Forget You Know Me
Page 12
“Certainly. In the meantime—”
“Save receipts,” Liza said dutifully. “Thank you.”
Amelia was saying something else when Liza disconnected the call, but she couldn’t bring herself to care what.
* * *
Liza didn’t know what drew her to make the short drive down the interstate and east on Red Bank Road to the small complex of Lunken Airport. It might have been that she and Molly used to meet here after work, power walking their frustrations away on the five-mile trail that wound around the municipal airfield and along the adjacent golf course. It might have been that back when she’d felt restless in Cincinnati, she’d liked to watch the takeoffs, to crane her neck for glimpses of the colorful small aircraft inside the hangars, to imagine the freedom-fueled lifestyles of their owners—who might stop off for a quick jaunt into the sky the way others kill an hour at the mall or clear their head at the gym. Or it might have been the weather, the sun a beacon in a cloudless blue, one of those warm spring days that carried the promise of summer.
After hanging up with the insurance agent, she’d sat alone at the kitchen table with Luke’s laptop, sipping reheated coffee, browsing the Chicago news sites, and then searching every keyword combination she could think of. There was, incredibly, no further news about the fire or its aftermath—not an update, not a what-we-know recap, not a blip. All she found was a GoFundMe page raising funeral expenses for a tenant who didn’t look familiar, and a blog post soliciting prayers for another in a burn unit. She forked over fifty dollars for the first and felt a wave of shame over the latter. Liza’s relationship with God was complicated. She’d never been able to decide what to believe, but she envied those who had. Especially now, when faith might have offered comfort.
She couldn’t shut out that Amelia woman’s voice: That’s not something we get involved with. So compartmentalized. The idea of having no vested interest in how the fire had started or why—well, Liza supposed she envied that, too. As it was, the fact that her own life-changing headline was so easily buried in the steady stream of other Chicago news seemed a fitting end to her time there. One that left her longing for something she couldn’t put her finger on, until she couldn’t stand to stare at the screen anymore. Until she needed to get out.
And found herself here. Maybe she was after the reassurance, the miraculous normalcy of a place where flimsy things took flight, glided through the danger zone, and came safely back down.
She parked at the far end of the trail, near the ballfields, and began a tentative stroll, though she wasn’t dressed well for it, the most suitable outfit her mother had brought consisting of jeans that would start to chafe and a light sweater that would prove too warm for the day. It was useful, at least, that her only surviving shoes were sneakers. Lunken managed to be both the same as she remembered it and different. Smart new signs directed traffic, with maps showing how the loop now connected to another trail network, and there were more bikes than there used to be—the athletic crowd on its lunch break—whizzing past her with a brisk, “On your left!” A large sign advertised an air shuttle offering regular service to Chicago and a few other select cities.
Liza could almost hear Max. Let me get this straight, he’d say. So far, on your first full day in Cincinnati you’ve gotten an offer for expenses-paid housing in Chicago and then, immediately upon leaving the house, stumbled upon the fastest way back?
She wouldn’t take either as a sign. Only as a test. One she intended to pass.
She and Molly had always been walkers—as teenagers, they’d gone out late at night, long after dark, pulling sweatshirts over their pajamas and each starting out from her own house until they met in the middle. In the glow of the streetlights and the shadows in between, they’d talk about their crushes, their fears, their dreams for the future. It was something girls would no longer be allowed in the age of helicopter parenting and social media shaming—heaven forbid something should happen, the parents would be skewered alive—and too bad. She’d missed those intimate walks once she and Molly took to pounding this sunny pavement instead, trading in their flannel pants for designer exercise gear. Not that their conversations hadn’t still been earnest, but even then their friendship had been changing. She couldn’t think of an example of anything that was actually improved by becoming more conventional.
As she made her way past a sea of parked golf carts and down to the chain-link fence enclosing the airport grounds, a small jet was taxiing to the runway, and Liza thought of Molly’s nervous recounting of Daniel’s departure that last night on the phone, about the way Grant had begged his father not to leave.
You’re never coming back, never!
She had a sudden vision of someone chasing after the plane, arms waving, saying the same. She shivered, looked away as the jet aligned on the strip and began to pick up speed. Maybe Grant had rightly sensed impending doom, just not where it was coming from. Had things played out differently, she might have found a way to ask him, might even be staying with Molly instead of Luke now.
Then again, had things played out differently, she wouldn’t be anywhere at all.
The trail veered uphill to its most isolated stretch, parallel to the river, and Liza took deep breaths of the warm air to calm herself—in through the nose, out through the mouth—and gave herself over to the rhythm of ambient noise, propellers and distant motors, and a chorus of insects strumming to life where wildflowers and weeds would soon rim the path. In Chicago, her favored trail had the open water of Lake Michigan going for it but left little opportunity to tune out the urban center towering on the opposite side. Here she might have pretended she was just about anywhere—in any field under the endless sky—but for once, in spite of everything, was where she wanted to be. More or less. Home. One day soon, she would be glad of it, if she could stop thinking so much of how and why she’d found herself back where she started.
She rounded the final bend, where the dusty farmers market assembled, pulling at her sweater, which had grown as sticky as she’d known it would. In a triangle of newly painted crosswalks and parking lots, she was delighted to find the original art deco terminal looked just as it always had, a monument to the brief era before airports had morphed into endless corridors barricaded behind winding security lines. This one, which had neither a metal detector nor a ticket window that she’d ever seen, was mostly patronized by people in need of a public restroom or a cold drink, the word terminal accurate only in the sense that hangars filled with private and corporate aircraft were beyond its walls. She’d forgotten there was a restaurant here, and the nostalgic Sky Galley sign beckoned her. She hadn’t managed anything at breakfast, and the miles she’d clocked were starting to make her light-headed. Business at the trail was winding down with the lunch hour, bikers loading their car racks, dog walkers pouring water into collapsible bowls, a stroller-toting group of moms converting a bench to a diaper-changing station. Maybe she could snag a table on the patio. Funny enough, she’d come to watch the planes but had scarcely noticed them once she’d gotten going, lost in her thoughts.
She climbed the concrete stairs and pulled open the heavy metal door, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the dimness inside. An aviation-themed gift shop was dark in front of her, a “Closed” sign flipped on the glass door, but the restaurant was open to her left, and she stepped past a chalkboard easel—“Now Hiring: Shift Manager”—to poke her head in. Making her way through the narrow galley of the bar to the hostess station, she saw that only a few tables were occupied. Receipts peeked out of black folios on several others waiting to be cleared.
“Be with you in a moment,” a waitress said, breezing past with a tray.
“I’m not in a hurry!” Liza called after her. “Take your time.”
The woman disappeared into the kitchen, where she apparently intended to take Liza up on her offer. By the time she reappeared moments later, she’d smoothed her frizz of a ponytail and smelled of cigarette smoke. “Anywhere you like,” she said, men
u in hand, as if this were a fair trade for the wait. “And thanks for the breather. We’re beyond short staffed.”
“Got anything on the patio?”
“You’ll have it to yourself.”
A handful of metal tables huddled behind the restaurant in full view of the airfield, and Liza chose one of only two in the shade, giving the menu a cursory glance before ordering a water and a chicken Caesar wrap, substituting fries for the Saratoga chips. The beer list was decent. Maybe she’d stick around for one once she put something in her stomach. A helicopter was making quick work of takeoff, and she watched it hover there, enjoying the man-made breeze even as it carried the faint scent of fuel.
For the hour around the loop, she’d resisted the weight of her phone in her pocket, the urge to check again for some update. She took it out now—a habit, anyway, when dining alone—but she’d drawn out the suspense for nothing. Few of the headlines had changed since this morning, though she did have a text from Max: How you holding up?
What to say? How was one supposed to hold up when half of her neighbors were dead, the other half injured, homeless, or both, and all rendered yesterday’s news? She scrolled past today’s tragedies again, and the headlines called out to her, begging to be reconsidered. “Undetected Gas Leak Kills Five” might have been “If Only Someone Had Noticed the Smell.” Or perhaps “She Noticed the Smell, and He Assured Her It Was Nothing.” Or maybe “Undetected Gas Leak Almost Killed Six, but One Got Invited to a Slumber Party.”
“Are you okay?” She looked up, startled, to find a man in a starched pilot’s uniform seated at the adjacent table. His eyes held hers as he plunked his straw into a glass of water and twisted the paper in his fingers. She hadn’t noticed anyone coming or going, yet not only was he here, sharing the shrinking shade, but so was her lunch order, perched with a roll of silverware on the table’s edge.
“I don’t want to overstep,” he continued, “but you look upset.”
She shook her head quickly, setting her phone aside and pulling the plate in front of her, unrolling the napkin into her lap. She could feel his expectant stare. At major airports, the pilots appeared rushed, overworked, headed somewhere important, usually in pairs. This one seemed buoyant, energetic, fit. He took off his cap and laid it next to his water. He looked, when it came down to it, damn sure of himself. Of life.
“Ever have a near-death experience?” she blurted out.
He sat back in his seat, surprised, and she flushed. “A close call, I mean.” She pointed at the sky, indicating her meaning. Up there.
His expression shifted toward amusement. “Probably,” he said, with a small shrug. He had a shock of auburn hair and an easy, open smile, and she guessed he was about her age, maybe a few years older. He cocked his head at her, as if debating whether to say more. “Are you about to be one of my passengers?”
She shook her head, and his posture relaxed. “Okay, then. Seven things generally have to go wrong for the plane to go down. Does that make you feel any better?”
She blinked. “Well … no. I’m not sure I believe that’s true.”
He laughed again. “Which one of us is the pilot?”
“But what about a—” She looked around. No one else was here. The word was forbidden in airports—did this one count? “Bomb?” she whispered.
Homeland Security did not appear.
“You went there,” he said, eyebrows raised.
“It’s six fewer than seven things,” she said.
“Well, I don’t know. First, a bomb could go off anywhere. Second, seven things might have to go wrong for a bomb to make it onto a plane.”
“Okay,” she said, pointing a skeptical French fry in his direction and taking a bite. It was slightly undercooked but satisfyingly salty, and she washed it down with the rest of her water. “What are the seven things?”
“Well, they’re not always the same seven.” He nodded at her fry. “Those any good? My past few orders were undercooked.”
The waitress reappeared with a pitcher and refilled her water glass. Liza was suddenly as ravenous as she was thirsty, and she took a big bite of her wrap as the ponytail swung toward the pilot.
“The usual, Henry?” the waitress asked him.
“I’ll change it up and have that wrap, too,” he said. “It looks good. With the—” He glanced at Liza, and she swallowed the bite and mouthed, Saratoga chips. He smiled at the server. “Just as it comes, thanks.” She disappeared inside, and he laughed. “Undercooked, I take it.”
“Seven things must have gone wrong with the fryer.” She held out a fry, and he took it, chewing thoughtfully.
“Probably just one,” he conceded. “That theory applies to disaster. An undercooked fry doesn’t really qualify.”
“Having worked in the hospitality business, I can assure you not all customers agree.”
He laughed again, full and hearty, and she went on devouring the wrap, not really caring that he was watching. She didn’t mind the company but wasn’t about to put her lunch on hold now that the walk had coaxed her appetite back. “Let’s back up,” he said, gesturing toward a puddle jumper coming in for a landing. They watched as it hopped onto the runway, then rolled to a stop not far from them. “The general idea is that for something major to go wrong, a lot of little things have to go wrong, in sequence. The only constant is human error. It usually plays a role.”
She frowned, turning back to him. “So when you hear about a near miss, that just means someone stepped in or something stopped the momentum before the seventh thing?”
“Exactly. You asked about close calls, but those don’t just happen, either.”
“You don’t believe in luck?”
He shrugged. “A winning lottery ticket is pretty lucky. But a plane that doesn’t crash after something went wrong just has a well-trained pilot.” There was something maddeningly charming about how certain he was. Or maybe she just liked that he’d given the theory so much thought. It made her feel less crazy for having asked in the first place.
“You’re agreeing with me, then,” she pointed out, sounding more coy than she’d intended. Sometimes her inner flirt couldn’t help herself. “Disaster could always be right around the corner.”
“Ideally, around seven corners. But usually at least three or four of them. I don’t think you should worry so much, is all.” It was a nice distraction, talking about this without really talking about it. Voicing her concerns without addressing what had caused them. She’d do better to stay out, like this, making idle chitchat instead of holing up with her thoughts, where even a hooting owl could give her an anxiety attack.
The waitress returned with her check and his food, and Liza plunked a credit card on the table and smiled at her. “I saw that you’re hiring a manager. Do you think they’d consider someone whose experience is mostly in hotels?”
“I think they’d consider just about anyone at this point. And that I should probably not be so blunt with someone who could end up being my boss. Would you like an application?”
“Please.” Liza turned back to the pilot as the server disappeared inside. “Look, if that’s what makes you feel better when you’re up there, I won’t dissuade you.”
His eyes held a hint of mischief. “If you’re looking for a job, I could use another crew member, but you might have to chill out seven notches.” She crumpled up her napkin and tossed it at him, and he ducked dramatically. He held out a Saratoga chip as a peace offering, and she popped it in her mouth.
“A little too crunchy, Henry,” she said, trying out his name, and he tossed the napkin back. She caught it midair.
“You know,” he said, then stopped short. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”
“Liza.”
He smiled as if this affirmed some suspicion he’d had—like he’d known it all along and just wanted to see if she did, too. “You know, Liza, most people are looking for a statistic that will make them feel better—the probability of a positive outcome—n
ot arguing against it. Why aren’t you?”
The server reappeared, credit card and application in hand, and Liza picked up her purse and got to her feet, trying to pretend it wasn’t an excellent question.
14
Daniel hadn’t traveled much for work until recently—but when he did, he usually flew out of the international hub, like most everybody else, allotting extra time to deal with the excruciatingly slow long-term parking shuttle, with the unpredictable bridge construction, with the remote possibility of being pulled out of the security line for a pat-down. He’d have traded it in a heartbeat for this—the VIP jet out of Lunken, with practically door-to-door service—if it didn’t mean he also had to wonder what he’d done to deserve it.
Or what he’d be expected to do in return.
I can give you plenty of reasons to reconsider, Toby had written. Daniel hadn’t replied and had managed not to cross his path since. But Daniel also knew that Toby had booked this flight—this whole trip, in fact, of which the purpose was murky—and Daniel clung to an uneasy hope that it had nothing to do with either reasons or reconsidering.
He’d been weighing his options. He did not, he’d decided, want to investigate further—to look into who else might be involved in Toby’s scheme and to what extent. The less he knew, the better. The ship of feigning complete ignorance seemed to be sailing, but he wasn’t quite ready to see it off. Maybe he could still continue as if he knew nothing or even start looking for employment elsewhere, get out while the getting was good.
Or he could bring his suspicions quietly to his superiors now and hope they’d go easy on him, spare his job, though he hadn’t given them much reason to. He was still working out the best way to plead his case, should he choose this route. But he was also considering another: one that turned this on Toby, giving him a chance to put the cookies back in the jar, no one the wiser. If he succeeded, both men could ostensibly proceed without consequence—though if anyone were to discover what had happened after the fact, Daniel would then be involved at a level he could lose more than just a job over.