Stupid, stupid, stupid. She stared at the “I’m a Nurse, What’s your Super Power” poster above the toilet. She didn’t need her reflection in a mirror to confirm that she was physically ready to rip someone’s throat out.
Paula had a “not after 10” calling rule, but she answered on the first ring. “Ronnie?”
Veronica pressed the phone to her ear and made her confession to the wet brown strand of hair in the sink. “I just did something totally stupid and I don’t know how to stop myself.”
Paula’s voice deepened with concern. “Your voice sounds funny. How much have you had to drink?”
“Nothing. At least not yet.”
Veronica pulled out of the parking garage of the hospital. Her time in Texas was officially over. The Grapevine Police might never have pegged her for Brittany’s death at the Tropi-Tan, but with her non-appearance on Ingrid’s laptop and the lethal dose of morphine they were sure to find in Bobby Lee’s bloodstream, they might be able to suspend their supernatural disbelief and haul her in for something. She’d starve or burn to death in a sunlit jail cell, and worse, they’d bring Frank in for questioning, and then… no, she couldn’t do that to him. Not now. Not ever.
With a heavy heart, she drove to the airport and booked the next red-eye flight to San Francisco. She parked in the long-term garage and crawled into the roomy trunk. She doubted Frank would answer at this early hour, but she dialed his number anyway. It went straight to voicemail.
6
Frank pulled into the American Airline’s passenger drop-off, killed the engine of his ’65 Ford truck and hopped out to retrieve the brand new, navy-blue carry-on from the truck’s bed. Veronica arose from a bench near the entrance to security.
“Come here,” he said, extending his arms out towards Veronica. Hesitantly, she stepped towards him and allowed him a quick embrace. Any longer and she might never leave. She needed to be brave, but she felt as if she were about to embark on her first day of kindergarten. A security officer on his smoke break stepped out of the shadows, eyeing them as he stepped closer to the ashtray.
“You’re going to be fine,” Frank murmured into the mass of curls on top of her head.
“What if…”
“The plane crashes? Well, I imagine you’ll be the lone survivor with one hell of a story to tell,” he laughed.
“Don’t say that. What if someone pisses me off?”
“Honey, you’ll be fine. Like I said: I’ve packed boxes of chocolates to give to the gate agent and the flight attendants. Don’t forget to request a window seat, and if your seatmate wants to talk about the weather in San Francisco, you have earphones and a new thriller in your bag. And if shit gets real, there’s always the bathroom.”
“Sir, there’s a line of people waiting to get into this unloading zone. You’re going to have to move your vehicle,” the officer interrupted, pointing his lit menthol at the truck.
Frank pulled Veronica into his arms, dipped her body backward and kissed her hard on the mouth. “I love you, Ronnie. Call me as soon as you get in.”
“I will.” A flood of emotion hit her as the guard invaded their space. “Good…”
Frank placed a calloused finger on her lips and shook his head. “This isn’t goodbye.” He slapped her playfully on the rump, jiggled his keys and hopped into the truck. “Don’t make me come to California to bring you back home. I don’t think the truck will make it.”
Veronica lugged the blue carry-on towards the security checkpoint and handed over her boarding pass and fake ID to a young woman with a severe bun and overly gelled claw bangs. The woman greeted her with indifference. “Boo-chard? Is that like the lettuce?”
“No. It’s French. Not that I’m French. I’m American, as you can see by my identification right there.”
The woman looked back down at the card. Veronica’s fingers tapped the podium. “Bouchard means big mouth. At least that’s what I think it means. So, no, it has nothing to do with Swiss chard. Or lettuce.” Beads of sweat began to collect at the band of her bra.
The woman handed back her items. “Interesting. Have a nice flight.”
Veronica shuffled forward towards the conveyor belt, removed her black clogs and placed them gently into the plastic bin, along with her quart-sized baggie of toiletries and her phone. A geriatric man in front of her hobbled into the body scan machine, placed his thin, wobbly arms above his head and stood motionless like a clueless model. A young couple and three squawking children pulled up behind her with a luggage cart and two strollers.
In all their talks about the ins and outs of airports, Frank had never mentioned a full-body scan. Were those x-rays? Did she show up on x-rays? Seized with panic, she turned to question the family behind her, but they only pushed closer.
“Next.” The TSA agent met her eyes and waved her over.
Her legs felt heavy and stiff as if she were trudging through thigh-level snow banks. “I’ve never done this before,” she admitted, as if it wasn’t painfully obvious by the way she had lugged her wheeled carry-on through the airport.
“Just put your feet on the floor where it’s marked and lift your arms above your head.”
Her body quivered slightly. Her light green shirt only accentuated the growing circles of armpit sweat. While the sound of her rapid heart rate thumped in her head, she watched the agent for any sign or signal to drop her arms and proceed forward. Instead, he picked up his radio and nodded. His eyes crinkled, and he motioned her forward.
“Ma’am, they’re detecting something on your scan,” he said in a lowered voice.
Veronica turned to look at her escape route. The line was crammed with angry, heavily sighing people. Instead of staring at their phones, all eyes were on her—the potential terrorist holding up the flow of traffic towards the nearest Starbucks.
“It’s probably nothing. These millimeter wave machines are so sensitive,” he said. “It’s no big deal.”
A brunette female agent with purple surgical gloves approached and collected Veronica’s ID and boarding pass.
“Mrs. Bouchard, if you’ll follow me, I’m going to take you to a private room for a quick pat down. You have plenty of time before your flight to San Francisco.”
Fuck. I’m fucked. I’m so fucked. “Can I get my stuff?” Veronica took a step towards the bins, hoping to retrieve a box of chocolates.
“No, ma’am. We’ll put it aside for you. Follow me.”
A male agent, who thrived on the perceived power of his underpaid job, patted down a middle-aged Hispanic man, while random travelers tied their shoelaces and secured their trousers with belts.
“Can’t we just do this out here?”
“I’m afraid not. We have to look under your clothes.”
With no other options and very little hope, Veronica followed the agent, mentally surrendering herself to the will of fate and the Transportation Security Administration.
The room was small, fluorescently lit and covered with posters regarding safety concerns and current travel regulations. Two young female agents stared at monitors, indifferent to Veronica’s presence.
“We don’t normally do the pat downs in this room, but because of the holiday, we’re extra busy. Is that alright with you, Ms. Bouchard?”
“It’s fine. I guess.”
“Okay. I just need you to turn and face the wall and stand like this.” The woman extended her arms out and widened her stance like a cheerleader.
Veronica turned and stared at the wall. As she lifted her arms, she calmed herself with thoughts of walking through the sunflower field behind her childhood home. The agent’s gloved hands ran along the underside of her breasts, down her side and seemed to focus on the small of her back.
“Were you in the military?” asked one of the women at the desk.
“No.”
The gloved hands moved down the inside of her legs.
“Would you lift your feet, please?”
“Have you ever been shot?”
“Shot. With a gun,” she clarified.
“No.”
“Well, according to this scan, it looks like you have two bullets near your lower rib cage and some very strange scarring.”
“Would you please lift your shirt? We’re almost done.”
Veronica clutched the bottom of the green shirt that was now drenched in sweat.
“Just to your bra. I only need to see your stomach and back.”
Although glaringly white and flabby from carrying six children, the skin of Veronica’s stomach was flawless.
“There’s no external scarring,” said the gloved agent as she circled Veronica’s body.
“That is so weird. Tattoos?”
“No.”
“Are you done?” asked Veronica, her voice rising an octave.
“Yes. I’m sorry. You can put your shirt down. These scans are so sensitive. It could just be sweat it’s picking up.”
“Yeah, well, I’m super sweaty. The change of life and all that.” Veronica smoothed her shirt and took a deep breath. Looking directly at the seated agent, she smiled. “Would you mind if I took a look? I’m a bit concerned that I may have a foreign object or a tumor floating around in my body.” She stepped forward. “I’m a nurse.”
“We’re really not supposed to show anyone these images.”
“I’ll be quick. Please?” Unlike her typical professional monotone, her voice was now warm and syrupy. As the agent turned the monitor, Veronica’s ego swelled with pride that she had somehow managed to use her vampire powers to actually get what she wanted.
“Wow. It kind of looks like people’s faces.” The brunette agent angled her head. “If you squint. Like right there.” She pointed at the screen.
“Yeah. It’s like Jesus on a piece of toast or something.” The seated agent stood to look at the image again.
Veronica looked at the two floating bullets.
Detroit, 1978. “I’m Not in Love” played softly in the background as the bullets tore through her flesh. Kevin Black was not relieved or grateful to be brought back from the brink of death. Covered in their combined blood, he ran. The physical damage that had been inflicted had healed within seconds, but like the bullets still lodged within her body, the memory of his betrayal lingered.
The blonde pointed at the most prominent face on the screen. “That totally looks like a face.”
Veronica’s eyes widened with recognition. “Knud.”
“Bless you!” The agent removed her gloves and threw them in the waste bin. “You’re free to go, Ms. Bouchard.”
As Veronica settled into her cramped window seat, she still couldn’t believe it. Knud Jorgensen’s face had appeared right above her belly button like an ugly tattoo. He was the first person she had ever turned. And like a tattoo that seems like a really good idea when you’re young and slightly drunk, Knud changed from an affable fur trader with a kind word for everyone into a bitter recluse who lived solely on animal blood. In a moment of poor judgement, she thought he’d be a nice guy to spend eternity with, but then he managed to deplete the local beaver population within a year.
As Veronica studied the emergency card, a young woman with greasy black hair, torn jeans and a cat-hair-covered hoody stared down at her.
“You’re in my seat,” she shouted above the muffled music emanating from her ear buds.
Veronica looked at her ticket. 19 F. She showed it to the girl and smiled as if she were ashamed to be the winner. The girl plopped down, shoved her backpack under the seat and slammed down the armrest.
“My cheap parents can’t even get me a decent seat on this lame ass flight. This blows,” she huffed.
A large man looked down at his two strange flying companions and gingerly placed his laptop under the aisle seat. He smiled apologetically as he struggled to adjust his belt, then leaned his upper body forward so as not to invade their space.
“Great. I feel like I’m in a fat sandwich.” The girl pounded the button on her iPod. A new song played, faster and louder than the first. Irritated, Veronica smiled and nodded at the man with her mouth closed. She tongued her front teeth to check their position and closed her eyes so as not to be further disturbed.
While she feigned sleep, her cramped seatmates remained quiet. Behind her, a fussy baby’s cries increasingly reverberated in her eardrums. Irritated, Veronica opened her eyes and turned to look at the young, frustrated parents. They cooed, cajoled and jiggled the wriggling infant while their disgusted seatmate stared at the screen of his tablet. She mouthed, “Poor thing,” to the child’s mother. As she smiled reassuringly, the lights in the cabin darkened as if the plane had had enough. A collective gasp drowned the infant’s cries.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are experiencing some technical difficulty with the aircraft’s generators. As a precautionary measure, we will be landing in New Mexico shortly. Please remain seated with your seatbelts securely fastened.”
The exit lights lit up on the floor, but the cabin remained dark.
The greasy girl grabbed hold of Veronica’s hand and rocked nervously back and forth.
“I don’t want to die. Not now. This is totally not fucking cool.” She turned to look at Veronica who was staring out at the dark sky.
The large man reached over and tapped her on the shoulder. “Are you okay, ma’am? You’re really pale. You’re not going to faint, are you?”
“I’m fine. My phone’s dead. Do either of you know what time the sun rises in New Mexico?”
7
Everyone on the plane remained seated in a non-reclining position with their seatbelts securely fastened low and tight across their laps. Tray tables stayed upright. Peanuts and complimentary beverages were not served. No one complained. Prayers and pleas to God were whispered along with sweet, impassioned phone calls to loved ones. I love you. I love you. No, I LOVE you. Oh my god. I love you.
Veronica’s phone was dead, so calling Frank was out of the question. It didn’t matter. If the plane crashed, she’d walk home from the burning rubble without a scratch. Confronting the sun’s rays was a different matter.
She’d never actually witnessed one of her kind burst into flames when the sun met undead skin, but she’d seen enough movies to know that daylight was not something to dabble in. Frank had warned her about delayed flights, aggressive seat recliners, and overly chatty passengers, but not about emergency landings in the middle of nowhere.
Greasy Girl finally let go of Veronica’s hand to remove a cracked iPhone from her backpack. She scrolled through her contacts with shaky hands, then brought the phone to her ear. Her voice became that of a child’s.
“It’s Jenny. Yeah, so my plane is probably going to fucking crash. Yeah, seriously. Engine failure. You can probably Google it in about twenty minutes. So, um. I just wanted to call you and Mom and say I’m sorry for fucking up so epically.”
Turbulence rocked the plane. Veronica gasped from the woozy feeling in her stomach. She didn’t know if it was possible for her to vomit even though she hadn’t eaten anything, but she felt the need just the same. Her seatmate’s catastrophic disposition wasn’t helping.
“Oh, my god! We just dropped like a thousand feet, Dad. Listen. Can you tell Jimmy I love him? I still think Julie’s a bitch, but she’s twelve so I forgive her. Dad? Are you there?” Jenny stared at her ancient phone and sighed. “It figures. I’m going to die and there are no fucking bars on this old ass phone.” She stretched out her arm to take a selfie and turned to Veronica. “Well, when they’re digging through the piles of wreckage they’ll find this one final photo of Row 19. We’ll be famous.”
Click.
“Please don’t take my picture.” Veronica pressed closer to the window. “Are you high?”
“Not any more. Hey, even better, let’s make a video. I’ll keep filming as we’re going down so people can see what it’s really like to die.”
Veronica unbuckl
ed her belt and looked anxiously towards the aisle. The man on the end leaned forward and placed his head between his hands. Teardrops landed on his khakis.
Veronica leaned over. “Are you okay?”
The man sat upright and wiped his face with the sleeve of his plaid shirt. “I’m fine. Just stressed out like everyone else.”
“I think we’re going to be okay.” Veronica stood. “I hate to do this to you, but I really need to use the restroom.” She gazed into his watery eyes in an attempt to work her vampire magic.
No such luck. “Ma’am, the seatbelt sign is on and with all this turbulence, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be gallivanting around.”
She hated that word and anyone who used it. “But,” escaped her lips as the plane jolted to the right, slamming her into the seat and thumping her head against the window. “Ow!”
“Put your seatbelt on!” he yelled.
Veronica rubbed her head with one hand and fished for the belt beneath her with the other. Tightening it across her waist, she closed her eyes and prayed. “God, Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. Courage to change the things I can. And…”
“Wisdom to know the difference! Am I right?” The greasy girl—Jenny—smiled knowingly at Veronica. “NA. You?”
“Lots of people know the serenity prayer. It doesn’t mean I’m an addict.”
“I am. I just got my one-month chip, but I blew it on a three-day bender with some guy I met in Plano.” Jenny retrieved the orange medallion from her jean pocket and rubbed it between her fingers.
“Are you sober right now?” asked Veronica.
“Nope, but I was on my way to some fancy ass rehab in Palm Springs. My parents were too cheap to get me on a direct flight, so I took that as an opportunity to fuck up again and now I’m going to die.”
The pilot’s voice boomed, startling them. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning our descent into Cannon Air Force Base. We might experience some air pockets, so please make sure your seatbelts are securely fastened. Attendants, please prepare for landing.”
Forever 51 Page 5
