Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate

by E E Valenciana

  “Nothing involving Reina could ever hurt you.” A soothing voice within settled my soul. The words of the priest were elegant and heartfelt but I continually allowed my anger to overshadow his call for forgiveness and faith.

  “Don't you understand the circumstances that got us here in the first place?” The sinister voices entered my mind. I bit my tongue and glanced up just in time to see Senora Torres rise and approach the altar. She submitted to total grief, falling upon her daughter's casket.

  “Oh dear God, my son, my dear son.” I heard my mother's voice. It became very clear, I was getting a glimpse of my own funeral. That poor woman lying across the coffin of her precious child could well have been my own mother.

  “You belong dead.” Death's inner voice spun a crafty web.

  My head was spinning as the church service concluded and the large crowd filed out. I spotted Daisy Ackley who hurried towards me. The wear and tear of this whole ordeal could be seen in her face. She gave me a hug.

  “You okay?” I simply nodded as she turned to view the mourners. Neither of us spoke as we silently sympathized with the wounded. Finally, without turning to face me my superior spoke. “Eddy, you know that last associates meeting went so well. Would it be possible, I mean, would you like to participate at this afternoon's employee meeting?”

  “Well, I don't know.” My mind was already disoriented as I tried to envision the bigger picture. My anger was at a peak and I wanted to scream out,

  “Screw you! This damn company is not going to fight for the truth. Why should I assist them? Look, my poor friends paid the ultimate price.” That is what I wanted to say. “Certainly Daisy, what time do you want me there?”

  The long procession of vehicles crawled up the rose-filled cemetery incline, stopping at a peaceful little knoll near the top of the hill. All had been prepared in advanced. The fake grass carpet layered on the barren dirt, white folding chairs were neatly lined for the immediate family. I lingered behind but noticed that none of the company’s representatives who had attended the funeral were at the burial site. The business of running a major airline had to continue.

  What had been a sun-filled morning now slowly turned to gray. Senora Torres, assisted by daughter Theresa and “Los Ocho Hermanos” (the eight brothers), carefully took their positions in the front row just feet from where Reina now lay. The many in attendance seemed confused about exactly what they should do. I spotted a few F/As who were based at LAX, friends of Reina. Once the coffin was properly adjusted above the grave site the mortician and cemetery director nodded and backed away.

  A Hispanic man stepped forward to take charge of the proceedings, his face tortured by stress and pain. He was her uncle, wearing a white, long sleeve dress shirt with his tie now removed. Standing alongside the coffin he steadied himself and began to speak in Spanish. He spoke about a love like there never was, nor would ever be again for this family. They were all simply destroyed and this hurt would continue to fester in them slowly. His eulogy poured out of his troubled heart. He described the elegance that was Reina and her desire since childhood to fly into the heavens as a flight attendant. All at once he could speak no more. He broke down and another, younger man stepped forward to take over. I learned that this new voice was that of a man who had hoped to be Reina's husband, the spouse she would never have.

  I recalled the final seconds of flight 2605. I imagined how all of Reina’s family and friends had their lives altered in that short span of time. I wondered how the results of those same few ticks of the clock would finally play out to its final conclusion in my young life.

  The grief stricken man removed an envelope from his inside coat pocket and unfolded a sheet of white lined paper. It was a letter written in Reina’s own hand and he began to read her words.

  “Please do not be sad for I will be happy learning new and remarkable things.” Reina Patricia Torres requested that a small tree be planted at her burial site so she might be part of life once more in an alternate form. I could barely believe what I was hearing. Those in attendance could no longer remain stoic as the flood gates were released with collective weeping. Her flight attendant wings were embedded into her head stone with the following words.

  “She now has wings of her own.” The skies provided tears of sprinkled rain as heaven itself expressed its sorrow. The casket was lowered into the earth and Senora Torres could no longer restrain herself. The tortured woman fell to her knees and reached down, caressing the casket.

  “Mi hija, por amor de Dios.” She reached for her child, her baby that now lay silent.

  “There but for another name kneels my mother.” My anger began to swell. My rage grew for the company, the Mexican Government, everyone who I believed had played a vital role in creating this cruel scene I was witnessing. Unlike the others that wept standing on the lush green hillside, those who had no idea why their lovely little flower had to die, I knew better. They would probably assume that time and a proper investigation would enlighten them at some point. I was already convinced that time would never come. By Reina’s grave I swore some degree of vengeance. I decided that I did not care how long it would take or what the cost would be to me, I would one day return to this site and tell Reina the whole truth.

  The Catholic priest stepped forward to lead the crowd in a final prayer and all heads bowed except mine. If the Lord in heaven was not going to see justice for this cruel sin, then I would use all my efforts to do so.

  The uncle signaled the cemetery's director……….the Torres family would see their loved one to the end. The brothers each stepped forward to grab a spade and approached the pile of fresh soil they would lay to rest upon their sister. Slowly, the gathering broke apart as each burdened soul selected a different path of departure, to deal with his or her own torment in their own way. I remained, for I wanted to take in the whole affair. The thought that all of this could have easily been a replica of my own funeral upset me greatly. Having to deal with my crew mates being sacrificial lambs for the powers that be outraged me. I was beginning to like the hatred that it festered inside me.

  Off to one side I could see Reina's youngest brother, a boy about eleven years. He struggled with his shovel as his brothers worked more easily. The boy would never grow up with his sister, nor ever be blessed by the wisdom of her words or soothed by her great compassion. He would never be a beloved uncle to her children nor grow old with her. He would never again hear her joyous voice echoing through the family home. She would remain forever young, a memory of elegance: that in itself could be comforting, but would always be overshadowed by her loss. They would remain naive of the true and senseless nature of her death. The frustration became overwhelming. I slowly removed my coat and stepped forward to assist the boy as I gazed down at my crew-mate's coffin below. To the side knelt Senora Torres. Where was this infinite God? He was infinitely absent. The resentment I reserved specifically for the Almighty was briefly dismissed by my reverence for the dignity and honor of the Torres family.

  Surely there were many lessons to be learned here among those that loved her. I was not going to badger them with requests for more information regarding Reina. I decided that from that moment I was never going to approach them again until I fully understood the circumstances that caused Reina's death.

  Exhausted by the shoveling, I proceeded to put my coat back on. I noticed that I was being glared at as Senora Torres was making inquiries to one of her elder sons, most likely wondering who the heck I was. I was a total stranger to them and my shame caused me to quickly fade away. I was sure there would be another opportunity to properly present myself.

  The guilt firmly grabbed hold of me. It demanded that I attend as many final services of my crew-mates as possible. Muerto wanted me to feel the full brunt of my disgrace.

  “Why you?” A grieved mother inquired at one of the services. The senselessness of the whole affair caused her great pain. There I stood embarrassed, for all to view. Surely I retained some great secret tha
t could explain why I, and not her child, survived this horrific incident. The grieving matron had simply expressed what perplexed her. I was incapable of satisfying her curiosity and she finally walked away. She could not express joy for my good fortune. Obviously she would have preferred a different outcome. A female flight attendant at one of the employee meetings offered up a scenario that perhaps I was destined to be a messenger, the one to express the feelings and words of the deceased to their loved ones. This “responsibility” did little to stem the growing tide of disease Death had seeded in my soul.

  I determined that my physical and psychological pain caused by the final impact of the jumbo jet was only surpassed by the sadistic torment at the hands of the evil Comandante Chavez. Yet, I was soon to discover that both ordeals paled in comparison to presenting myself before the parents and loved ones of my fallen mates. Standing unharmed (to the naked eye) with no explanation to offer as to why, was extremely painful. Such a task was degrading and Muerto loved every minute of it. This soon became a great deterrent to me attending the rest of the funerals.

  Jeff Stillwell was typical of how all the sacrificed were so beloved. The young man had put all his efforts into trying to secure an airline position, and completed training just months prior the ill-fated flight. Tall, bright and as all the rest, very handsome, he could easily have been the poster child for the saying “Only the good die young.” Still in his probationary period Jeff had qualified as a Spanish Speaker, which netted him an extra $3.50 per flight. It was truly his ability to connect with people and help them that embodied his true character. Flying a majority of Mexico bound flights, Jeff exhibited the excellence that made our airline so popular with the paying public. Jeff made it a point to visit friends and relatives to let them see how proud he was to wear the F/A uniform.

  His mother, Carolina had raised the boy by herself. She gladly accepted responsibility when an an abusive and alcoholic father jumped ship, vanishing not long after Jeff's birth. The strong woman's perseverance and unconditional love were evident in Jeff's character, her only child.

  The call to duty had come at mid-day of the 30th of October. Carolina felt uneasy as she helped Jeff ready himself in the upstairs duplex they shared. There certainly was nothing she could put her finger on as the assignment was simply another Mexico-bound flight just like most of the previous ones the 23-year-old had been working. Yet, her instinct told her to hug her son not once, not twice, but three separate times, unwilling to let go of him. Jeff was more than happy to accommodate his precious mother in what he perceived as superfluous concerns. The loving parent grabbed the young man's shoulders as she gazed at the strong figure she had created.

  “You look so handsome in your flight attendant uniform,” she stated with a sense of pride. He smiled shyly. Somehow, Carolina wanted to shield her child, a feeling she thought odd as Jeff was no longer a toddler. They were close, those two. Still, no matter how the years seemed to fly by he would always be her child and her love for him was unconditional and eternal.

  Jeff recently had some car trouble, so Carolina insisted he take hers. There would be no inconvenience since he was due to be back in L.A. the next morning. Carolina remained uneasy as she stood on the steps of their home. Jeff Stillwell slowly drove down the street in Long Beach, California, where they shared their greatest hopes and dreams together. She watched her vehicle make the turn with some trepidation and, in an instant, her son was gone forever.

  The uneasiness refused to leave once she was alone in the house. Carolina awakened in the middle of the night knowing that something was not right. She sat up in her bed and hesitated for a moment. Glancing at the clock she could see that is was just after three in the morning.

  “Jeff should be landing soon in Mexico City,” she said to herself. She inhaled a few deep breaths trying to settle herself, but it was to no avail. No matter how hard she tried she could not recapture the contentment of sleep again that night. Restless, she arose early and while dressing tried to fill her mind with positive thoughts. It was October 31, Halloween, and she considered baking minor treats for when Jeff returned home. She tidied the house, dabbled in the kitchen doing the things a mother does assuming that her son would be exhausted from the all night, turn-around trip. He would probably desire a nap, resting before attending some Halloween festivities with his friends. Her spirits brightened as she reflected on past Halloweens and the variety of different costumes she had adorned him with, especially when he was young. That child was now a man, well respected and loved by all who knew him.

  Suddenly there was a banging at her door, sounds that startled her as it was still early. The knocking projected a sense of urgency. Opening the door she discovered her nephew, Roger.

  “Aunt Carolina, is the TV on?”

  Muerto made a house call that ugly morning. It was undeserved and cruel. The television screen flashed the gory pictures from the scene of the horrific incident revealing sights no mother should have to witness. Yet, the fine woman gathered herself to eventually deal with the blow with tremendous grace and dignity. A call from the airline came soon acknowledging what she already knew in her heart. Her dear son, Jeff Stillwell, the young flight attendant still in his probationary period, had not survived.

  Sentiment for this lost young man and his grieving mother was shared by a fellow flight attendant, Judy. With a friendship that was kindled in the same F/A training class, she and Jeff had yet to fly together. As fate would have it on the evening of the evening of October 30th, she was released from duty and Jeff was selected to work. Her words spoke fondly of her dear friend.

  “He was planning to buy a Honda Prelude and he loved playing his baby grand piano. We could laugh at silly things and yet have a serious conversation. I think I teased him for dry cleaning his uniform apron. He was fastidious and always looked great. Most of all I admired the relationship he shared with his mother, theirs was a true link that transcended the usual. The last time I saw Jeff was when he came over to my home for dinner. He stated that even though we had not known each other for very long, it was as though we had known each other forever. Not long after that I joined five other uniformed flight attendants as pallbearers laying his casket to rest on a damp hillside at the cemetery. We all removed our flight wings, pinned them to our white gloves and set them upon his casket. Earlier that day, a large crowd of people had gathered at the Catholic church for his memorial mass. His mother emerged from her ride, surveyed the assemblage of so many crew-members in uniform and stated, 'Jeff is so proud.' I'll never forget that statement. She did not say that Jeff would have been proud but that he is proud. Sometime later I had a dream in which Jeff appeared. I asked him if he was okay. He said he was, that it was great where he was at and he could not wait for the rest of us to get there. I expect Jeff to be on the welcoming committee when my time to cross over is at hand. God bless him, my dear and wonderful friend. 2Good 2be 4gotten.” Jeff bequeathed the love and friendship of his mother to his dear friend Judy and her husband.

  Carolina's sacrifice was most significant for Jeff was her entire world. I would be honored to meet this wonderful woman. When others would continue to tell me to let sleeping dogs lie I would remember the sum of the sacrifice of this elegant mother.

  In the services I did attend I saw there were no children present. I knew my fellow F/A's but not that intimately. I had always sought to stay below the radar of the airline culture. Not one of the fallen flight attendants left a child behind yet on reflection I realized that they themselves were but children. I was the oldest of all the cabin crew at 27. The fact that there would be no heir to remember them affected me greatly and the desire to rectify that absence in my own life become prominent. As time went on that desire grew stronger, I wanted a child. I fantasized on this issue thinking that I could still travel the world with children in tow. I decided to stop mid-stride and took a turn regarding my future.

  The atmosphere at the company hangar for this second employee meeting seemed fa
r more lively than the previous one. The large gathering was once again made up mostly of anxious crew members. The F/As by now had figured out that they were putting their own asses on the line each and every flight and they wanted greater reassurance. They demanded to know if it was really safe to fly Mexico.

  “United, we can overcome,” The physiologist stood firm behind Daisy, ready to be available for anyone over-stressed by the enormity of it all. “We are here to help you.” But as the rally reached an emotional peak the crowd's attention turned for it was Edmundo the faithful wished to hear from now.

  “My crew-mates on 2605 were fodder for the corporate entities. Hell, right now there are lawyers trying to buy off as many families of the deceased as possible.” Edmundo would never say such a dreadful thing even though it was the truth. No, I had memorized words that would go over well with the executives. I spoke of the quality of character that my flight mates displayed then proceeded to shame my own by preaching the banner of unity in support our grand airline. I would have preferred to tell them what I had to go through, how deeply I had been wounded. “Don't trust anyone! Protect yourselves from the greedy interests that have arisen as a result of this horrible mess.” Edmundo lacked the courage. He performed to the delight of those in attendance and those who oversaw them. At the conclusion, I was once again surrounded by those expressing their appreciation. One excited blond lady spoke up.

  “God has something special for you.” I cringed for those words were like poison. They represented a sinister plan that would ensure ultimate failure and despair. There was great speculation among nearly everyone I encountered regarding the reasons I had survived. Any praise for the performance of the harness on my jumpseat at the peak of impact was not what they wished to hear or believe. They wanted a greater explanation, and divine intervention was easier to grasp. A perky F/A approached,

  “Hi Eddy, you don't know me but here is my number. If ever you feel you need someone to,” I turned to see if Ken Franks the macho pilot was anywhere nearby. After the event which I sarcastically took to calling “the dog and pony show,” I was escorted to the Office of Public Relations. A female reporter and camera crew awaited to do a story for the local NBC affiliate in Los Angeles. Even though the country was on the brink of war in the middle east, some producer-with the company's blessing, thought it would be interesting to focus on the heroic actions of the airline's brave flight attendant. It was the typical few-minutes-of-a-story during which I expressed joy at surviving and remorse for the loss of my friends. I was filmed limping past a DC-10 outside a hangar, while company mechanics just stared.