The Last Flight

by Julie Clark

  “Do you know where it is?” the girl asked again.

  Eva was so fucking tired of it all. “No hablo inglés,” Eva said, pretending she didn’t speak English, wanting only to be rid of this girl and her questions.

  The girl stepped back, surprised, and Eva slipped past her and up the path. Let someone else help her. Eva wasn’t ready to take her turn yet.

  * * *

  The unexpected appearance of Dex that morning was still bothering her several hours later, as she stood at the kitchen sink, washing dishes. As she rotated a glass under the hot water, it slipped from her fingers and shattered, sending shards flying into the porcelain basin.

  “Shit,” she said, turning off the faucet and drying her hands on a dishtowel before carefully picking up the larger pieces and dropping them in the trash. She could feel things rearranging and shifting, the way animals could sense an earthquake, tiny tremors deep beneath the earth’s crust, warning her to pay attention. Seek safety.

  She grabbed some paper towels and swept up the rest before checking the timer she’d brought up from the basement. Five minutes left.

  She tossed her empty Diet Coke can into the recycling and stared out the kitchen window overlooking the backyard. The green shrubbery and roses were overgrown and in need of pruning. In the far corner, she spotted a cat, crouched and motionless, beneath a low-hanging bush, eyes locked on a small bird splashing in a shady puddle left from the morning sprinklers. Eva held her breath and watched, silently urging the bird to look around, to leave the danger of the yard behind.

  Suddenly, the cat lunged. In a silent flurry of wings and feathers, it grabbed the bird, pummeling it to the ground and stunning it with a few swift blows. Eva watched as the cat slunk off carrying the bird in its mouth and felt as if the universe was sending her some kind of message. The only problem was, she didn’t know whether she was the cat or the bird.

  The timer rang, jolting Eva from her reverie. She looked at the clock on the stove, then glanced one more time through the window at the backyard, empty except for a scattering of feathers on the brick walkway.

  She pushed herself off the counter, past the rolling shelving unit filled with things she never used, a prop to obscure the door hidden behind it, and slipped down to the basement to finish up.

  Claire

  Tuesday, February 22

  Eva’s house is so still, I feel as if it’s watching me, waiting to see if I’ll reveal who I am and why I’m here. When I open the fridge, the top shelf is crowded with cans of Diet Coke and not much else, just a misshapen take-out container shoved to the back. “Diet Coke anyone?” I mutter before closing it again, my gaze sliding over the shelves that line one wall, filled with cookbooks and mixing bowls, to the cupboards on the left of the sink. I begin opening them, revealing glasses, plates, and bowls, finally finding where Eva kept her dry goods. Ritz Crackers and a Diet Coke will have to be good enough for tonight.

  When I’ve eaten enough to quiet my growling stomach, I move back to the living room. The clock on the wall reads six. I pick up the remote, trying not to think about Eva and her husband, snuggled under a blanket watching a movie or sitting in companionable silence scrolling through their phones, and I scan the room, looking for the evidence of a happy marriage. Photographs. Mementos from vacations. But none of it is visible.

  I find the Power button and flip past the networks, finally landing on CNN.

  The screen shows a close-up of the airport in New York, with an inset of the search and recovery team, a bobbing Coast Guard boat surrounded by dark water illuminated with floodlights. I turn up the volume. Kate Lane, political commentator, host of the show Politics Today, is speaking, her voice low and somber as the screen fills with an image of me and Rory at a gala function last year. My hair is swept up in an elaborate french twist, and I’m laughing into the camera, my face heavy with makeup. Kate Lane’s voice says, “Authorities have confirmed the wife of philanthropist Rory Cook, son of Senator Marjorie Cook and the executive director of the Cook Family Foundation, was traveling to Puerto Rico on a humanitarian trip and was a confirmed passenger on Flight 477.”

  And then my picture is replaced with a live shot of the exterior of the airport, the camera panning in on what looks like a restricted area behind large, plate glass windows. “Representatives from Vista Airlines are meeting with family members this evening, while off the coast of Florida, search and recovery teams work late into the night. NTSB officials have been quick to dismiss terrorism as a cause of the crash, citing unstable weather and the fact that this particular plane had been grounded just four months ago.”

  The camera zooms in to show people hugging and crying, consoling each other. I move closer to the television, straining my eyes to see if Rory’s there. But I needn’t have bothered. As if on cue, the scene cuts to a bank of microphones, and Rory emerges from the room, stepping behind them. “I’ve been told we’ll be getting a brief statement from Mr. Cook on behalf of the families.”

  I pause the TV and study him. He’s wearing an expensive pair of jeans and one of his button-down shirts in a shade of blue that looks good on camera. But his face is etched with grief, his eyes hollow and red. I sit back on my heels, wondering if he’s truly devastated or if this is all an elaborate act, that far beneath the surface he’s livid, having surely discovered the truth by now.

  Leaving the TV paused, I grab my computer from my bag and take the stairs two at a time up to Eva’s office. The internet router blinks its green lights from a corner of the desk, and I turn it over, finding the password on the back, praying she never bothered to change it. It takes me three tries to match the password with a network name, but I’m in.

  I click on the window I opened last night and take a quick look through Rory’s inbox while he’s on live TV. There are several messages from Danielle, cc’d copies of emails she sent this morning, letting the Detroit hotel know Rory will be using my reservation, informing the school that Rory would be the one doing the event.

  And one message exchange between Bruce and Rory, shortly after the news of the crash broke.

  I think we need to delay the announcement.

  Rory’s reply was brief.

  Absolutely not.

  But Bruce would not be deterred.

  Think about the optics. Your wife just died. There’s no way you can announce next week. It’s insane. Let the NTSB recover the body. Have a funeral. Then announce after that. Tell them it’s what Claire would have wanted.

  Even though it doesn’t surprise me, the fact that they’re worrying about the Senate announcement right now still hurts. Despite our problems, despite his temper, I know Rory loved me, in his own broken way. But underneath is a tiny thread of satisfaction that I’d been right to break away now. That if given the choice, Rory would never pick me over his ambition.

  I open a new tab and Google Petra Federotov. A long list of what appear to be art catalogues pop up, with brightly colored graphics and names I can’t pronounce. Page after page of them. I revise my search to Petra Federotov phone number, and the list grows slightly longer—a pizza parlor in Boston, links to sites offering people-finding software for a thirty-dollar fee. But I’m certain Nico has made sure their information is scrubbed from those databases, and most likely scrubbed from the web as well.

  I leave my computer open and go back downstairs, where Rory is still frozen on the screen, his arm about to swipe a chunk of hair that has flopped over his forehead. In another lifetime, I would have reached out to smooth it back, my touch gentle and loving. I stare at his face, remembering what it felt like to love him. The early days, when he’d pick me up from the auction house and surprise me with a dinner at Le Bernardin or a summer picnic in the park. His mischievous smile as he’d sneak us in the back door of a club, the tender way he’d brush the edge of my lip with his thumb, right before he’d kiss me.

  Those memories aren’t los
t. Just buried. Maybe someday I’ll be able to pick them up again. Hold them in my hand and examine them objectively, keeping the good ones and discarding the rest.

  I press Play. Rory clears his throat and says, “This morning, like many of the families behind me, I kissed my wife, Claire, goodbye for the last time.” He pauses, taking a deep, shuddering breath before continuing, his voice cracking and wobbling over the words. “What was supposed to be a humanitarian trip to Puerto Rico has thrust me, and the families of ninety-five other passengers of Flight 477, into a living nightmare. Be assured we will not rest until we get answers, until we fully understand what went wrong.” He swallows hard and clenches his jaw. When he looks into the camera again, his eyes shine brighter, filling with tears that tip over the edges of his eyes and slide down his cheeks. “I don’t know what to say, other than I’m devastated. On behalf of the families, we thank you for your thoughts and prayers.”

  Reporters shout questions at Rory, but he turns away from the cameras, ignoring them. I think about how effortlessly he lies. He didn’t kiss me goodbye. He didn’t say goodbye at all. And I realize, now that I’m dead, Rory can tell whatever story he wants about me, about our marriage. There is no one left to refute it.

  The scene shrinks to an inset, and we see Kate Lane again, her familiar short gray hair and black-framed glasses filling the screen. I’d met her several years ago when she was interviewing Rory for the segment she was doing on Marjorie Cook’s legacy, and I remember being struck by how cool she’d been toward Rory. She’d smiled and laughed in all the right places, but I sensed a part of her watching him, as if from a distance. Examining all his shiny surfaces and flourishes, and deciding they weren’t real.

  Her expression now is both somber and steadying. “Mr. Cook has been a frequent guest on this show, and I, along with everyone else at Politics Today, extend our deepest sympathies to the Cook family and all of the families affected by today’s tragedy. I’ve had the good fortune of meeting Mrs. Cook on several occasions, and I knew her to be a smart and generous woman, a tireless advocate for the Cook Family Foundation. She will be deeply missed.” In the inset picture over her shoulder, a man appears at the bank of microphones Rory just left and Kate says, “It looks like the director of the NTSB is going to answer some questions. Let’s listen in.”

  The crowd of reporters begin shouting questions, but I silence the noise by turning the television off and, staring at the faint outline of my reflection in the dark screen, wonder what happens next.

  * * *

  I carry my bag back up the stairs and into the master bedroom, pushing aside a discarded pile of clothes on the bed—a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt—and sit. A dark wood dresser, drawers tightly shut, and a closet door that isn’t closed all the way, revealing a jumble of clothes inside. And that’s when it fully hits me: Eva will never laugh, or cry, or be surprised again. She won’t grow old, with sore hips or a back that aches. Never lose her keys or hear the sound of birds in the morning.

  Yesterday she was here, a beating and broken heart, a mind with secrets and desires she kept to herself. But today, every memory she’d accumulated across a lifetime has vanished. They simply don’t exist anymore.

  And what about me? Claire Cook is also gone, lifted up in the memories of those who knew me, no longer walking among the living. And yet, I still get to carry everything that belonged to me. My joys, my heartaches, memories of people I loved. And I feel a sense of privilege I don’t deserve. That I get to keep it all and Eva does not.

  I press my fists into my eyes, trying to stop my leaping thoughts, ping-ponging from moment to moment—the maid unpacking my suitcase. The phone call to the hotel in Detroit. Petra’s voice on the phone at JFK. And Eva in the bathroom stall, handing me her bag, believing I was the solution to her problems, as I believed she was the solution to mine.

  I need to sleep, but I don’t think I can bring myself to pull back the covers and climb into the bed. Not tonight at least. Instead, I take the blanket and grab a pillow, carrying them back downstairs to the couch. I kick off my shoes and settle myself, turning the TV back on for company. I flip away from the news channels until I find a station showing I Love Lucy reruns and let the canned laughter carry me to sleep.

  * * *

  I’m yanked awake by the sound of Rory’s voice, speaking quietly in my ear. I leap off the couch, the dark room flickering in the blue light of the television screen, confused and disoriented, forgetting for a moment where I am and what happened.

  And then I see him on the screen of the TV, smaller than in real life, but no less terrifying. A replay of the press conference. I collapse onto the couch again, fumbling for the remote to turn it off, letting the sounds of Eva’s house—the low hum of the refrigerator, a quiet dripping from the kitchen faucet—slow my heart rate. Reminding myself that there’s no way Rory could know where I am.

  I stare at the ceiling, watching shadows from the streetlight dance across it, and realize how hard disappearing will be. It won’t matter where I hide or what name I use. Every time I turn on a television, open a newspaper, or flip through a magazine, Rory will still be hiding there, waiting to leap out at me. He will never go away.

  Eva

  Berkeley, California

  August

  Six Months before the Crash

  Eva’s hands moved automatically under the bright lights, while high above, the fan whirred, a white noise that dulled her senses, venting the air from her basement lab into the backyard. She couldn’t seem to erase the image of that cat, how quietly it waited, how quickly things had ended for the bird.

  She shook her head and forced herself to concentrate. She had to finish this batch before noon. She was meeting Dex at three to give him Fish’s portion and was meeting her new client shortly after that.

  She measured ingredients, carefully weighing and adjusting, and felt herself relax. Even after all these years, after everything that had happened, it was still magic, that you could combine substances, add heat, and create something entirely new.

  She brought the mixture to a thick, pasty consistency on the camping stove, immune now to the bitter chemical stench that burned the inside of her nose and clung to her hair and clothes, long after she’d finished. Because of this, she invested in expensive lotions and shampoo, the only things that could cover the smell of what she made.

  When it was ready, she poured the liquid into the pill molds and set the timer again. Using various cough and cold medicines mixed with some common household items, what she made was similar to Adderall. However, it was much safer to make, avoiding the explosive nature of most methamphetamines. The result was a tiny pill, simple to produce, with a powerful punch that kept subpar students like Brett awake and sharp-minded for hours on end.

  When she was done, she washed the equipment at the sink in the corner, loading the portable dishwasher she’d bought several years ago. Her chemistry professor’s voice floated through the years: A clean lab is the mark of a true professional. She was a professional by definition, but no one was going to come down here and make sure she was following standard lab protocol. She wiped the counters, making sure no traces of her work—or the ingredients she drove all over the Bay Area to purchase—were left out for prying eyes.

  Not that anyone would come down here. Long ago she’d figured out the best way to hide the door to this old laundry room was to roll a shelf in front of it. From the outside, you’d never know it was there. At least six feet tall with a solid back, the shelves were filled with the tools of an amateur chef—cookbooks, mixing bowls, canisters that held flour and sugar, and several large utensil holders stuffed thick with spatulas and oversized spoons that Eva never used. She moved through the world similarly—appearing to be a bland, thirtysomething server who worked hard to make ends meet, who lived in a North Berkeley duplex and drove a fifteen-year-old Honda. When in reality she was the opposite, singlehandedly
responsible for keeping the students at Berkeley awake and on track to graduate in four years. And dealing quickly with the ones who caused problems.

  Grabbing the timer off the counter, she headed up the basement stairs, flipping the light and fan off behind her. The silence folded over her, and she paused in the kitchen, waiting for the sounds of the neighborhood to settle into the space between her ears.

  Next door, she heard her new neighbor, an older woman with close-cropped white hair, unlocking her front door. When she’d moved in a few weeks ago, Eva could tell she wanted to be friendly. Her eyes would linger on Eva, and though Eva was polite, with one- and two-word greetings, she could feel the woman’s gaze, heavy and waiting for a deeper interaction.

  Mr. Cosatino, the old man who’d lived there since the beginning of time, had been so much easier. They’d only spoken once, last year when she’d paid him cash to purchase her half of the duplex. She wondered what happened to him, whether he got sick or if he died. One day he was there, the next day, he was gone. And now this woman, with her friendly smiles and eye contact.

  Eva left the bookshelf pushed aside and took the stairs two at a time, up to her home office. A tiny room overlooking the front yard, it wasn’t used by Eva for much except paying bills and storing her cold-weather coats. But she’d decorated it like the rest of the house—warm tones of yellow and red that were a far cry from the institutional gray walls of the group home she’d grown up in. She’d picked each piece—the pine desk, the deep red rug, the small table and lamp that sat under the window—as an antidote to the coldness that had embedded itself inside of her as a child.