tried to read her face for signs of distress. But she was certain the woman was merely aggrieved by the normal frustrations of passengers’ soda demands, and not worried about the plane’s overzealous shaking.
“Get me a ginger ale,” Darla’s wife Grace mouthed, nodding to the approaching offerings.
“You feeling okay?” Darla asked. The plane dipped and rose sharply.
Grace’s face was ashen. She shook her head once and turned to stare out the window. “I hate flying,” she said over the top of her son’s head. “Is it usually this bumpy?”
“Two hours,” Darla replied. “And yes… wind streams…” she mumbled, unsure of the details and hoping Grace wouldn’t ask her to elaborate. She was sure turbulence had to do with wind streams. Darla flew for business at least twice a year, and yet each time she boarded a plane, she was filled with sudden worry that the giant, metal vehicle wouldn’t stay in the sky. But her fears of flying paled in comparison to Grace, who broke out in hives the moment the plane pulled away from the gate.
If Teddy cared about or noticed his moms’ anxiety about the flight, he ignored it. The child had not internalized any of their fear and while the women found themselves agonizing over every engine change or small jolt, he was calm. Darla ran her hand through Teddy’s hair—he had gorgeous, brown curls that begged to be touched.
The flight attendant paused in front of their seats and blinked slowly twice, sniffed, and raised her eyebrows in expectation. She did not attempt to verbally communicate with the fliers and instead hoped that her lazy, pursed lip look was enough. Deep in the back of Darla’s thoughts, she wondered if she’d done something to offend the attendant, and she resisted the urge to fight rudeness with rudeness. Donning a bright smile, Darla pointed to Grace first.
“A ginger ale, please. Just some water with ice for him. And a vodka tonic for me.”
Grace rolled her eyes and smiled. Darla shrugged.
“Whatever it takes. Two more hours, right?” she said.
“Then make it two,” Grace said.
She took the ginger ale and passed it to her wife. “We’ll make that two vodka tonics,” she said. And the lady made the drinks wordlessly before holding out her dry palm for a credit card. She slid it lazily through her machine and handed it back without making eye contact, then she pushed her cart up the aisle.
“Cheers,” Grace said as she poured her mini bottle into the bubbling tonic and lifted the plastic cup to Darla’s. They held them up in the air for a beat and then took cautious sips.
“What are you drinking?” Teddy asked as he lifted his own water to his lips.
“A mommy drink,” Darla said.
“I want a sip.”
“No, drink your water.”
“I wanted milk.”
“Only at breakfast,” Grace said.
“When will we be there?” Teddy complained as he p
ushed his coloring book away and dropped the crayons in the front seat pocket.
“Two hours,” Darla repeated.
“And then I’ll see Grandma and Grandpa?”
Grace nodded. The plane dipped and her drink splashed up along the sides of the plastic cup, spilling several large droplets onto her pants. Darla handed over an extra napkin, and Grace worked vigorously at the spot.
“Figures,” she muttered.
“Nobody expects anyone to walk off an airplane looking glamorous,” Darla said. “And that’s not even going to dry with a stain.”
“If we lived closer, it would be less agonizing. It’s just… I know we’re all going to cram into that guest bedroom and they’ll roll out the squeaky, blow-up mattress for Teddy, but he’ll just end up in our bed anyway. We’ll have to be dead silent after nine at night.”
“And there will be a big lasagna dinner. Twice.”
“It’s what you get for telling my mom you loved her lasagna,” Grace said. She set the drink down on the tray table, reached into her bag on the floor, and took out a small packet of fruit snacks for Teddy. She handed it to him without a word. Teddy snatched them up and popped several in his mouth, before Grace leaned over and whispered, “Slowly. Slowly.”
“But I like them,” Teddy replied.
Darla nursed her drink in silence and listened to the drink cart move out of hearing range. Then she felt like her mind was playing tricks on her—the nose of the plane seemed to dip, and the air pressure in the cabin was changing. It was subtle, but noticeable.
The ding-dong of the seatbelt sign rang through the cabin, and the captain’s voice came on over the loud speaker.
“Flight attendants, please return to your stations.”
“Something’s happening,” Darla said. She spun and realized that the aisles were clear, no crew members in sight. “Are we landing? Open your shutter.”
“Oh look, now who’s all panicked?” Grace opened the shutter and peered out. “Land and mountains.”
“I’m not panicked. I’m processing. It feels like we lost altitude. You know how people survive emergencies? They’re aware.”
Grace took a deep breath. “Don’t scare me. That’s not funny.”
“I’m not trying to scare you—” Darla stopped herself. “The pilot sent the flight attendants back to their seats. There’s going to be a doozy of some turbulence.” She reached down, cinched Teddy’s seatbelt a little tighter around his middle, and put a protective hand around his shoulder. The turbulence had quelled, and no one else on the plane seemed spooked by the shift or the call for the crew to return to their seats. Darla took a deep breath and tried to tell herself that she was too on-guard, too alert. Her attention to detail was both a blessing and a curse, and she had no desire to spook Grace beyond what she was already enduring.
Still.
Something was off.
After a few agonizing minutes, the captain’s voice filled the cabin.
“Hello, passengers of Delta 5722… we are rerouting our aircraft today due to a request from the ground. We’re only thirty or so minutes away from landing at PDX, Portland’s airport. Seems as though all planes are being temporarily grounded. We have no other information at this time, and we know that flight delays can be stressful, so upon landing, we will do our best to answer any concerns you have. In the meantime, we are asking for everyone to stay in their seats with seatbelts tightly fastened.”
The pilot clicked off, and people began to whisper and murmur up and down the plane. A few people turned to hunt for the absent crew, and Darla listened as the call buttons rang out inharmoniously across the cabin. A man near the front rose from his seat, the purpose of his actions unclear, and then he stumbled face-first into the middle of the aisle. Darla craned her neck to watch the spectacle, but her vision was obscured by the growing attention he received.
“What happened?” Grace asked. “Did someone faint?”
“I don’t know,” Darla replied slowly, aware of Teddy’s sudden interest in the commotion and wary to scare him. “It’s okay. People are taking care of him. Nothing to see.”
“Darla—” Grace said, her voice in a small quiver, but Darla didn’t even turn to look at her. She didn’t want to see the fear in her face because she wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. And if she couldn’t do anything about it, then she’d only find herself feeling angry and short with Grace instead of calm and nurturing. Grace needed reassurance, and it was better to channel her inability to provide that into Teddy.
“Teddy?” Darla asked. “You want to play with the iPad for a bit?”
Teddy squealed and clapped his hands. The technology card was their last bit of plane management for a boy who’d prefer to run up and down the aisles and talk to every passenger. Darla unearthed the treasure and turned it on, loaded with games, and passed it to Teddy, who navigated the swipe screen and menu with such natural ease that it made Darla jealous for the world he was growing up in.
They’d already earmarked him for a STEM school near their Los Angeles home. Teddy would enter kindergarten next year and immediately start learning how to code and the basics of engineering. The full-day program was world renowned for its science focus, and Darla and Grace had picked the school with the same careful assessment they planned to use when Teddy was ready to look at colleges.
He was their only and as their only, he would have the best of everything they could offer.
Their only for now.
Grace had just undergone treatments to prepare for their second round with IVF. That had always been their plan, and Darla was terrified for Grace as the days quickly approached for their appointment. Teddy’s arrival had been smooth sailing from day one, but this time, Darla felt uneasy, as though they wouldn’t be allowed to have it that easy again. Everything was ready—just like it had been with Teddy—Grace’s eggs and the donor sperm—the same as Teddy’s—were growing in a lab in Southern California. And when they returned from their little jaunt to see Grace’s parents, she’d have the embryos transferred. It was thrilling to think of them as a family of four. Teddy wouldn’t be alone. That was their goal more than the general expanding of their family—to give Teddy an ally, a partner, a built-in best friend. It was more for him than for them that they embarked on the expensive and hormonally challenging adventure. But that wasn’t exactly true. There was something magical in the growth of a baby; Darla felt butterflies, just like the ones when she fell in love with Grace, when she thought of her wife’s belly swelling with their son or daughter. She took vows to love Grace until death do them part, and she knew she’d do anything for the woman who gave her a family. Teddy was their everything.
The trip to Seattle was arranged to tell Grace’s parents about baby number two.
And, apparently, to eat copious amounts of lasagna while trying to entertain conversations about PBS documentaries.
Darla knew Grace’s parents loved her as a daughter… even if deep down, she knew they had always envisioned having a son-in-law and not a daughter-in-law. The shift in expectation took some work—a little bit of this, a little bit of that. It wasn’t their fault that Grace came out to them with Darla on her arm. And Darla could still recall with perfect photographic memory Grace’s mom’s face when the word “girlfriend” registered with all its layered meanings. There was no dogma impeding their acceptance of Darla and Grace’s relationship, it only required an alteration in perception. All things considered, it didn’t take that long. They were lucky in that regard.
And then Teddy came along and sealed the deal.
He had dark hair, like Darla, but his face was all Grace—the small nose, the freckles, and the large, soul-searching eyes. He was so unmistakably hers, but still felt so intimately theirs, and Darla had never loved anything as much as she loved Theodore. She loved him with an ache that stretched from her heart to toes, and the very thought of their second baby growing under the watchful eyes of their fertility doctors made her giddy with excit
ement. Could she love a second as much as Teddy? There was no question her heart had more to give. Maybe a little Talia. Their girl name. Or Beckett. Their boy name. These whispers, promises, were written on scraps of paper from restaurants, grocery receipts. They’d given up on an Everett, George, Clark, and the possibilities of a little Kendra, Holly, or Neva.
Talia. Beckett.
Darla, Grace, Teddy and Talia.
It was so close, days away.
If they could navigate the plane, the rerouting, and the elderly man whose body was lifted back into his seat. A crew member placed a plane blanket over his lap and then walked away, whispering to her colleague.
“What’s going on up there?” Grace asked.
“He must be fine. They assisted him to his seat, I think.”
“He’s dead,” Grace said, her voice low.
“Oh, please—”
“No… I read this thing. If you die on a flight, they don’t tell anyone. They just cover you with a blanket and put sunglasses on you.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Darla scoffed.
“I read it,” Grace said, indignant. “Sometimes, they give you a cocktail to hold in your hand so it just looks like you passed out drinking.”
“How is that even possible?” Darla smiled. Grace shrugged and leaned across Teddy to kiss her on the cheek. Darla reached with her right hand to find Grace’s shoulder and kept her hand planted there while Grace kept her own hand on top. They sat like this until they heard the thunk of something heavy against their seat and a high-pitched scream pierce the air.
Darla swore, and she spun around. The sour-faced flight attendant was running straight toward her, and Darla now realized the woman in the seat behind Teddy had slumped forward. She was vomiting, retching, and reaching out at her neighboring passengers with spastic disregard for their own well-being. Teddy, briefly annoyed, kept focused on his iPad even as the commotion around them grew.
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