Death Flight

by Melissa Yi

  Tucker soldiered on. "I hear you. Because you can't see anxiety, like a broken leg, people don't seem to understand it. They think that you're okay, even when you're not."

  "Especially when I'm going on an airplane. I have anxiety!"

  "So you had Gideon," Tucker prompted her gently.

  "Yes! And the bus driver was giving me a hard time, even though I had all my papers and booked this flight six months ago. He didn't want Gideon on the bus. He kept asking me if Gideon was going to make a mess. I said, 'He's trained,' but he kept asking me anyway."

  Tucker clucked and shook his head.

  "He liked that woman’s baby, and you know the baby is going to make a mess."

  Tucker made sad eyebrows at her. He was good at it.

  "But when we got off the bus, the bus driver was yelling at me, telling me that I had too many bags, and I wouldn't be allowed on the plane with four carry-ons. I said that Gideon was allowed to have carry-ons, too, and the driver got so mad, he was radioing people."

  I bit back a smile. I could picture it.

  "He made me so upset that I almost fell down the stairs, getting off the bus, and Gideon ran onto the runway!"

  Pay dirt. Tucker's shoulders yanked to attention.

  "I dropped all my bags. I was trying to pick up the stuff that fell out, and Gideon was running around, and the bus driver ended up calling up all those people, you know, the ones with the carts that move luggage?"

  "The baggage handlers," said Tucker.

  "The bus driver was shouting at them. 'Get that dog!' I told them that if they'd calm down, I have liver treats in my pockets, I can give them to him, but they were running and shouting and calling on their radios. It was making Gideon more and more upset. He ran under a plane and started barking at them whenever they got close."

  I closed my eyes.

  "The bus driver said he'd call the police and they'd shoot my dog. I started crying. Those baggage people were running and yelling at each other in Spanish, and one of them was scared of dogs, so he kept away, but the first one was diving at Gideon and trying to grab his leash ..."

  My teeth clamped together. Poor dog.

  "The bus driver ended up jumping in a baggage cart and trying to run Gideon down! I was screaming and chasing him, but you know, I can't run fast. I have osteoporosis."

  Osteoporosis doesn't stop you from running, but I nodded anyway. Keep talking.

  "What happened to him?" said Tucker.

  "He came back to me," she said. "I knew he would. He loves me. I gave him a liver treat."

  I cut in. "No, not Gideon. The baggage handler who died."

  She stared at us with big eyes. "I don't know. I was trying to get on the airplane, I almost dropped my bags. No one would help me. It took me so long to get on the plane. I almost fell. And then they made me get off again!"

  "Did you see anything?" Tucker pressed.

  "Gideon was pulling."

  "I mean, did you see what happened to the baggage handler? Were medics on the scene? Or even an ambulance?"

  Her hand trembled as she moved to stroke Gideon. "I have anxiety," she whispered at him, and then she refused to say another word.

  Tucker kept trying to talk to her. After more sympathetic murmurs, more sad eyebrows and zero information, I stood up, searching for the nursing mother. She'd been pushing a stroller and had been wearing a bright red poncho, so she should be easy to spot.

  Yet her seat was now filled by a white mother and toddler daughter. The girl crawled in her mother's lap, dangerously close to showing off the pull-ups under her black and green skirt, as the mom struggled to blow a blue latex balloon. I frowned at the balloon, not only because of the latex, which is allergenic, but because air expands when you take off. That balloon might pop at a higher altitude, although maybe they'd throw it away before we boarded.

  And then I glommed onto the baby mom. Her newly-donned khaki jacket hid her poncho, but she couldn't move too fast with a stroller.

  The mother whirled around before I'd gotten within ten feet of her, placing herself between me and her baby. "What do you want?" She had a slight accent, but her intent was clear.

  "Nothing." I was too startled to come up with a good answer. After she nodded and tightened her grip on the stroller handles, I added, "I was going to ask you a few questions."

  She shook her head, a curt, angry movement. Her eyes burned at me, tearless and silent.

  This was not the Hallmark version of a mother. This was a woman who was willing to fly solo, cross-continent, after delivering a baby. She was probably on her way to meet family over the holidays and was in no mood to talk to a nosy stranger. Maybe I should have waited for Tucker to charm her, but ten to one, she'd be even less likely to talk to a man. I opened my mouth.

  She held up her hand. It trembled in the air, and I realized that not only was she furious, but she was afraid of me.

  That was what made me let her go. I had spent too much of my time living in nightmares to create more for somebody else.

  9

  "That was useless," said Tucker, at 5:35, as we waited in line to board in Terminal 3. He stood so close that only I could hear him as the pre-boarders made their way on the plane.

  I nodded. I got a thrill out of his voice in my ear. My cochlea vibrates for thee.

  "Mrs. Yarborough didn't see anything. The dog owner only saw her dog. And the mother ... "

  "She was scared of us." I frowned. I hadn't been good luck for mothers in labour recently. But this mother had already delivered, and her baby, swaddled up and sleeping, had looked small but healthy. There was no way I'd endanger this baby.

  We stepped aside as Gladys and Gideon belatedly joined the pre-boarding line. He sniffed the air, and she struggled to rein him in, her bags swinging on her arms. I was surprised Tucker hadn't bought her a carry on and wheeled it on for her. He'd probably refrained only because that would violate the question, "Did you pack your own bags?"

  An elegant black flight attendant reached out her hand for Gideon's leash, but Gladys shook her head, even though her own right arm stretched all the way in front of her, trying to restrain the dog. She almost dropped the bag she was holding in her left hand.

  The guy in front of us, eyes shaded by a shabby red baseball cap, started talking on his phone. "There's a fuckin' dog getting on the plane. We're never going to get out of here. Yeah, it should be in a carrier. I don't know what people are fuckin' thinking nowadays."

  The couple behind us sipped their coffee, their paper takeout bags crunching in their hands. How long was this pre-boarding going to take, especially with the Gladys and Gideon show? My backpack's straps cut into my shoulders. The laptop was heavy.

  Tucker read my face and reached forward to grab the straps off my shoulders.

  "I've got it," I said, shifting to the side and evading his touch.

  "It's not true that I can't lift after surgery," he said. "I looked it up. It's not based on any randomized control studies—"

  "Because they'd never do studies on humans post op and risk popping their sutures. That doesn't mean you should bench press."

  He laughed. "Wrong muscle group."

  "Right concept. I should carry your backpack."

  "Over my dead body." He looked like he meant it.

  I remembered him lifting me in the bathroom, and my cheeks reddened even as I willed them back to normal. "For the next six weeks, anyway. Then you can carry my backpack all you want."

  His eyes glittered, no doubt picturing a thousand things he'd do to my "backpack," which didn't help my blushing situation. I've never felt so fiery in my life. I busied myself with buckling the strap across my hips so that Tucker couldn't yank my backpack onto his own shoulders out of sheer stubbornness, before I changed the subject. "By the time we land, we'll have more information about the baggage handler, if you still want to pursue that."

  "I sure do." His expression turned grim again. Someone had died on his watch, which was completely unaccepta
ble.

  Gideon barked at one of the gate agents, who jumped.

  The business class people shifted impatiently. Their carry-ons were already stacked on their rolling suitcases, and they held out their passports, ready to rock and roll.

  "Excuse me," said a woman with a low, throaty voice, and everyone turned.

  She swept to the head of the business line without asking for permission or forgiveness. She was even taller than most of the men, with such abundant yellow-blonde hair cascading down to the small of her back that I suspected extensions. Her oversized sunglasses slipped down her aquiline nose, revealing her arched eyebrows and on-point eyeliner. The stilettos alone added five inches in height. She was wearing an all white pantsuit that I would have avoided, for fear of a visible panty line, a period stain, or a stray dust ball, but of course she magnetically repelled any such evidence of human frailty.

  A man trailed in her wake, talking on his phone. "Yeah. Yeah. I hear ya. Don't worry about it. Hang on, we're boarding." He had a New York way of dragging out his vowels. He was much less physically impressive than her, like a six instead of a nine on ten on the looks scale: short, stocky, skin spray-tanned darker than my own, thick lips, fake-looking black hair, but his massive sunglasses and black button down shirt probably cost more than my monthly salary.

  I couldn't help wondering who they were and what they did. I don't have time to keep up with celebrity gossip. I've never watched the Kardashians. But these two looked like someone I should have heard of.

  The Santa brunette, recently freed from her ShapeR imprisonment, raised her eyebrows at me, and I resolved to ask her later. No doubt she was much more plugged in than me.

  Then I remembered that the guy beside me was a walking pop culture magnet. I tugged his hand.

  Tucker shook his head even before I asked. "She looks familiar, though," he said under his breath.

  Huh. Another mystery. I wished I could do something high tech like take a picture of their faces and run it through facial recognition software. Ryan could probably do it. He's a computer magician compared to me.

  The blonde snapped her fingers. A slender young man hustled in front of both of them, carrying their bags plus three passports open to the correct pages. He murmured to the gate attendant.

  "Hurry up, Alessandro," said the blonde.

  Alessandro. Kind of like the Lady Gaga song. He was wearing a well-cut white shirt and silver tie, but the pants were a bit baggy on him, as if he'd lost weight. When he turned around to check the bags, I noticed dark circles under his eyes, even though his brown hair was beautifully highlighted, and his teeth and the whites of his eyes were clear.

  There was something familiar about him. I found myself holding my breath, watching him more than Mr. and Mrs. Money.

  "What is it?" Tucker said.

  I shook my head. I wasn't drawn to Alessandro sexually. If anything, he gave me a flutter of alarm. "I don't know."

  "Okay," Tucker said, but a crease remained between his eyes. He didn't like me staring at another guy. I refused to calculate what that meant for me and Ryan after we landed in Montreal. Instead, I took Tucker's arm, and he cheered up.

  No one criticized Mr. and Mrs. Money or redirected them to the back of the line. The gate agent scanned the trio's passports and waved them through. They acted like king and queen of the world, and everyone reacted accordingly.

  Mr. Money's aftershave was so strong, I could still smell the musk lingering in the air.

  10

  When we finally stepped on the plane, it was gridlocked. I heard barking ahead, and we only had one aisle, so it didn't take too many brain cells to figure out why.

  I glanced at the people ensconced in first class, or whatever it's called when you only have two seats on either side of the aisle, so the dreaded middle seat doesn't even exist. I recoiled slightly from the Yarboroughs immediately on my left, in seats 1D and F. It felt like I couldn't get away from them, but she was only showing him how to tighten his seat belt. They weren't causing any trouble.

  I told my heart to calm down and focus on something more important, like being able to afford first class when I'm 75.

  The next passenger, to our right, must have paid for two seats, since his body overflowed from the window seat into the aisle one. He'd already put on his eye shades and slipped his ear buds in. Smart man.

  Mr. Money was two rows behind the Yarboroughs, talking on the phone ("Yeah. Absolutely. One hundred percent") while flipping through a tablet that I bet he could hardly see from behind his sunglasses. He did the man spread, legs akimbo, taking up a few crucial inches of the aisle, so that people had to wheel their suitcases around his left knee.

  In the window seat, Mrs. Money stretched her legs so far that she looked like she might encroach on the leg room of the passenger in front of her, even with the more generous proportions of upper class. Speaking of proportions, if she leaned forward, her breasts threatened to rub against the seat back of the woman in front of her.

  Alessandro had established himself behind them. His laptop's background photo showed a line of baggage-laden people silhouetted against the sunset. He kept glancing at Mr. and Mrs. Money, waiting for their next order. He noticed me watching him and hastily opened a finder window.

  Across from him was a very slender woman. Although most of her face was hidden behind her shades, I suspected she was lovely, with light brown skin and blonde-brown ringlets. She wore all-black, close-fitting, expensive clothes and a large opal between her breasts.

  I shook my head. We were doctors earning a pittance on a resident's salary, and it felt like we'd never make it to first class. It sucks to be a student who won't even buy gum after a night shift of saving people's lives (I don't love gum, and it's overpriced at a hospital; I either brush my teeth or occasionally save candies from restaurants) while politicians and movie producers can assault women by day and make a trillion dollars by night. But I had my bae, or my boo, or whatever I was supposed to call Tucker now, and he was worth more than a trillion dollars. I grinned over my shoulder at Tucker, and he smiled back as we lollygagged our way to the cheap seats.

  Maybe we could interview the Richie Rich later. If they'd pre-boarded at Gate 68A, they could've picked up on something that Gladys didn't. But how on earth were Tucker and I going to interview them when we were stuck in cattle class?

  I heard a gasp, and even though I was short and five people back, I glimpsed some already-seated economy class people shying away from G&G. "Watch out for the dog!"

  Gideon yanked his head to the right. Gladys tossed her non-dog arm into the air. One of her plastic bags nearly clipped the red ball cap off the guy's head.

  "Hey, watch it!" he snapped. Americans are not known for quietly enduring insults. Well, I hear Midwesterners are polite to a fault, but not the denizens of L.A., or tourists, or anyone whose flight was delayed by two hours.

  "Sorry," said Gladys. Her dog reeled her forward. She grabbed the nearest seat back to steady herself, but her hand accidentally twisted the hair of a businesswoman sitting in the aisle seat.

  "Ow!" The businesswoman pushed the dog owner's hand away from her shiny, brown bob.

  "Why do you have a dog here, anyway?" said the man in the middle seat.

  "Gideon's my service animal," gasped Gladys.

  Was an Emotional Support Animal classified as a service animal? I wasn't sure, but I belatedly remembered a really good one from a PTSD meeting. Ted was a cute, well-behaved yellow lab who wore a jacket identifying his role. He focused entirely on his person, a war veteran, for the duration of the meeting, even though we all smiled and cooed at him. Ted made us relax instead of worrying about how screwed up we were. Ted ended up helping everyone at that meeting. I have zero issues with real service dogs.

  Meanwhile, Gideon's fluffy tail nearly swished the balloon girl in the face. To be fair, the girl had been rooting around on the floor, instead of buckled in her aisle seat, 14C, but she started to cry. Her mother heaved her in
to her lap, glaring at Gladys.

  "I have—a letter," puffed Gladys. "I have—anxiety."

  Hmm. I have anxiety, too. Should I have borrowed Roxy for my flight?

  Next, Gideon sniffed a skinny boy, maybe seven years old, who was clambering in the aisle seat opposite the balloon girl. The mother reached forward, but not before the dog gave a good, sharp bark, and the boy gasped.

  "He—won't—hurt you," said Gladys.

  The mother embraced her son and started speaking to him in another language, like Spanish but not. Portuguese, maybe.

  The father stood up, although he was hemmed in the window seat. "You need to control your dog," he said, his English slightly hesitant, but his anger evident.

  "Gideon is—my service—animal."

  "You need to control your service animal," said the father.

  "Gladys, I can help you," said the flight attendant who waited ahead of us, mid-plane. She had plain but pleasant features, dark blonde spiral curls, and a low, gravelly voice.

  Gideon barked.

  "Just keep moving!" yelled a guy behind us.

  Gladys waved her hand, dismissing the riffraff without turning around. It would have looked cooler if her bags hadn't fallen down her arms and banged against her own sides, making her say "Oof." She urged Gideon forward. "Go on, boy. Go on."

  Gideon barked again.

  "Do you need help with Gideon?" Tucker raised his voice, naming the dog and, ideally, calming down the mob.

  "No. He only likes me," Gladys said, and so we inched our way forward. Somehow, it was worse when even my seat at the back of the plane was literally in sight, but we were hemmed in the aisle because of a human impediment.

  "We're not going to leave for half an hour," said a woman behind me.

  "Yeah! We were already late before this fatso and her dog—"

  My hands fisted. Gladys was annoying me, too, but I whipped around and glared.