The Last Flight

by Julie Clark

  Something must have happened.

  I sidle up to a group outside Chili’s and peer over people’s shoulders. The television is set to a cable news station, but the volume is turned down. A somber-looking woman is talking, and the screen flashes her name—Hillary Stanton, NTSB Senior Communications Officer. I read the closed-captioning at the bottom of the screen.

  We don’t know yet what caused the crash, and it’s too early to say.

  The screen cuts to a news anchor, and I get a glimpse of the headline banner that was previously covered by the black closed-captioning text.

  The Crash of Flight 477.

  I read it again, trying to rearrange the words to mean something different.

  Flight 477 was my flight to Puerto Rico.

  I push closer. More text flashes up, this time from the anchor.

  Authorities won’t speculate on the cause of the crash just yet, though they have indicated the unlikelihood of any survivors. Flight 477 was heading to Puerto Rico, with 96 passengers on board.

  The picture flashes to a live shot of the ocean, pieces of wreckage floating on the surface.

  The ground seems to move beneath me, and I wobble into the man standing next to me. He steadies my elbow and hangs on long enough to make sure I don’t fall. “You okay?” he asks.

  I shake him off and push through the crowd, unable to reconcile what I’m seeing on the television screen with the memory of Eva still sharp in my mind—whose voice I can still hear, whose smile I can still see as the bathroom stall door closed behind me.

  With my head down, I make my way through the concourse, suddenly aware of how many television screens there are, all of them broadcasting what’s happened. I swallow the bile creeping up the back of my throat and locate a pay phone next to the restrooms.

  With trembling fingers, I pull out the receipt where I’d jotted down Petra’s number and dial. A voice directs me to insert one dollar and twenty-five cents. I dig around in Eva’s wallet until I’ve counted out five quarters and slip them into the slot, one at a time, my heart racing.

  But instead of ringing, I hear three tones and an automated voice saying, We’re sorry, this number is no longer in service.

  In my haste to reach her, I must have misdialed, double-entered a digit by accident, so I take a deep breath, willing my hands to stop shaking. I collect the quarters from the change receptacle and dial again, slower this time.

  Again I’m told the number is no longer in service.

  I replace the receiver, feeling as if I’ve separated from reality, lifting straight out of my body. Wandering over to a deserted bank of chairs, I collapse, staring across the concourse. People move in and out of my field of vision, pulling suitcases, corralling children, speaking into cell phones.

  I must have copied the number wrong. I think back to the bathroom stall, scribbling Petra’s number, adrenaline causing my attention to spread thin like scattershot.

  And now, I’m completely cut off.

  Across the way the television screens change again, pulling my attention back.

  The names of the passengers have not been released yet, but NTSB officials say they will be holding a press conference later this evening.

  I realize how vulnerable I’m about to become, how things like this take hold, grabbing the heartstrings of the nation. First, the grisly details, the speculation about what went wrong. Then the human interest. The victims. Their lives, their hopes. Their faces, smiling, laughing, unaware of how it will end. Because of who Rory is, my story will be amplified, my minutes of anonymity slipping away at an alarming rate. My image will soon be splashed across the media, recognizable to anyone looking. I’m about to become as infamous as Maggie Moretti. Yet another tragedy Rory will have to bravely endure. And I’ll be stuck, with very little money, no identification, and nowhere to hide.

  My eyes land on Eva’s purse, and I reach into it and pull out a ring of keys and her wallet. I pocket the keys and open the wallet, memorizing the address on her license. 543 Le Roy. I don’t hesitate. I walk out of the airport, into the bright California sun, and hail a cab.

  * * *

  We speed along a freeway, the San Francisco skyline peeking between industrial buildings on the east side of the bay, but it barely registers. Instead, I’m remembering Eva’s final moments in the bathroom stall with me, determined to carve out a second chance for herself, not imagining that she never would. I rest my head against the window and try to focus on the cold glass pressing against my skin. Just a little bit longer. I can’t let myself fall apart until I’m behind closed doors.

  Soon, we’ve exited onto streets crowded with college kids, colorful and upbeat. I try to imagine what Rory might be doing right now. Most likely, he’s on his way back to New York, having canceled the event in Detroit. Quietly depositing the forty thousand dollars back into the bank and hiding everything else in his secret drawer.

  I stare out the window as we pass the university, students crossing the street in a haphazard way, oblivious the way only college students can be. We skirt around the eastern edge of campus and into a residential neighborhood on the north side with hills and winding streets. Houses, duplexes, and apartments sit side by side among tall redwood trees, and I think about what I’ll find when I unlock Eva’s front door. An intruder stepping into the home she shared with her husband, forever frozen exactly as she left it. Looking at their photographs. Using their bathroom. Sleeping in their bed. I shudder and try not to think that far ahead.

  The driver leaves me in front of a white, two-story duplex with a long front porch and two identical doors anchoring each end. The right side is curtained, closed off from prying eyes. A large pine tree casts part of the porch in shadow, the soil beneath it looking dark and fresh. The left side is vacant, the windows bare, revealing empty rooms with crown molding, a red accent wall, and hardwood floors. I’m relieved I won’t have to answer any questions from a neighbor, asking who I am or where Eva went.

  I fumble with the keys, finally finding the right one, and push the door open. Too late, I realize there might be an alarm, and I freeze. But all is silent. The air smells of closed rooms and a faint trace of something hovering between floral and chemical—there and then gone.

  I close and lock the door, stepping carefully past a pair of shoes that look as if someone kicked them off a few minutes ago, straining my ears for any kind of noise, any sound of another person. Yet despite the clutter, the house feels utterly still.

  I set my bag down by the front door in case I need to leave quickly, and creep over to peek into the kitchen. Empty, though there’s an open can of Diet Coke on the counter and some dishes in the sink. A door leads to the backyard, but it’s locked with a chain across it.

  I take the stairs slowly, listening hard. Only three rooms—a bathroom, an office, and a bedroom, clothes dropped on the bed and floor as if someone had left in a hurry. But I’m alone in the house, and I let out the breath I’d been holding.

  Back downstairs, I collapse onto the couch and tip my head forward, resting it in my hands, and finally allow the day’s events to catch up to me. The panic I felt, followed by the thrill of having slipped past everyone.

  And then I think of Eva somewhere on the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. Whether it hurt when the plane hit the water, if the moments leading up to impact were long, filled with terror-filled screams and crying, or if they were cut short by lack of oxygen. I take several deep breaths, trying to calm down. I’m safe. I am okay. Outside, a car passes through the silent neighborhood. In the distance, some bells chime.

  I lift my head and take in the framed abstract prints on the wall and the soft armchairs flanking the couch. The room is small but cozy, the furniture high quality but not extravagant. Exactly the opposite of the home I just left behind.

  There is a well-worn groove in the armchair angled toward the television, but the rest of
the furniture looks pristine, as if no one has ever sat there. Something about the room nags at me, and I try to put my finger on it. Perhaps it’s the way it was left, as if someone had just stepped away for a few minutes. I scan the space, trying to figure out where her husband’s hospital bed might have been. Where the hospice workers might have counted pills, measured medication, washed their hands. But all evidence is gone. Not even a divot in the carpet.

  Against the far wall, a bookshelf is crammed with books, and I wander over and see titles about biology and chemistry, with a few textbooks on the very bottom shelf. I quit my job to take care of him. Perhaps she was a professor at Berkeley. Or maybe he was.

  From the kitchen comes a buzzing sound, loud and jarring in the silent house. When I get to the doorway, I notice the black cell phone on the counter, tucked between two canisters. I pick it up, confused, remembering the one Eva used at the airport in New York. The push notification is from one of those text apps that disappear after a set amount of time, from a contact named D.

  Why didn’t you show up? Did something happen?

  The phone buzzes in my hand with another message, nearly making me jump.

  Call me immediately.

  I toss it back on the counter and stare at it, waiting for another text, but it remains silent, and I hope whoever D is, they’re done asking questions for the night.

  I step toward the sink and look through the small window overlooking a tiny backyard. It’s surrounded by shrubs and bisected by a brick walkway leading to a gate in the back fence. I imagine Eva standing here, watching twilight fall as it is now, coloring the shadows in deep purples and blues as the sky darkens, while her husband lay dying.

  The phone buzzes again, the sound reverberating around the empty kitchen, and a sense of foreboding descends. The empty house offers itself up to me, yet reveals nothing.

  Eva

  Berkeley, California

  August

  Six Months before the Crash

  Eva waited for him outside his dorm. It wasn’t the same one she’d lived in, so many years ago, but a newer one, with softer edges and dark wood trim, as if they wanted students to feel like they were living in an Italian villa instead of student housing. Her gaze traveled upward, over windows that were open to catch the cool morning air, posters of bands she’d never heard of, taped picture-side out. From the center of campus, the Campanile chimed the hour, and students with early-morning classes passed by her as she stood on the sidewalk, leaning against a car that didn’t belong to her. No one looked at Eva. They never did.

  Finally, he exited, his backpack slung across one shoulder, his nose buried in his phone. He didn’t notice Eva until she fell into step beside him.

  “Hi, Brett,” she said.

  He looked up, startled, and a flash of worry crossed his face when he saw who it was. But then he plastered on a smile and said, “Eva. Hey.”

  Across the street, two men eased out of a parked car and started walking in their same direction, slow and silent. Trailing them.

  Eva began. “I’m sure you know why I’m here.”

  They crossed the street, past coffee shops and bookstores, and skirted the southern edge of campus. She stepped in front of Brett to stop him when they’d reached the opening of a narrow brick walkway that led to the entrance of a small art gallery that wouldn’t open until eleven o’clock. The men behind them stopped too, waiting.

  “Look, Eva,” Brett said. “I’m really sorry, but I don’t have your money yet.” As he spoke, he searched the faces of the few people on the street this early, looking for a friend. Someone to step in and help him. But Eva wasn’t worried. To anyone who might be watching, Brett was just a student, chatting with a woman on the sidewalk.

  “That’s what you said the last time,” Eva said. “And the time before that.”

  “It’s my parents,” Brett explained. “They’re getting a divorce. They cut my allowance by half. I can barely afford beer.”

  Eva tilted her head sympathetically, as if she could relate to a problem like that. As if she hadn’t been forced to live on a minuscule per diem in her three short years at Berkeley, pocketing extra food from the dining hall to tide her over long weekends. No one gave her an allowance. Paying for beer had never been on Eva’s long list of worries.

  She pressed on. “That’s a sad story. Unfortunately, it’s not my problem. You owe me six hundred dollars, and I’m tired of waiting.”

  Brett hitched his backpack higher on his shoulder and watched a bus rumble down the street, his gaze trailing after it. “I’ll get it. I swear. Just…it’s going to take some time.”

  Eva reached into her pocket and pulled out a piece of gum, unwrapping it carefully, and stuck it in her mouth, chewing slowly, as if she were considering what he’d said. The men who were trailing saw Eva’s signal and began making their way toward them.

  It took Brett almost no time to notice them. To see the purpose in their stride, to see that he and Eva were their final destination. He took a step backward, as if to run, but the men closed the distance quickly, boxing him in.

  “Oh my god,” he whispered, his eyes wild with fear and panic. “Eva. Please. I swear I’ll pay you. I swear.” He began to back away, but Saul, the bigger of the two men, placed a hand on Brett’s shoulder to stop him. Eva could see his large fingers squeezing, and Brett began to cry.

  She eased back toward the street, her part finished. But Brett’s eyes stopped her, silently pleading with her to change her mind, and Eva hesitated. Perhaps it was the way the morning light slanted down on them, autumn just a hint in the air, reminding her of a new semester with new classes and new things to learn. Reminding her of a life she’d once loved, not yet snatched away from her.

  Or maybe it was how young Brett looked. The way he whimpered, a pimple bright red on his forehead, the hair on his face still soft and thin. He was just a kid. And she remembered she’d been one once too. Making mistakes. Begging for another chance.

  No one had given it to her.

  She stepped back, allowing them to lead Brett down the walkway, away from the sidewalk.

  A voice startled her from behind. “Had to be done.”

  Dex.

  He emerged from the shadowed doorway of a closed shop and lit a cigarette, gesturing for her to walk with him. From behind them came the sound of fists hitting flesh, Brett’s cries, pleading for help. Then a particularly loud blow—perhaps a kick to the stomach, or his head slammed into the wall—and no more sounds from Brett.

  Eva kept her gaze steady, knowing Dex was studying her. “What are you doing here?”

  He shrugged and took a drag on his cigarette. “I know you don’t like this part. Thought I’d swing by and check on you.”

  A lie? The truth? With Dex it was hard to tell, but Eva had learned over the years that Dex didn’t get out of bed this early unless their boss, Fish, told him to.

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  Together they ambled up the hill toward the stadium, passing another coffee shop, its white awning covering a patio of empty tables and chairs still stacked in a corner. The interior was crowded with professors and university employees getting their morning coffee before heading to work. Outside, a panhandler sat in a wheelchair playing a harmonica. Eva tossed him a five-dollar bill.

  “Bless you,” the man said.

  Dex rolled his eyes. “Bleeding heart.”

  “Karma,” Eva corrected.

  They stopped at the top of the hill, outside the International House, and Dex looked past her toward the bay, as if admiring the view, and she followed his gaze. The two men had emerged from the walkway and were moving west toward Telegraph Avenue. There was no sign of Brett, whom they’d probably left in a bloody heap. The gallery owner would come across him in a couple hours and call the police. Or perhaps Brett would somehow manage to get up and stumble back to his
dorm. No classes for him today.

  When the men disappeared from view, Dex turned back to her, handing her a small piece of paper. “New client,” he said.

  Brittany. 4:30 p.m. Tilden.

  Eva rolled her eyes. “Nothing says ‘child of the nineties’ like the name Brittany. How did you find her?”

  “Referral from a guy I know in LA. Her husband just got transferred up here.”

  Eva pulled up short. “She’s not a student?”

  “No. But you don’t need to worry,” he assured her. “She’s legit.” He dropped his cigarette on the ground and crushed it beneath his shoe. “See you this afternoon at three.”

  He headed back down the hill, not waiting for confirmation from her. None was needed. In the twelve years she’d worked with Dex, she’d never once missed a meeting. She watched him until he was past the walkway, still no sign of Brett, and then she turned north toward home.

  As she crossed through the center of campus, memories flitted along the edges of her periphery. The end of summer in Berkeley. Eva’s own rhythms, so deeply tied to the ebb and flow of the university, now felt off kilter, pulled to the side by Dex, as she wondered what his true purpose was in joining her that morning.

  From behind her, Eva heard someone say, “Excuse me.”

  She ignored it and crossed over a small bridge covering a stream that wound its way through the center of campus.

  “Excuse me,” the voice said again, louder.

  A young girl, a freshman by the look of her—skinny jeans, boots, and what appeared to be a new backpack—stepped in front of Eva, panting. “Can you tell me where Campbell Hall is? I’m late and it’s the first day and I overslept…” She trailed off as Eva stared at the girl, so bright-eyed, with everything still ahead for her.

  Another Brett, not yet happened. How many months would it take before the pressure of Berkeley began to crack this girl in half? How long until her first failed test, or her first C on a paper? Eva pictured someone sliding a scrap of paper with Dex’s name and number across a wooden study carrel in the library. How long until Eva was meeting her outside of Campbell Hall?