Death Flight

by Melissa Yi

  A line of fed-up travellers glared right back.

  I couldn't figure out who had spoken, but their malevolence was clear. A chill snaked down my spine. They were pissed, and if they couldn't take it out on a fat woman and her dog, they'd make me their target. Anyone would do.

  Tucker touched my shoulder. He didn't want me to get into fisticuffs with anyone. He called down the line, "Merry Christmas, eh?"

  "Merry Christmas," Neil muttered, from where he stood near the Yarboroughs. Even he looked ready to stake someone.

  I exhaled and counted the reasons why they were justifiably pissed. A demented man had attracted the police, a baggage handler had died, all the planes were delayed, and we'd scored the slowest-boarding plane of all time. But I was lucky to board the plane at all. I had to remember that.

  "I'll take the dog," the throaty-voiced flight attendant was saying. "Excuse me." She grasped Gideon's leash.

  "No. Gideon can't be away from me. Gideon!" Gladys screeched like the highest note on a rickety old piano.

  The flight attendant's shoulders twitched. She took a breath, obvious through her thin, navy uniform, as she relinquished the leash. "Okay, then. But move along. We have people trying to board within 15 minutes."

  "That's why I need extra time to board early. I have—anxiety." Although Gladys huffed a little, she spoke better at rest. That meant she seemed in no hurry to get to her seat.

  The flight attendant manufactured a smile above her red scarf. "Let's keep moving, shall we?" She urged Gladys and Gideon forward. "These are your seats. Sir, could you stand up to let them in?"

  "Thank God," someone murmured.

  "God is dead," a man said behind us.

  "No, He most certainly is not!" snapped the Portuguese woman, nearly clapping her hands over her son's ears.

  When I whirled around, everyone was staring at a 20-something white guy whose T-shirt said Straight Outta Compton. His face was mostly obscured by brown, scraggly hair.

  "But Mama—" said the Portuguese boy, in English, before his mother swiftly cut him off in their own language.

  Compton gazed past people's heads at the back of the plane, oblivious.

  Goose bumps rose on my arms. I don't like to be trapped in enclosed spaces since the hostage taking, and soon I'd be hurling through the air with a bunch of angry nutjobs.

  Tucker kissed my ear. I shivered and rubbed the goose bumps, trying to warm up my flesh.

  11

  Two ice ages later, G&G settled into 16AB, with Gideon flopping onto what was supposed to be the leg room for three different people. The man in 16C already looked like he needed a drink.

  I glanced at my ticket. I was 33C, whereas Tucker was 18A, the window seat in the second exit row. No doubt he'd worked his magic on a booking agent to get that choice arrangement. We'd spend the flight half a plane away from each other, with me ensconced directly in front of the toilets. "See you in six hours."

  Tucker shook his head. "I'll follow you."

  I smiled. Maybe he wanted to kiss me before takeoff.

  However, when I stooped to stow my backpack under 32C, Tucker stuck his head in the little kitchen behind the toilets, at the very back of the plane. "Excuse me. Magda, right?" he said to the gravelly-voiced flight attendant, turning on the charm so widely that I could practically feel the blast of it.

  Magda certainly did. She blinked and nodded.

  "I had abdominal surgery, and my girlfriend flew to L.A. to be with me, but now her seat is here and I'm in the exit row."

  Magda nodded and said softly, "This flight is sold out."

  "Of course it is, because Avian Air does such a fantastic job. But I was wondering if you might be able to help us sit together. We're both resident doctors in Montreal. Maybe you've heard of her. Dr. Hope Sze?" I would have elbowed him if he hadn't just had surgery, but he prompted, unrepentant, "The hostage taking at the Montreal hospital last month?"

  "Oh, my goodness. That was terrible. The woman who was in labour with a gun to her head—"

  Lightning would have shot out of my eyeballs if I'd been a cartoon. People mostly respected my silence and PTSD and left me alone in Montreal, but Tucker had outed us for an airplane seat switch.

  "—And you! You're a hero, Dr. Tucker."

  "Dr. Sze did most of the hard work," he said.

  His modesty inflamed Magda even more. "I didn't realize that she was—that you were ... and you're on our plane! Of course you have to sit together. Let me see what I can do for you."

  "That's okay," I said, shoving my water in the back pocket of seat 32C.

  "No. Absolutely not. You want to be with your hero, don't you?"

  I glared at him. He smiled at me and all but batted his eyes at her. "Magda. May I call you Magda?"

  "Of course." Her cheeks tinted a delicate pink.

  "You are a rose among women. Dr. Sze and I have been apart for a month, and this would make our Christmas."

  Her glow flickered. "I'm not sure I can find someone to trade with row 33. It might be easier if you moved to the back."

  Of course it would. Toward the toilet seats.

  Tucker's smile never wavered. "I don't care where I'm sitting, as long as it's with Dr. Sze." He squeezed my hand.

  I squashed his fingers right back, hard enough to hurt him. He kept on grinning anyway. Dink.

  After she hustled up the aisle, I shook my head at Tucker. "Never do that again."

  "What?" he smiled back at me, innocent.

  "Cash in on 14/11."

  "All I did was identify us."

  I eyeballed him. "No. She didn't recognize my name."

  He waved his hand. "She needed a little help. As do we all. That's fine."

  "That's not why we did it."

  "Of course not. But listen, Hope, what's the point of us being separated for five, six hours when we could be together? Don't you want to be with me?"

  "Of course. But not if—"

  "And whoever we're trading with wants to make new friends. That's my favourite part of airplane rides, sitting with a stranger and ending up with a beer buddy in Kuala Lumpur. It's win-win!"

  Yeah, right. We say we'd like to meet up on a plane, but what we really want is a neighbour who won't hog the arm rest, barf all over us, talk, drink, and/or play egregious music the entire flight.

  "People are good, Hope. They want to help us. When they hear the news, they feel helpless. They're not the police, or firefighters, or hospital staff. They can't do anything. They feel impotent. But here's their chance to help a couple who's been through so much. And who doesn't want to help young love? I sure would, if I were given a chance. It's good karma! It'll come back tenfold."

  "Excuse me." said a high, breathy voice from 33B.

  My eyes widened. I couldn't concentrate on the woman's cute little brown pixie cut, fawn-like brown eyes, or the D cups she displayed under a white mesh top, because ... what was up with her nose?

  It was too small. Sounds ideal if you've been bugged about your too-Asian nose your whole life, as I have, yet the mini bump in the centre of her face made her nostrils look gargantuan as she whispered, "My name is Topaz. I couldn't help hearing what you had to say about karma. That was beautiful."

  Oh, no. Brains to match the nose. I tried to smile, but probably looked more like a psychopath imitating a normal human expression.

  Tucker, however, beamed his delight upon Topaz. "I'm so glad you understand."

  "I always think it's important to increase your karma. My guru says it's like a bank account, almost? Like, you have to make a lot of deposits, because you never know when there will be a withdrawal? Good karma, good karma. He's always talking about that."

  My temples started to pound, but Tucker said, "Cool. Who's your, ah, guru?"

  Her dark eyes lit up, and her slim body angled toward him. "Devaguru. You've heard of him? His website got a million hits last month."

  "Congratulations," said Tucker. "No, I've never heard of him, but he has an interest
ing name."

  "It means teacher of gurus."

  Dear Lord. What an egotist. I heard L.A. was flaky, but I couldn't believe when she followed that up with, "I can see your aura."

  "Oh, yeah? What's it telling you?" He sounded genuinely interested.

  "You've been through a lot of turmoil."

  No shit. He'd just told Magda that we'd been through a hostage taking, and that he'd had surgery.

  She kept holding his eyes with hers and talking. "That's the dark part of your aura. But you're very ... vigorous."

  OMFG.

  "I see red and orange—"

  "Vigorous. That's me," said Tucker, squeezing my hand again. I snorted audibly.

  "—but there's a lot of danger. I think it's ... " Her eyes shifted over to me. "Yes. Your girlfriend is swimming in darkness. Lots of passion, of course. She's as passionate as you are—"

  I gave a curt nod. She'd acknowledged me as his equal.

  "—but she's in trouble. It's almost like she's ... " She hesitated.

  I didn't want to hear any more. I cleared my throat. "I feel fine."

  "—cursed."

  Screw you and your miniature nostrils. One at a time. Full frontal. On HDTV.

  "That's why I have to sit with her," said Tucker, also unamused.

  Topaz surveyed him over her mini nose. "Of course. That's what I was going to say. You should sit together. You can have my seat."

  "He can?" The words leapt out of my mouth. I regretted staring at her nose.

  "Oh, yes. He should protect you from ... " She glanced up above my head again. "Fire. I see fire coming for you."

  I was almost willing to put up with her aura-reading if she actually got out of her seat. "Thank you." It took me an extra second to urge her name out of my throat. "Topaz."

  "Very kind of you, Topaz. Do you want me to help you with your bag?" Tucker held his hands out, palms up.

  I shook my head at him, but Topaz was already shouldering a small, opal-coloured purse. "This is all I have. I travel lightly. Devaguru says that if you travel with a light heart, you don't need as many possessions."

  I said brightly, "That's cool. I only brought a backpack, too."

  "Yes." Her eyes rested on the Mountain Equipment Co-op monstrosity that I'd barely wedged under the seat. "Wonderful."

  Her Lilliputian ass finally left 33B, and she pointed to my boarding pass. "Seat 33C. I like that number. The 3 looks very nurturing, like a mother's breasts."

  My eyes popped, but I managed to keep my mouth shut and give a sharp, silent nod.

  When Magda returned, Topaz told her, "I'm ready to go to 18A,” and floated down the aisle.

  Tucker swung himself into 33B, the middle seat.

  I stopped him. "I'll sit there. I'm smaller than you." In our family, the small person always ends up in the middle seat. My little brother, Kevin, protests mightily, but the fact is, he fits better. And Tucker had already given up his exit row seat. No need for him to be squished between me and a truly enormous black man who was doing his best to keep himself contained on his cushion.

  I smiled, silently thanking my new neighbour for his thoughtfulness, and he nodded back at me, headphones already in his ears.

  I clicked my seat belt into place. I'd never been so eager to watch the seat belt demonstration. You could feel the energy in the airplane as everyone willed it to levitate into the air.

  "Hello everybody, and welcome to Avian Air. This is Captain James Mesaglio speaking. Our flight time today will be five hours and two minutes, and our estimated time of arrival in Montreal is 2:09 a.m. local time. Thank you for your patience while rearranging our flight on Christmas Eve. Our thoughts are with the García family."

  Now we had a name, or at least his last name. No one had named the baggage handler before.

  Under my breath, I said a quick blessing for Mr. García and his family. It didn't surprise me that he had been Hispanic. No matter how much the U.S. president railed against foreigners for stealing our jobs, like a protest sign pointed out, IMMIGRANTS GET THE JOB DONE. Which reminded me of another protest sign: WE LOVE IMMIGRANTS. EVEN MELANIA.

  The pilot continued, "We're expecting some significant tail winds, so we'll try to make up some time on our flight. We hope to arrive a few minutes ahead of schedule despite inclement weather. The temperature at our destination is now minus 24 degrees Celsius, with light snow. We wish you a pleasant flight. On behalf of all our crew, thank you for choosing Avian Air as your airline this holiday."

  Tucker smiled and kissed me, a big smack on the lips that made me laugh. How lucky was I to get Christmas off, in L.A., with this guy, even under the shadow of death?

  He turned his head abruptly, breaking off our kiss, and when I opened my eyes, I realized why.

  Straight Outta Compton, the "God is dead" guy, unbuckled his seat belt and clambered from the middle seat into the aisle, about five rows ahead of us.

  We all stared at him. This was the moment for the flight crew to "arm and crosscheck," whatever that meant, not for passengers to get up and boogie. Plus the jeans sagging halfway off his ass did not inspire confidence.

  "Sit down," someone called, but not with any real conviction.

  Compton ignored him and waved at a flight attendant who was poised to demonstrate how to place a yellow oxygen mask over your nose and mouth. "Hey. Hey!"

  She turned to face him. She looked fifty-ish, with shoulder-length greying hair and a trim figure. Not someone to be trifled with. "My name is Linda. How may I help you?"

  "I need a lighter."

  I grasped Tucker's hand. He didn't move. His nostrils flared, watching Compton.

  Linda maintained the pink-lipsticked smile on her face. "No one is allowed to use a lighter on the plane, sir, in case of fire. May I assist you with something else?"

  He shook his head. "I really need a lighter."

  "I must remind you that all aircrafts are non-smoking, sir."

  "I know that."

  Tucker and I exchanged a look. Everyone should know that, in the 21st century. And this guy must not have been born back when they did allow smoking on flights. So why did he need a lighter?

  Yet another candidate for the crazy list on this plane.

  Linda stared him down with a schoolmarm expression.

  Compton didn't say a word, but bent over and started pawing around the legroom of the guy in the aisle seat. The guy stood up, disgusted, and a minute later, Compton stood up and tried to mash his luggage into the overhead bin.

  "Sir, your bag is too big," said Linda.

  "No, your shelving is too small!" he said, which might have been funny, except one man was already dead, and we'd waited too long for this flight. We couldn't end up grounded because of some wing nut.

  "We'll sky check your bag," she said, already holding a label in her hand.

  "No one touches my bags except me," he said.

  Tucker's breath escaped in a sigh. This was definitely going to be a problem. He stood up.

  I grabbed his thigh. "Don't you dare."

  "Hope, show of force."

  This is a psych term. Psych patients—or any patients—can rebel and turn violent on you. You try to de-escalate them in a few ways. One of them is basic human kindness. Dr. Mel Herbert suggests that before you shoot them up with drugs, let them go to the bathroom and give them a baloney sandwich. Compton was free to go to the W.C., but I didn't have a sandwich, and he'd much rather I handed him a lighter.

  The next way of dealing with them is a show of force. A group of people—men, women, doesn't matter, but the more individuals the better—stand up and make their way toward the patient together. I imagine it's some evolutionary thing, but 90 percent of patients will back down in the face of a group.

  I sighed. "Fine."

  I got up, too.

  "You don't need to."

  I'm not a big Bible-quoter. I silently endure every time Ryan does it. But I was not letting Tucker go into Crazytown alone. "Tucker, wither thou
goest ... "

  " ... so do I." He beamed as he took my hand. "Okay, Doctor. Let's go."

  12

  He kept holding my hand as he led me up the aisle. Some people turned to look at us. Tucker nodded back at them.

  Linda turned toward us, irritated. "Please take your seats and buckle your seat belts."

  "We thought you could use a little help," he said.

  "When we need your help, we'll ask for it."

  Tucker's mouth opened. I knew what he was thinking, namely, I'm a doctor. You'll be begging for me within the hour.

  I replied, "I'm glad you have everything under control," and pulled Tucker back toward our seats.

  Tucker didn't move.

  He's bigger than me, so I wrapped his arm around my neck and leaned toward the rear of the plane. "Let's goooooooooo," I muttered, which is what Kevin used to say when he was small and our mom was trying to get him to try on shoes at a store.

  "We can leave, but first we wanted to let you know that we have medical training in how to handle recalcitrant people," Tucker said. "Dr. Hope Sze and I are both medical residents."

  Crap. Outed to the head flight attendant. I leaned harder.

  Compton said, "Doctors, huh?"

  We all turned to look at him.

  He flicked his own nose with his index finger, a peculiar thing to do. I stiffened, but Compton said, "You don't like smoking."

  I shook my head, staring into his unblinking brown eyes. Sometimes you can smell the crazy.

  Tucker said, "Hate it."

  Compton shrugged. "Yeah, cigarettes suck."

  Then he climbed over the aisle guy to clamber into his seat.

  And that, rather anticlimactically, was that. We paused for a moment, but Compton buckled up his seat belt and blended in with the rest of the human furniture while Linda tagged his bag.

  "You're welcome," Tucker told her. "If you need anything further, you know where to find us," he added over his shoulder as I towed him to row 33.

  I took a sip of water while the screens on the back of the seats showed plastic-looking people who relished buckling their seat belts and using their seat cushions as personal floatation devices.