My life sped up as another bout of turbulence shook the plane—disagreeing with my positivity.
Pessimism launched into full alert.
Something is going to happen.
My heart lodged in my throat as I tore open my bag and took stock of what I had. The puffer jacket I wore had deep pockets. Without hesitation, I stuffed my passport, money, and credit cards into the inner chest pocket, zipping tight. Rushing, I made sure my phone was turned off and the solar powered charger was in my left pocket.
Another jolt and the plane twisted with an unnatural groan.
Working faster, I tucked my compact mirror, carry-on sized toothpaste and toothbrush, jewellery that I wouldn’t check in my suitcase, three hair-ties, a pen, and an unopened poncho I’d bought from a convenience store when a thunderstorm hit unexpectedly last week in Texas.
Everything I could fit disappeared into deep pockets and secured with a zip.
Once my jacket bulged with possessions, I caressed my song notebook where every tune and melody I’d ever created, every lyric and musical tale I ever thought of rested. This notebook was as precious as gold to me. Worth more than my newly signed record deal. Better than any accolade or list appearance. Without my jotted ideas, my magic would go. I would lose the symphonic world I’d become so fond of.
But the book wouldn’t fit in my bursting pockets.
Another crush of air tossed us around like a ping-pong ball. I dropped the notepad into my handbag, letting it plummet to my feet.
I listened.
Are you happy?
The sky said no.
The wind prepared to pay.
And fate shattered any hope of ever going home.
Chapter Four
...............................................
G A L L O W A Y
......
“THANK CHRIST.”
The grateful curse fell from my lips as airplane tyres bounced onto the Fijian runway. My fingers ached from clutching the arm-rests and my heart had permanently rehomed itself in my throat.
I wasn’t a pussy—most things didn’t scare me—how could it when I’d lived what I’d lived? But when it came to that kind of event (the kind that so eloquently reminded us we were nothing in the scheme of things), then yeah, I had a healthy dose of terror.
The entire descent, my mind had exploded with worst-case scenarios of agonising pain and horrific death. Of slamming into the earth, erupting into fire, burning to char with the scent of flesh in my nostrils.
The atmosphere of the flight had switched completely the moment the first judder bar turned into a bloody loop de loop. It wasn’t ordinary turbulence—this had been mean, furious—a demon dog toying with its prey.
While passengers had remained locked in their useless seats, air-hostesses quickly secured the cabin and buckled in. The wind howled louder outside, continuing to tumble us through the clouds.
I’d looked across the cabin to Unknown Girl and wished I’d been a better person, a braver bloody man. I should’ve said hello, given fate time to show why we had a connection.
But I hadn’t, and that opportunity had been snatched away as the wings of the plane shuddered and bowed.
The closer we plummeted to earth, the more adrenaline drenched my bloodstream—especially when the TV screens hissed with white noise and a few overhead lockers popped open, raining baggage from above.
Human screams punctured the mechanical screams of engines. Our velocity increased as the same substance we flew through made its life mission to tear us apart and leave the scattered pieces in the Pacific Ocean. The blackness outside hid our destination, but streaks of angry raindrops slurped their way along the window—tasting us...preparing to kill us.
I’d expected the captain to yell, “Brace, brace, brace.” I’d prepared myself for a crash and the highly unwanted repercussion of death.
But he never did.
And as close as death had come...we’d survived.
After forty-five minutes of fear and spine-jarring bucking, the captain had managed to save us from turning into road kill. We were intact—minus a few bumps and bruises from pelting luggage. We were no longer at the mercy of storms but secured firmly on the earth thanks to gravity’s hold.
An eerie quiet filled the plane as we taxied to a gate. No one spoke or clapped at the safe landing or even laughed with nervousness. It was as if the harrowing ordeal had stolen any holiday cheer, showing us how killable we were when nature wanted us.
The plane rocked as we turned toward the terminal. The waiting air-bridge danced in the storm, drenched with rain and occasional flashes of lightning.
I waited while the plane slowed and the usual rustling of passengers announced we would soon be free. The instant we docked, people launched themselves from their seats, scrambling for luggage and family members.
“Welcome to Nadi, ladies and gentlemen.” The captain’s voice cut through the raucous. “I appreciate your patience and want to thank you for remaining calm. We have just been informed by air traffic control that the storm is currently making its way north and will soon be over for those transporting to hotels and homes. However, for those travelling on outgoing services—either international connections or island links—your services have been postponed until further notice.”
An annoyed moan crested as people glared at the speakers, blaming the captain for their derailed plans.
Bloody idiots.
Were their attention spans so short they forget what we just lived through?
Shit, what about my flight?
I had to get to Kadavu—the island where I’d be building homes for locals for three months—before tonight. Otherwise, I’d have no job or place to live.
Waiting until the aisle cleared from annoying passengers, I grabbed my messenger bag and slipped from my row. My eyes flickered to the left, looking for Unknown Girl.
She wasn’t there.
She’d bolted.
Not that I could blame her. She’d been nervous as hell most of the flight, let alone the mayhem and turbulence at the end. I wasn’t an anxious flyer, but even I had expected to be shark bait rather than disembarking on two legs.
Well, good riddance.
She’d gone.
I was safe—just like I wanted.
Keeping my head down, I followed the crowd down the air-bridge and into the heaving terminal. Apparently, another flight had just arrived suffering the same warm welcome we had. Voices escalated with tales of drama and danger as people made their way to immigration.
Nothing like a shared tragedy to turn strangers into best friends.
Hooking my bag higher on my shoulder, I brushed past gossipers and beelined for the departure board. The captain had said the storm was moving away. With a little luck, the sea-plane I was meant to catch in an hour to Kadavu would still depart.
It wasn’t that I was eager to get back in the air where my life expectancy became a debate but because I’d made a promise. I’d committed to something I believed in.
It’d been so long since I’d put myself out there—wanted to put myself out there—that I wouldn’t let a little rain and wind stop me. Not now, when I was so close to finding redemption for the shitty human I’d become.
I have no choice.
I’m going.
Tonight.
Scowling at the departure board, I repositioned my glasses and brushed a hand over my face as nothing but red lettering and flashing DELAYED announced no one was getting anywhere fast.
All around me the havoc of families and screeching children amplified in decibels, sending seething frustration through my blood.
I couldn’t stay here. I couldn’t let my one opportunity to rewrite the wrongs I’ve done slip away.
The storm will blow over by the time you clear customs.
Holding onto that thought, I navigated the airport and dutifully lined up for my turn at immigration. My back ached from the landing-rodeo, but the line didn’t take too long.
Handing over my passport and already organised work permit, I was ushered through with no issues.
Marching toward the baggage claim, my dinged-up, overstuffed backpack slid down the chute directly in front of me. Hoisting the weight onto my back, I rearranged my messenger bag and scanned the terminal.
Thanks to my tall height, I skimmed the heads of most people to the services offered beyond. Exits beckoned newly freed passengers to enter their tropical destination and shuttle operators sold vouchers to drive them to hotels.
I didn’t want to head out there without finding out about my flight or securing another alternative.
Spotting the airline who my new employer had arranged to fly me to the island, I stalked toward the booth, dodging flustered holidaymakers.
There was a small line, but I grudgingly stayed patient. Shuffling farther up the queue, I tossed my backpack onto the floor to rescue my spine.
Finally, it was my turn.
A Fijian woman with thick black hair and wide smile motioned me forward. “May I help you?”
“I hope so.” Kicking my backpack to lean against the counter, I placed my arms on the top and smiled. Dad always said I had a nice smile—straight teeth and honest intentions. I agreed with the straight teeth but not so much about the honest intentions. I’d been bloody lucky to get the work visa.
Someone like me didn’t normally find such hospitable welcomes.
Smiling wider, I hoped I could work some charm and get what I wanted. “I’m starting work tomorrow on Kadavu. I’m booked on your service to fly there tonight.”
“Okay, wonderful.” She grabbed a paper with six names on it. “And you are?”
I stabbed the sheet with my index. “Galloway Oak.” Conveniently located at the top of the list. “That’s me.”
Her black eyes met mine. “Thank you for flying with us, but I do have some unfortunate news, I’m afraid.”
Shit.
My heart sank, along with an unwanted dose of anger. “If it’s about the storm—the pilot on my inbound flight said it’s blowing over.”
She nodded, her gaze warm and gentle. “That’s true. Fiji has many storms, all which blow over very fast. But I’m sorry, Mr. Oak, the rain has delayed our schedule. We won’t be flying tonight.”
My gut clenched. “But I have a commitment.”
Shaking her head, she drew a tick beside my name. “You’ve been booked on our first available service tomorrow.”
It might still work.
If I get there before six a.m.
Swallowing my frustration, I asked, “What time is that?”
She beamed, her hair catching the overhead lights. “A very suitable hour of midday. You can relax at a local hotel and come back after a delicious breakfast. No early starts.”
I dragged a hand over my face, suddenly feeling the effects of jetlag. “That won’t work. I have to start work at eight.”
“I’m sorry.” She curled the corner of the page. “That’s just not possible. It’s our first available—”
“What about another airline? Is anyone else flying?”
She pointed at the madness behind me. “No one is leaving tonight, Mr. Oak. The international airlines will resume in an hour when the storm is over, but the local planes will not. We are all working hard to ferry you to respective hotels then have you on your way tomorrow.”
I groaned.
I couldn’t wait.
If I did, I’d have no accommodation because the deal was my labour for bed and food. I didn’t have any money to stay in fancy hotels.
“Surely, there must be something you can do?”
Her friendliness faded. “Mr. Oak. The storm is—”
“If the weather calms enough for other planes to depart, surely it’s safe to fly tonight?”
She grabbed a pen, scratching out my name on the manifest and scrawling a hotel name beside it. “Our airline has decided not to take that chance.” Passing over an envelope, she said, “Here is your voucher for dinner and breakfast along with a shuttle to take you to your hotel.” Her smile returned, a little more forced than before. “Have a pleasant night, Mr. Oak. See you in the morning.”
Before I could argue, she snapped her fingers, looking over my shoulder. “Next.”
A man rudely bumped me, squeezing his considerable bulk between me and the desk, effectively shoving me away.
Bloody—
I bit my tongue.
I’d always had an issue with my temper. It’d gotten me into far too much strife. I’d made a personal promise the day I left England that I would rein it in. Working with timber and innocuous items helped calm me when others pissed me off (yet another reason why I loved my vocation).
I might’ve been able to control my outward reaction, but inside, all I wanted to do was shove the asshole’s head multiple times against the desk.
Don’t have time for that.
Kadavu was a short flight away. The storm was fading. I would find a way to get there tonight.
I grabbed my bag from the floor and stalked away to find a solution to my nightmare.
Chapter Five
...............................................
E S T E L L E
......
I’ve made mistakes, so many mistakes. I shut out those who told me to abandon lyrics. I avoided those who didn’t understand g-sharps and b-flats. I ignored those who didn’t realise my pronunciation came in the form of octaves and arpeggiated chords.
I’m a mistake. I’m my own person.
I made wrong choices. I made the only choices I could.
I died. I lived.
I didn’t listen. I listened.
Taken from the notepad of E.E.
...
HOLY MOTHER OF God.
Hadn’t I lived through enough drama on this trip? First, all the issues with security and boarding, and then, an attempted crash landing.
I couldn’t stop shaking.
I’d vomited in the stupid bag the air-hostesses provided for inflight sickness. I’d hugged my jacket full of belongings as if by some miracle I would survive with a pocket mirror and travel-sized toothpaste. And I hated how the fear of dying had shown me just how much of my life I’d wasted. How I’d pinned happiness on a future I couldn’t predict. How I let fear rule my decisions rather than doing what I quoted in my songs.
You’re alive.
Be grateful.
I was grateful.
Beyond grateful.
But despite my thankfulness, I couldn’t stop trembling at how close to death I’d come.
It was a minor storm. You weren’t anywhere near death.
I moved through immigration in a strange mind-space, unable to untangle the last hour of turbulence, terror, and finally, landing intact. I didn’t understand how strangely accepting I’d been in those final moments where I’d truly, deeply looked at who I was and was forced to stare at the one conclusion I’d been running from.
I found myself lacking.
It was odd to drift through the airport, still looking and sounding and moving like myself when something so irreversible had changed.
I thought I was dead.
You’re overdramatizing the situation.
Regardless, the thought of saying goodbye had forced my eyes wide open. I’d been slammed into my deepest, darkest secrets, and I didn’t like what I’d come face-to-face with.
In those horrifying moments of mortality, I introduced the ideal me to the real me.
And I didn’t like it.
I’m afraid.
Not just of failure and dying but of success and living.
Madeline had given me a dream career after a decade of meaningless labour. She’d given me something priceless after the death of my family. And all I could do was moan about crowds and cower in corners when people wanted to befriend and congratulate.
Who did that?
Who willingly choose a life of loneliness because she was too afraid to risk sharing herself with o
thers?
Who am I?
I didn’t know.
Not anymore.
The girl I’d been when I boarded in America had died as truly as if we had crash-landed. I no longer wanted to be that Estelle. I wanted to be something more. Something better. Someone I could be proud of. If another life-or-death moment came along and made me score-card my life, I wanted to be happy not afflicted.
I wanted no regrets, and right now...I had millions of them.
Grabbing my suitcase as it appeared on the carousel (so much for having it go through to Sydney), I clutched my hotel and shuttle voucher and made my way outside. My suitcase creaked behind me. I needed a new one. The wheels on it had well and truly given up—I might as well cart it on sheer plastic for how useful they were.
The minute I get home, I’m going to reinvent myself.
Home.
The thought of sleeping in yet another hotel brought frustrated tears to my eyes. I’d begged at the check-in counter for a reprieve. I was happy to wait in the terminal for a possible departure. I was content to be patient. But the crew had been adamant that despite the fact the storm was passing, and other airlines would depart later tonight, they wouldn’t risk flying.
That was their final decision, and I had no way of getting home (unless I wanted to swim).
I need to sleep. I want this day to be over.
I hated the whiny voice inside, complaining of inconvenience and delays. Only moments ago, I’d admitted I didn’t like my desire to hide away and run from human contact.
Perhaps this was what the messages had been trying to say—not to avoid calamity but to walk right into it, so I could realise what was missing before it was too late.
Maybe the messages weren’t about dying but awakening.
Is that what this is?
A wake-up call?
Something to show me how much I needed to immerse myself in a life that I was squandering away, letting every experience and priceless moment pass by in a blur of non-requited joy?
If it was...what should I do about it? Be more spontaneous? Be brave, try new things, and accept deviations to my regimented plan?
“Are you with the Evermore party?” A wiry man in a turquoise shirt with a frangipani sewn on the breast pocket smiled as I stopped at Collection Point C. I’d been told to wait there and I’d be taken to my hotel.
Unseen Messages Page 4