by Alex Dahl
‘Then, when we had the kids, I started working for Scandinavian Airlines, but commuting to Oslo Airport got pretty exhausting – two hours’ drive each way was just too much – so I started with Nordic Wings three years ago. It’s been great for this region, to have a new low-cost airline connecting us to lots of European destinations, but it’s hardly glamorous. Anyway. What about you – are you working?’
‘Yes, I am a make-up artist. For TV, but I work freelance.’
‘Now, that sounds like fun. Do you get to meet anyone famous?’
‘Nah. I do mostly newsreaders.’
‘Right.’
‘It’s easy to combine with the kids, though. You know – flexible. I only take jobs when I can see they’ll work around whatever the kids have on, as well as my husband’s schedule. He travels a lot for work.’
‘What does your husband do?’ I try to imagine the husband – he must be quite the guy to attract someone like Line.
‘He, uh… He’s a banker. He works with investment stuff for a… a French bank. Paribas.’
I smile and nod – Line sounds just like me when people ask me what Fredrik does – Uh, something to do with financial law in, umm, a law firm. We speak for another couple of minutes about the girls and how well they get on, and I give Line Fredrik’s phone number so they can make arrangements for pick-up tomorrow.
I stand up and walk over to where Lucia and Josephine are playing the clapping game again.
‘Mamma has to go home now, sweetie,’ I say, but Lucia barely glances up. ‘Sure you want to sleep over?’ She nods, not going to break the chant.
‘My name is funky lady,
Lady funky, what you got?
One, two, three, clap!
One, two, three,
One clap, two clap, triple clap!’
‘If you need to speak to me, just call, okay?’
Lucia nods again.
‘I’ve brought you your stuff. Minky Mouse is in the bag, too.’
She smiles and steps into my arms in a close hug. Her forehead and neck are sweaty from the exertion of the cartwheeling, and I kiss her hot red cheek. ‘I love you.’
‘Love you, too,’ says Lucia.
‘Let’s play twins again,’ shouts Josephine, grabbing Lucia by the arm.
‘Yeah! Let’s!’
‘Lucia is my twin!’
I smile, first at the girls, then at Line. Looking at them with their arms wrapped around each other, grinning widely, each exposing several missing teeth, they could well be twins, except for Josephine’s thick chestnut hair and Lucia’s fine blonde hair. They have quite similar brown eyes and full lips.
‘Have fun, little twinnies,’ I say and go back downstairs, trailed by Line. She gives me a little wave as I step into the cold darkness outside. I stand a moment outside the house looking up at thin drifts of clouds being pulled across the sky by the brisk wind. Tomorrow will be bumpy.
2
Elisa
20 October
We’re almost an hour delayed when we push back from the gate, but the pilots are confident we’ll recover the time with the strong tail wind. I close all the galley lockers and run through the check-list, then speak to the passengers as we taxi away from the terminal. Gloomy clouds churn above us: another grey and windy day.
‘Welcome on board this Nordic Wings flight to Rome Fiumicino. Please pay attention to the security information playing on the screens above you. We wish you a pleasant flight with Nordic Wings.’
I close my eyes briefly as the plane is lined up ready on the runway, then the pilot urges the throttle and we shoot down the tarmac. The plane takes off, trembling through the low clouds, then settles into a smooth glide as we surface into the bright blues above them. I lean back in the jump seat and smile at a baby perched on its father’s knee in the second row. The baby waves at me with a chubby fist and I wave back. I wonder how Lucia is getting on at her sleepover. I texted Line just before I had to put my phone on flight mode, to say Fredrik was free to pick her up whenever suits them best, and to just get in touch with him directly.
As we continue to climb, I make some small talk with the trainee flight attendant sitting on the jump seat next to me. Her name is Charlotte, and in less than five minutes I learn that she is from a small town in Northern Norway, that she is really, really into manga and likes to dress as her favorite character, a pink-haired schoolgirl called Taya. She also tells me that she has just moved in with her boyfriend, but that he’s a bit of a man-child.
I’m pleased when the signal sounds and get up, motioning for Charlotte to do the same. I run through the check-lists on auto-pilot: bathroom check, coffee, oven started, trolley checked. I love that no two days are the same on my job, and yet all the routines are reassuringly repetitive.
By the time we begin to approach Rome and I sit back down in the jump seat, I realize that I’m feeling so tired I could actually fall asleep, slumping against the constraints of my three-point belt. I guess many people have it like this. I’ve read that it’s a result of the stresses of modern life, especially for women. Work, children, relationships. We just don’t get any breaks.
It doesn’t have to be more complicated than that – those things are enough to make anyone feel exhausted from time to time. I close my eyes and listen to the clunk of the landing gear extending. One of our most senior pilots is flying us in today and he touches down so smoothly I’m not immediately sure whether we have actually landed. I smile at the passengers, and watch the terminal buildings come into view, shining softly in brilliant sunlight. My husband was right – lucky me.
It’s not until all the passengers have been wished a very ‘buongiorno’ and ushered off the plane that I get five seconds to myself. It’s just gone two o’clock and I grab a sandwich from the kiosk by the gate and sit down in the crew room by the departure gate. I flick my phone from flight mode to roaming and call Fredrik.
‘Ciao, bello,’ I say when he picks up. I work hard, these days, at keeping up the banter between us. Marriages grow stone cold easier than one might think, and I don’t want it to happen to ours – we’ve come too far.
‘Hey there, how’s Rome?’
‘Gorgeous, I’m sure. I’ve literally got fifteen minutes before I need to go back on and prep for the return. How did Lucia’s sleepover go?’
‘She’s not back yet. I spoke to the mom this morning, they’ve gone to the pool.’
‘Oh, right. When are you going to pick her up?’
‘She said she’d drop her back home around three.’
‘Okay, cool. And Lyder?’
‘My parents came and took him to the Reptile Museum in Larvik.’
‘Lucky kids. And what’s Daddy up to this afternoon while I slave away?’
‘Isn’t that pretty obvious? Flat out on the sofa with Game of Thrones. Duh.’
My husband chuckles before we hang up, and an image of him this morning flits into my mind. He was still sleeping when I slipped from the bed at six, but I paused a moment at the door, watching him in the shaft of light from the hallway. He was on his front and naked, facing me, his eyelids quivering. His buttocks were pale and he still had a clear tan line from our trip to Tenerife two weeks ago.
I remember last night’s sex, how he propped me up against the headboard, how hard he tugged my hair, how excited his short, hot breath felt in my ear as he came. I feel myself blushing and turn my thoughts to my groaning stomach – I haven’t even had breakfast. I bite into my sandwich and close my eyes as I chew sundried tomatoes and plump fresh mozzarella. When I finish, it’s time to get back on the plane. I brush some crumbs off my navy uniform skirt, then glance at my phone again. I decide to message Line. It is so kind of her to take the girls swimming on top of a sleepover.
Hi there, hope all is well with you guys. Thank you so much for taking L to the pool! We’d love to have Josephine over soon, too. Perhaps next week? All best, Elisa x
Back on the plane I prepare the cabin with the rest of
the crew. The captain tells us we are going to be at least half an hour late pushing back as we arrived late and missed our slot. While I love my job, I get so tired of delays, especially because it means cranky passengers, and funnily enough, an asshole tends to turn into a mega asshole in the air. Still, I should be home by seven, and I’m looking forward to our Saturday night family ritual of watching a talent show, a big bowl of candy on the table and the kids sleepily snuggling against me and Fredrik. We’re lucky. So lucky. How did I deserve all of that?
I call the gate and tell them to let the passengers through the jet way. There’s an almost instant rumble of wheelie bags and stomping feet, and I focus on placing my best flight attendant smile back on my face. My phone vibrates in my pocket and I quickly pull it out so I can put it on flight mode, then away. I glance at the time, 3.47, then the message, from Fredrik.
btw did you hear anything from Josephine’s mom? She said she’d drop her back by 3 and they aren’t here yet. I need to go get Lyder soon…
I take a deep breath. Seriously. What is it with men? I’m in Rome, on a plane, at work, and having to deal with playdate logistics back home. It’s always the same story. I’ll be at Copenhagen airport, rushing to grab a quick snack before getting back on the plane and I’ll get a message from my husband saying ‘I’m not going to make pick-up and could I please find someone to help out?’ Or I’ll be boarding a flight to Madrid and Fredrik messages me to ask ‘Where’s Lyder’s gym bag and what does it even look like?’
*
The flight is just over half-full – seventy-two adults and seven under-twelves. I sit back down next to Charlotte and avoid the usual small talk as the plane pulls back and begins to taxi. I’m feeling a little distracted, no doubt due to Fredrik’s dubious organizational skills. But… but what if something is wrong? An accident at the pool? A car crash? Or someone taken ill – an allergy perhaps? Lucia once had a small reaction to sesame seeds, I didn’t think to mention that to Line, maybe she’s given her a sesame-something and my child has had an anaphylactic reaction and Line’s phone battery is flat so she can’t even get in touch?
Stop it, I say to myself. Stop. Still, my heart is thudding heavily in my chest and I wish I could just check my phone one last time before takeoff, but it’s locked in the crew locker. The plane picks up speed and it clunks noisily against the tarmac lights on the runway before lifting off. I squirm in my seat and fix my gaze at a point just above the overhead luggage compartments, focusing on deep, even breaths.
The pilots give us the clearance signal and I stand up to start the coffee, before running through the after takeoff check-list. My breathing feels shallow and strange. I’ve struggled with anxiety for many years now, but this time it’s particularly bad and I have to hold on to the side of the drinks trolley to regain control of myself. I run through my breathing exercises over and over but I can feel my face grow red and am certain my colleagues and the passengers can tell something is wrong.
‘Are you okay?’ asks Charlotte.
‘Yeah. Yeah, sorry, just a little bit of vertigo. It happens sometimes. After years in the air.’
She nods but looks concerned.
The passengers’ seat belt sign is switched off, and immediately people start unbuckling their seat belts and moving down the aisle towards us.
Come on, I say to myself. Get it together. I wish I could have a drink, but that’s obviously not an option. I managed to wean myself off diazepam last year, after a long and devoted love affair with sedatives, though now I wish I hadn’t.
I smile, answer questions, serve coffee, smile some more, all the while trying to keep my focus on the cool metal of the trolley beneath my fingertips. You can do this, I tell myself, again and again. But I’m not sure I can. My thoughts race wildly, and it feels like the plane is flying faster than it should. I imagine it dropping through the clouds, lurching uncontrollably, then smashing to the ground, disintegrating in a blur of flames and smoke. It’s like the sensation of speed is tearing at me, ripping my skin off.
I lock myself in the bathroom for a long while and hold my own gaze in the mirror. ‘It’s okay,’ I whisper, but tears spill down my cheeks, drawing charcoal lines of mascara. It is only when Charlotte knocks on the door, at first softly, then insistently, that I manage to regain some control of myself. I reapply my mascara, then step back into the bright cabin, the familiar whoosh of the engines momentarily calming, and I smile with a confidence I don’t feel.
We land at Torp just after six thirty. By the time all the passengers have disembarked and I’ve finished the check-lists, I am so tired I can barely think straight. Fredrik and I shared a bottle of wine last night after Lyder went to bed, and all the sex meant we didn’t get to sleep until past 1 a.m. I just want to go home and collapse onto the sofa. I grab my stuff and switch flight mode off. I’m walking through the jet way when my phone picks up a signal. Immediately it begins to twitch and chime in my hand. Six missed calls from Fredrik and five unread WhatsApp messages. My eyes automatically go first to the most recent, sent four minutes ago, and my blood runs cold.
Have you landed? Hurry through. I’m at arrivals, waiting for you. Hurry, Elisa.
3
Elisa
Fredrik’s face is crumpled, pale, perplexed, frightened. I race towards him, the clack of my court shoes reverberating around the arrivals area of Torp Airport. I sense people’s alarmed glances; it isn’t normal to suddenly run without reason.
‘What is it?’ I manage. ‘Why are you here? Where are the kids?’
‘I… I can’t find Lucia.’
‘What do you mean you can’t find her?’
‘The mom didn’t bring her back at three, like we arranged.’
‘What? Why? Why did she say they were late?’
We rush through the revolving doors into a windy drizzle before dashing across the road to the short-stay car park.
‘I’ve been calling and messaging her on the number you gave me, but it just goes straight to voicemail.’
‘Shit, I must have given you the wrong number.’
We stop for a brief moment at the parking lot’s payment machine, catching our breaths, searching each other’s eyes. Yes, that must be it. Wrong number. I pull my phone out. No new messages or missed calls. I don’t get it – even if I gave Fredrik the wrong number, Line has mine. Why hasn’t she called if she’s going to be four fucking hours delayed dropping my kid back?
‘Wait, you said she called you this morning about the pool. So you must have her number.’
Fredrik retrieves his credit card from the machine and we half run across the rain-lashed parking lot. A jet taking off directly above us drowns out his reply.
‘What?’ I shout.
‘I said she called from a private number.’
‘What?’
We get in the car and stare at each other in the hushed, cold space.
‘I didn’t really think about it at the time… But I guess that’s a little… weird.’
‘What the fuck? Fredrik, what the actual fuck? Why didn’t you tell me that when I called you from Rome?’
‘I didn’t think about it. I… There wasn’t anything weird about the conversation, so I guess I didn’t really react.’
We wait in line to exit the parking lot, both of us staring straight ahead at the cars in front of us, spewing coils of smoke into the cold air, desperately trying to think of a reason, any reason, why Line hasn’t been in touch.
‘Look,’ I say, in an attempt to calm myself down more than anything, ‘I’m sure there is a good explanation for this. She must have lost the phone. Or… Or maybe her kid got sick or something. Maybe she sent a message that the girls are just playing at their house or whatever, and we didn’t receive the message for whatever reason.’
‘They aren’t at the house. Asnestoppen 25, right?’
‘Yes. How do you know they’re not there?’
‘I drove there. Twice. I went to the pool too. They weren’t in the
cafeteria and I couldn’t see them in the main pool or the kiddie pool either.’
‘Was there a car in the driveway, at the house?’
‘No.’
‘Here, take a left here. We need to go there right now.’
Fredrik glances at me, then indicates and takes the second exit at the large roundabout with a fountain at its center. We pass the ferries and boats in Sandefjord’s harbor, then the empty sea-front restaurants, now closed down for the winter.
‘Honey,’ he says, ‘I think we need to call the police.’
‘What? No. No, it’s a misunderstanding. It has to be. Come on, it’s Sandefjord. Safest place on earth. I mean, she can’t… Nothing bad has happened, I know it’s just a crazy misunderstanding.’
Fredrik drives fast towards Vesterøya. Not fast enough. My breathing is shallow and I’ve dug my nails into the palms of my hands. Every conceivable worst-case scenario rushes at me, and I clamp my eyes shut and though I haven’t prayed in so many years, I begin to silently pray. Please, please, please, not Lucia. Not Lucia. Let this be one of those fucking awful – ‘Oh remember that time when we really thought something terrible had happened and it all turned out to be the silliest of misunderstandings.’
Fredrik hardly slows down and the car lurches off the main road and onto the coastal road leading to Asnes. Seawater floods the road and we speed through the deep puddles, sending tall volleys of water onto the pavements. I press my hand against the hammering pulse on my neck. This is real. It’s 7.19 and I can’t think of a single good reason why Lucia hasn’t been brought back or why Line isn’t communicating.
‘Wait, you’re right, of course you’re right. We need to call the police. Jesus.’ I unlock my phone and begin to stab at the screen but my fingers are shaking so hard and I can’t stop the tears from falling.
‘Hold on. We’re here,’ whispers Fredrik, urging the car up the final, steep slope up to the huge house, before pulling into the driveway. ‘Look – the lights are on. They were off before. And there’s a car. They must have come back. Thank God.’
