Death Flight

by Melissa Yi

  "But he'd still have chest hypoventilation—"

  "We didn't do anything to Compton. He offered information. The police and the courts will handle it. If they declare him incompetent—and I think they will—he'll be tried as not criminally responsible, or the U.S. equivalent. I'm saying it again, Hope. What are you doing?"

  "I'm confessing." I bit my lip before I remembered that was a bad idea. "He can't take the whole blame. He hardly knows what he's doing. I contributed, too."

  "Shut up, Hope."

  His words stopped me like a slap. That, plus his eyes hooded with fury. He said, "I love you. I'm not going to let you self-destruct because you feel guilty after someone else stabbed a man on a plane. I know you have PTSD, but you can't throw yourself in jail to escape."

  "I'm not doing that!" Doubt flickered in the back of my mind. I did hate torturing him and Ryan. Was I so far gone that this was my solution: escape through a criminal conviction? "But I will have to tell the authorities—"

  "You have a fucking concussion, on top of everything else. You have trouble seeing, and you have a headache. Right?"

  I nodded, which made me wince. "But it's not like—"

  "You have PTSD, and now you have a head injury. You are not thinking straight, and I'm telling you, you sitting on his chest for one second did not make a difference."

  "It was longer—"

  "It was not. I was there. I was watching you. I watch you more than anyone else, and I will swear on a stack of Bibles that I was the only medical doctor on board in full possession of my faculties, and that you did nothing to harm him. Nothing."

  More doubt sprouted in my chest. He did watch me. He loved me. If Armageddon sprung up on this plane, he would rocket through the air to protect me. But that meant he was biased. It meant he would lie in court. He would lie right to my face, if he thought it was best for me.

  Ryan wouldn't lie. Even though he'd stepped away from his church, the core of him still held out for a higher power.

  Tucker's eyes blazed, and I knew he didn't have any higher power than me.

  It scared me. I didn't feel worthy. Of the billions of people in the world, I didn't deserve that kind of love. But he was giving it anyway.

  "I love you," I said, because I didn't know what else to say, and that much was true.

  "I love you." He folded me into his chest. His arms viced their way around me. My nose got squashed, but it didn’t matter. I breathed and tried to believe what he was saying, while the plane shook and voices spun in my head.

  I was only on there for a second.

  It sure felt like longer than a second.

  I could ask other people who witnessed it.

  Who?

  Maybe someone filmed it.

  "Filmed it," I said out loud.

  Tucker's arms stiffened.

  "We have to review any footage of the—subjugation," I said. "We asked for witnesses, but we should have been asking for video."

  Tucker eyeballed me. He knew why I was searching for footage. I didn't believe his testimony 100 percent, the way he thought he would have believed mine.

  My hands twitched, but I said, "You know it's true, Tucker. People can lie." I recoiled at my own words. It was like I was still accusing him.

  Tucker despised it. He despised everything I was implying. He ground out, "We could leave that to the police. We've got a confession. That's more than anyone else would have gotten."

  I knotted my hands together. "We can't use him like that. He would be, like, the sacrificial lamb."

  Tucker changed the subject. "You shouldn't be watching videos anyway, with a concussion."

  That made me laugh, and his mouth yanked up in a crooked smile. How many times had I told a patient, "No movies, no texting, no nothing after a concussion"? You're only allowed to lie still, in a dark room, for 24 hours. And here I was, gallivanting up and down a plane, trying to solve a murder.

  Before Tucker could cut in with an excuse, though, I raised my voice. "Let Linda make an announcement. Anyone who filmed the ... altercation can step forward. We're not going to force people. We won't harm any concrete evidence if we're looking at footage."

  "Unless we delete it by accident," said Tucker.

  I'd never seen him so stubborn and so unwilling to investigate. "Computer forensics would get it back, unless you're a real hacker, which you're not." That was more Ryan's specialty. "So let's get some volunteers."

  Tucker hesitated, and that was when the depth of his resistance finally hit me. He'd dropped his figurative magnifying glass because he was worried we'd find something incriminating about me.

  Despite his protests, he worried that I was guilty too.

  Fuck.

  I closed my eyes. When I opened them, I had to blink more than usual, and my voice trembled, but I said, "The truth will out. And I'd rather be forewarned. If I accidentally—if I get charged with manslaughter or accessory to murder—"

  "Don't say that. Don't fucking say that." He held me so tightly that I couldn't breathe for a second. Tucker was my whalebone corset. "I need you. I just got you. I'm not giving you up like that."

  "It won't change anything, unless you're going to zip tie me in the back with Staci Kelly," I said.

  He shook his head. "I'd zip tie us together first. I'm serious, Hope. You can't get rid of me. I'm here forever."

  Ryan wobbled through my mind. He was less vocal than Tucker, but equally stubborn. I'd picked two guys who would never back down.

  I did worry about losing both of them, but it had never occurred to me that our love story might end with me in prison. Do they even allow you two different conjugal visitors? Or was I so paranoid post-concussion that I should follow my doctor's orders and just shut up?

  Tucker moved his hand to my face. He pressed his fingers against my cheek, still too tightly, although I didn't protest. If we were going to be ripped apart, I wanted him to mark me. It would be all I had.

  He stared into my eyes. "I wish it had been me. If he hadn't kicked me in the stomach—"

  "My parents would hire a really good lawyer. Don't worry." But my stomach dropped. My parents would hire the best lawyer and bankrupt themselves if they had to, leaving themselves and my brother Kevin with nothing.

  Don't panic, Hope.

  Breeeeeathe.

  The curtain twitched aside.

  I stifled a cry. Tucker held my head against his chest and only slowly released me. I could still feel his heart hammering, as if it had etched itself on my ribcage.

  "Excuse me," said the female senior citizen with smooth, brown skin, greying dreadlocks, and glasses, who was watching us from the economy class side.

  She didn't look like an ax murderer. In fact, she managed to impart an air of gravitas, like a judge, even though she was wearing jeans. "I was walking up the aisle and couldn't help overhearing your conversation. I did film the altercation on my phone, and I can show you the video."

  Tucker’s hands clutched my back. Neither of us spoke for a microsecond before he slowly let go.

  31

  The woman drew the curtain behind her and pressed play on her phone.

  I swayed on my feet. I wanted to blame it on the rocky airplane, but Tucker didn't stir, except to bolster me up. "You sure you want to do this?" he whispered.

  "Sure." I spoke through my teeth. Fortunately, I'd remembered not to nod.

  The screen was so dark that at first, I could hardly tell the video was playing. Either the woman's phone didn't have a flash, or she hadn't activated it.

  She'd also shot from the rear of the plane, filming the backs of people's heads as they stood up, blocking the aisle.

  I released my breath and straightened up in my seat. I could make out a head here or a hand there. That was all.

  Good news: this video probably wouldn't incriminate me.

  Bad news: it looked next to useless.

  The audio was okay, but punctuated by people swearing and saying, "Get him!" and "The dog—!” St
aci Kelly shouted, "I can't breathe."

  Then Joel J kicked Tucker off-screen.

  Tucker oofed.

  "No!" a female yelled. Maybe me.

  I swore under my breath. If only this camerawoman had filmed Joel J's direct attack on Tucker, that would have been useful.

  She did manage to capture my retaliatory kick, although I had my head down, and the video was so pixellated that I hardly recognized myself.

  Joel J's arm swung. My face toppled backward, off-screen.

  Tucker sucked his breath through his teeth, and I remembered the look on his face as he pulled the clots out of Joel's chest.

  Please have done everything right, Tucker. Even if he was a hellhole of a human being. There will be an autopsy when we land.

  Herc yanked Joel's leg in the video.

  The screen wobbled when Joel hit the ground. People screamed and jostled the camera.

  Soon I landed on Joel's chest, but it was hard to see. Too many other people in the way. Thank God.

  Another flurry of movement. Shouting. When the camera bobbed forward again, Tucker was yelling for chest tube equipment.

  Her video taught us exactly nothing about the murderer, and I was grateful.

  "I don't know how useful it is, but my name is Elizabeth Rodriguez y Calderón. Here's my card." She handed me a bright blue card with white script on it.

  I glanced down at it. She was an attorney for family law.

  Here was an intelligent woman whose very presence seemed ... peaceful. I trusted her instinctively. She took incompetent videos that didn't incriminate me. And it never hurt to be friends with a lawyer. "Thank you very much, ah, Ms. Rodriguez y Calderón." I imitated her accent as best I could.

  She chuckled. "Elizabeth. Please. I can identify some other people with videos more helpful than mine. Would you like me to do so?"

  I gulped.

  Tucker's eyebrows drew together across his forehead in a clear Hell, no.

  But it felt like it was out of our hands now. After umpteen threats, a lawyer had finally materialized.

  I'll be judge, I'll be jury.

  I closed my eyes and nodded. My head throbbed.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please. This is your captain speaking."

  I caught Tucker's hand. Captain James Mesaglio had repossessed the microphone. With our luck, the plane had been hit by lightning.

  "Because of the weather patterns and the unusual conditions on the airplane, we’re proceeding to Chicago's O'Hare International Airport. Our estimated time of arrival in Chicago is 12:19 a.m. Central Time, which is two hours ahead of Pacific Time. The weather forecast there is cloudy with a temperature of 8 degrees Celsius or 18 Fahrenheit."

  Less than 30 minutes away from landing.

  Oy oy oy oy oy, to quote one of my Jewish patients.

  Passengers cheered so loudly that I hardly made out what he said next, something about ground agents finding alternate transportation solutions for us.

  Oh, right. We’d been jetting toward family, friends, and fun in time for Christmas. Now our only priority was survival, as in, Land this plane as fast as possible.

  Basically, everyone on board had PTSD paranoia. I fit right in.

  Linda materialized at our seats. "Doctors, could I ask you to speak to the flight doctor?"

  "Of course." I'd rather do that than review more potentially incriminating videos. But when we stood up, Mrs. Yarborough called, in her thin voice, "Help! Help me, please!"

  No. There couldn't be yet another emergency on this plane.

  Tucker dashed toward her anyway, and I pelted after him.

  Tucker called over his shoulder, "He's seizing."

  FML.

  I tried to shove past Mrs. Yarborough, who stood in front of the aisle seat, saying, "He started shaking. There was so much going on, I didn't want to bother you. I thought he was shaking in his sleep, and maybe he was cold, but he shook so hard that his blanket fell off ... "

  "What time did it start?" I snapped.

  Harold sure looked like he was seizing. He was gazing off into space, diagonally to the right, while both arms trembled. I haven't seen a ton of seizures, and I've seen more obvious seizures, but this looked like a seizure. Of course, we didn't have much to treat it with. "Glucose," I said, while Mrs. Yarborough abandoned her bag on her seat and retreated to the aisle, giving us more room.

  "I'm on it." Tucker had scooped up Harold's Accucheck and test strips—maybe his wife had left it on her seat, along with her bag—and was now pricking Harold's index finger.

  Harold didn't react. Another sign that he was down for the count.

  "Could I have some orange juice?" I called. If in doubt, give sugar. Hyperglycemia won't kill you the way that hypoglycemia will.

  "I have apple juice," said Pascale.

  "Perfect. Now, please!" I told her. She skirted by us to grab it from the little kitchen, and I asked Mrs. Yarborough again, "What time did this start?"

  "Oh, I don't know. He's been bad for more than five minutes—"

  Five minutes is worrisome. The new guidelines are to treat seizures aggressively if they're still seizing in the ER.

  "—but there was so much going on. And I wasn't sure before that. Maybe half an hour?"

  "Half an hour? That's status epilepticus!" Definitive brain damage time. Holy crap.

  Meanwhile, Tucker said, "His sugar is 60."

  "What's that in our measurement?"

  He thumbed up his app. "It's, uh, 3.3."

  It was low normal, not seizure low, but we had so few choices. "Let's give the juice anyway." Pascale was holding a little plastic cup over my shoulder. I grabbed it, spilling a bit of the apple juice. She yelped, which I ignored. "Get me some gloves."

  She handed me a pair. Thank God she'd anticipated that. I dipped my gloved index finger in the juice and moved to smear some inside his cheek when his teeth clamped down together.

  Ugh. I prefer not to go near anyone's mouth when they're seizing, but I couldn't pour it down his nose without drowning him. I plucked his cheek, like I was an auntie giving a kid a good cheek pinch, and pulled it away from his teeth. Harold swiped at me, but Tucker caught his arms first.

  "Sorry, sir! Just trying to help you," I said. I wasn't sure he could hear me. It was a good sign that he'd felt the pinch. Maybe he was coming out of his seizure; it can be hard to tell.

  I dipped my index finger in the juice. I swiped the juice on the inside of the cheek to avoid his incisors.

  His teeth rattled, and I realized that I'd hit his dentures. Good. They'd be less of a weapon than real teeth. I pulled them out and handed them to his wife, who made a face.

  "You can do this yourself," I told her, but she shook her head. I slathered more juice inside his cheek pouch. Go big or go home, like we say in the ER. Better one good juice swipe than a few tentative attempts, with him biting down on me for each one.

  I didn't want to fondle his orifice too long. There's something intimate about feeling someone else's mucous membranes, even through gloves.

  I yanked my hand back out. His mouth slopped shut again.

  I hoped I gave him enough juice. A nurse would have done a better job. More experience. I'm always jonesing for the intubation or central line, but not as good at the practical details.

  Tucker smiled at me while he pulled equipment out of the medical kit Magda had magicked up behind us. Soon he was inserting his second IV of the hour with dextrose. I felt my shoulders relax below my ears. Before Mr. Money, Tucker and I had only run one other code together before. Now we were pros.

  "I think he's opening his eyes!" said Mrs. Yarborough.

  I held my breath. Was this it? Just hypoglycemia? I'd never seen anyone seize from a sugar of 3.3, but hypoglycemia's effects are legion. Your brain needs glucose in order to function. Bizarre things happen when neurons don't fire, not only confusion and weakness, but even temporary paralysis and, in very rare cases, blindness.

  Mr. Yarboroug
h's face twitched, including both eyelids. His mouth smacked.

  And then both his arms jerked.

  I said, "Damn it. We can't fool around with status epilepticus. Give me a list of his medications. Is he on Ativan or Valium or Dilantin? I need those."

  Mrs. Yarborough shook her head.

  To Tucker, I said, "ABC's."

  "He's got an airway for now," said Tucker. "I could intubate him, but then one of us will have to bag him."

  "No, don't do that!" said Mrs. Yarborough.

  Tucker nodded. "Let's try and stop the seizures first. Do you have oxygen?" he asked Pascale.

  She nodded and did something to an overhead compartment to open it. An oxygen bottle came out, along with its yellow cup mask.

  While she straightened the tubing, I said, "Fair enough. D is dextrose, and we're giving it. If that works ... " My voice trailed off. It would be so nice if it worked, but we couldn't wait. "E—exposure. I guess we could take his clothes off."

  Mrs. Yarborough paused in the middle of searching through her bag on the seat. "Absolutely not."

  "Sure. There's no cardiac monitor anyway." No cardiac monitor, no blood pressure cuff, no oxygen saturation probe. We did have Pascale fitting the oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, kind of like a fake pig snout.

  Tucker said, "Let's start with some more metabolic causes. I use the mnemonic SICK DRIFTER."

  I'd never heard that one, so I shut my mouth and listened to Tucker.

  "S is for substrates, like sugar or oxygen. We've got both of those covered right now. I is Isoniazid overdose. Is he being treated for tuberculosis?"

  Everyone circled around him shuddered. The last thing we needed on this airplane was TB.

  Mrs. Yarborough shook her head and licked her lips, which were trembling. Poor thing. We usually let family members go to a quiet room, if they don't want to see us shoving tubes and medications in their loved ones. I wanted to tell her to keep looking for his meds list, but Tucker was on a roll.

  "Any other infectious diseases, while we're at it?" he asked her.

  "He had prostate cancer."

  "Good to know. Was he on medications for it?"

  She shook her head. "He had surgery, but they were worried about his bladder. He went for a test on Monday."