Eighty Days to Elsewhere

by kc dyer

  It takes a minute for my stomach to catch up to the rest of my body, which so preoccupies me that I don’t answer.

  The plane’s engines rev and we swoop back upwards again. My head bobs, along with all the parts of me that aren’t strapped to the seat as the plane shimmies violently. The only other flight I’ve ever taken—north to Canada for a carnival held in the dead of winter—had been perfectly smooth, in both directions. Even so, I spent the entire flight with my face buried in my teacher’s shoulder.

  I find myself wishing I had taken that coaster ride in Coney Island all those years ago, just to have some basis for comparison.

  The plane drops again and my stomach gives a tight, painful roll along with it.

  “Pretty bad turbulence,” says Dom, and awkwardly pats my arm. “Hopefully it’ll be over soon.”

  “Don’t say that!” I hiss, and look around desperately. “Find some wood to knock on. Look—touch this, it’s paper. That’s a wood product.”

  “What are you talking about?” says Dom, looking baffled as I grab one of his hands and rub it against a small white paper bag peeking out of the seat pocket.

  “For luck,” I say. “Or—to undo any bad luck from what you said. Touch wood.”

  “I hope it will be over soon,” he repeats, looking puzzled. “What are you—? Oh.” His face clears. “Well, of course, I didn’t mean . . .”

  The plane hits another air pocket, cutting him off.

  “See?” I grab the paper out of the pocket and thrust it at him.

  “I’m not clear how touching a barf bag is going to bring us better luck,” he says, waving it at me.

  I recoil in horror. “A barf bag? What do you mean a barf bag? I thought it was just an ordinary paper bag.”

  “Nope.” He unfolds the bag and mimes throwing up into it, before refolding and holding it out to me.

  I pull both hands away. “I’m not touching that,” I mutter.

  This makes him laugh out loud. “No one’s used it,” he begins as the plane lurches again. “At least, not yet.”

  In the row ahead of us, Sumaya gives a little whoop.

  “She’s not worried at all,” I whisper to Dominic, who smiles almost proudly.

  “She’s freakin’ fantastic,” he says. “I’m beginning to think there’s nothing she can’t do.”

  The plane gives a little sideways shudder, and the left wing dips enough that I’m flung toward Dominic, jamming my shoulder into his.

  “Almost past cyclone,” Klahan yells from the front. “Ten minute—maybe fifteen.”

  “Fifteen minutes?” I mutter. My mouth has gone so dry I’m having trouble swallowing. “It already feels like a lifetime.”

  And then I grab the barf bag myself, appalled at my own choice of words.

  Dom unplugs his other earphone, and reaches out a hand. “Want to hold on?” he says.

  I don’t hesitate a moment.

  “Whoa—that’s quite the grip you’ve got there,” he mutters.

  “Sorry,” I say, but I can’t really bring myself to loosen my hold.

  He pats the back of my hand. “Okay, time to go to your happy place,” he says, and I shoot him a glare. My eyes feel dry and hot, mostly because I think I might be too scared to blink.

  “That’s not what I meant, goofball,” he says gently. “Tell me about your favorite place. Where do you go in your head to feel, you know, truly happy?”

  The plane shudders, and I reach over and grab his other hand. It’s possible that I’m too scared to actually speak.

  As if he senses this—and how could he not, with me crushing his hands?—he leans forward, his warm thumbs running over the backs of my cold fingers.

  “I’ll start,” he says. “My happy place is—well, I was going to say the Crooked Gent, at the end of a long day, with a cold beer in my hand. But I’m not sure that’s true.”

  “What—where’s the Crooked Gent?” I manage, the words feeling whispery and weird as they cross my dry tongue.

  “Soho,” he replies, and the worried creases around his eyes relax a little. “It’s the front-of-house bar for the place I’ve been working lately. After a long day pounding pizza dough in a roasting kitchen—man, that cold beer goes down really easy.”

  He gives me an encouraging smile. “Your turn.”

  I shake my head. “No. You said you weren’t sure that was it. What’s better than the cold beer?”

  “Nothing,” he says. “At least, nothing in that moment. But you’re right, I did say that. I guess the place I think about before I go to sleep is my mom’s kitchen, actually.”

  “Your mom’s kitchen? Why is it special?”

  His eyes take on a faraway look. “I’m not really sure. I think—maybe ’cause that’s where she taught me to bake? Sunday mornings, setting the bread to rise before church. None of the other kids there. I had her all to myself.”

  He focuses back on me. “Okay, now it really is your turn. Where’s your . . .”

  “The bookshop,” I say before he can even finish. “I mean, I do have to go to the library once in a while, when things get really bad, but the place I’m happiest is in the bookshop, no question.”

  “The bookshop—okay. But when? At night, when everybody’s gone home?”

  I shake my head. “I do like the quiet at night, for sure. There’s nothing like the smell of old books, right? My favorite time is when it’s filled with people, though. Tommy’s knitting club on Tuesday nights. All these old guys—and two women—each working on their own little projects. They talk about what they read that week, and maybe who’s come out lately, and what’s the hottest ticket at the Tribeca Film Fest or whatever. Just—it’s so safe, and comfortable.”

  Dom traces his thumb along the back of my hand. “So Uncle Tommy is a knitter, huh? Can you knit?”

  I shake my head. “I get caught up in the conversation and forget to count my stitches. The best I’ve ever managed was a super-long scarf so I could walk around my high school looking like the fourth Doctor Who.”

  “That doesn’t sound like anything to sneeze at.”

  “Heh. Didn’t meet Tommy’s standard, though.”

  Dom leans back in his seat, and I realize that while the plane has completely steadied out, he’s still idly holding one of my hands. And suddenly, I’m in no hurry to have it back.

  “Sounds to me like Tommy can be a little hard on you.”

  “Yeah,” I say, thinking of all the times something I’ve done has come up short in his eyes. “But—the knitting is a good example. He taught me when I was like, fifteen, and that takes patience. And okay, so I’ve never managed to knit a whole sweater, or even a decent pair of socks, but he always invites me to the circle. Every week.”

  “Do you go?”

  “Hardly ever. But, maybe I will more, now. Now that I’ve realized it’s my happy place.”

  I make the mistake of grinning at him, and right about then, the engine starts to make a weird surging sound.

  Dom and I both instinctively look up at the cockpit, where Klahan is flipping a lot of switches. As if he feels our eyes on him, he glances back over his shoulder. The crazed look from earlier is gone, replaced with a calm, steely-eyed gaze.

  “Small change of plans,” he yells back at us. “Strap in.”

  * * *

  —

  At this point everything happens so fast—so very fast—it’s really hard to keep track. Klahan quits responding entirely, so that I’m not even sure he hears me yell that we haven’t ever not been strapped in, and is there any way to strap in further?

  Dominic pats the back of my hand after I say this and I clam up, determined not to worry Sumaya. We’re heading down so fast that I’m pretty sure my hair is being blown straight back off my face, but this might only be my imagination.

  When
the plane breaks through the clouds at last, the first streaks of pink dawn light the sky, and the ground beneath us appears startlingly close. Even Dominic is looking a little tense around the eyes by this time, and when Klahan executes a turn as tight as one of Tommy’s hairpins, I swear that Dom lets out a little squeak.

  Which he tries to cover with a cough.

  Below us, a lush verdant landscape rushes closer. To the south, the enormous city-state of Singapore spreads across an entire island, but we appear to be heading away from it. Out front, a stretch of bright lights appear. A sudden recollection makes me clutch Dom’s arm.

  “There’s no water,” I yell at him. “We need water to land!”

  Klahan must have heard me, because he shoots a glance over one shoulder.

  “Dere’s wheels under the pontoons,” he yells back at me. “Here we go!”

  With a final stomach-departing dip, the plane careens briefly over what looks like far too short a stretch of tarmac. Three endless, lurching bounces later, the wheels finally contact the earth and stay down. Sumaya—who has taken to flying as if she does it every week—cheers lustily at the landing.

  Klahan veers the plane off to one side of the runway and lurches to a stop. I peer out the window, but we are nowhere near any buildings. Before I can even formulate a question, he’s bounded out of his seat and flung open the door.

  “Sit tight,” he yells, and then scampers down the stairs.

  Sumaya’s head pops up over the seat in front of us. “That was brilliant,” she says, her smile lighting up her face. “I think maybe I’ve changed my mind about what I want to do when I’m older. Do you think pilots ever do stand-up?”

  Before either of us can begin to formulate an answer to this, Klahan is back. He brandishes a flat sheet of metal, maybe three feet long. It looks like it was originally painted white, but now has rusted around the edges.

  “Wing flap,” he says succinctly, then points at our seatbelts. “Stay buckle. We need to taxi.”

  With that, he hops into his seat, revs the engines once, and careens back onto the runway, yelling at someone the whole time over his radio.

  Five minutes later, the plane is safely berthed beside a large metal hut bearing a sign that reads “Seletar Airport: Cargo.” I can’t get out of my seat fast enough, but Dominic still beats me outside.

  Then he reaches up a hand to help me down from the plane.

  As my feet hit the ground, he picks me up and twirls me around. “Holy shit, I’m glad that’s over,” he whispers as he sets me down again.

  I’m about to reply, when his lips are on mine, and whatever I was going to say is suddenly gone. Instead, I tighten my arms around his neck and kiss him right back.

  After a moment that lasts long enough for me to ask myself why I don’t do this kissing thing more often, there’s a loud throat-clearing noise behind us. We spring apart to find Sumaya rolling her eyes and holding out my suitcase.

  “Am I the only one doing all the work around here?”

  “No—no,” says Dom, and snatches both bags from her arms. “Just—ah—happy to be here,” he mutters.

  She grins at him and grabs her own small bag back. “Yours is still inside,” she says, nodding at the open door of the plane. Not looking at either of us, he hurries away.

  “Whoo!” I say, my voice coming out louder than I intended. “That was quite the landing, eh? So glad to be safely on the ground!”

  Sumaya chuckles. “I can see that,” she says, and spreads her arms wide. “What? No kiss for me?”

  I stare at her awkwardly for a moment before lurching forward, but when I get close, she folds her arms and steps away. Laughing loudly at her own wit, she marches toward the low hut.

  Dominic reappears, this time carrying his own pack. I follow him inside, desperately hoping my face isn’t as red as the back of his neck.

  * * *

  —

  He is the first to break the awkward silence while we wait for Sumaya, who has been pulled into the customs office first. When I tried to follow, the door was firmly closed in my face.

  “I wonder if—uh—maybe we should try to get a train or something the rest of the way to Hong Kong?” he mutters. “No offense to your pilot, or anything, but it’s possible he’s insane.”

  “I think you might be right,” I whisper back. “And even if he’s not, he never had us clear customs in Kolkata. Is that even legal?”

  On the other side of the glass door, I can see the female customs officer nodding gravely as Sumaya speaks. She reaches out and collects the document we picked up in India, and I feel my stomach clench a little. The man in Kolkata had said there were no guarantees as to the laws of other countries. What if she’s denied entry? I have no idea what the status of refugees is in Singapore.

  “What if . . .” I say to Dominic, but stop myself, as he’s typing away into his phone.

  “I got into the Wi-Fi,” he says, not looking up. “Checking for train tickets from here to Hong Kong. What if what?”

  “Nothing,” I mutter. The woman talking with Sumaya looks up and gestures at me imperiously through the glass door. “Gotta go.”

  As I walk through the door, Sumaya turns and holds up her hands. Both her index fingertips are blue. “You are guardian?” says the woman, her tone severe.

  I tidy my hair behind my ears as best I can, and nod. “Good,” she says, and slides a document across the desk toward me. “Sign here, please.”

  I scan the document hurriedly. It’s an immigration document in English, Chinese, and another language I don’t recognize—possibly Tamil? The whole thing is in black ink, apart from the line:

  WARNING

  DEATH FOR DRUG TRAFFIKERS

  UNDER SINGAPORE LAW

  . . . which is printed in bright red.

  The woman taps the paper impatiently. “Is approval to fingerprint your charge. We check against the list.”

  “Okay . . .” I say as I start to sign. “But haven’t you already fingerprinted her? And what list?”

  Before I’ve finished, the woman whips the form out from under my pen, and marches from the room.

  Sumaya’s eyes are round. “So—no one shares the same pattern?” she asks, holding up one finger. “Let me see yours.”

  As she scrutinizes my finger, I marvel at a world where this Somali girl can aspire to be a stand-up comic like the ones she’s seen on YouTube, and yet has never heard of fingerprints.

  Moments later, the customs officer is back.

  “Not allowed,” she says, pointing at Sumaya. Then she turns to me with her hand out. “Passport?”

  “Just a minute,” I say. I’ve been clutching my passport the whole time, but at her words, I hold it behind my back. “What do you mean, not allowed?”

  “Papers no good,” the woman says. “Passport?”

  “We’re not staying,” I say, trying to keep the fear out of my voice. “We’re only passing through, to get to Hong Kong.”

  I hear the door open behind me. “Everything okay in here?” says Dom, sticking his head through the door.

  “You! Close door,” the woman snaps.

  “He’s with us,” I babble as quickly as I can. “We’re all together. But he doesn’t want to stay either—we’re going to take a train to Hong Kong.”

  The woman shakes her head. “No train. If you together, you leave together. Entry denied.”

  She points past Dominic outside, and the three of us troop back out the door we just came in.

  chapter forty-two

  IMAGE: Singapore Vending Machines

  IG: Romy_K [Singapore, April 16]

  #VendingMagic #DeniedEntry

  699

  Behind me, the woman closes the door so swiftly that it smacks me on the ass, and I shoot out onto the steamy runway. Beside us, outside the d
oor, a collection of vending machines is lined up like soldiers against the wall, under a broad awning. I don’t have any local currency, but I’m desperately thirsty in this heat, so I turn to see if any of them will accept credit card payment.

  Turns out? They all do. They are also the most diverse collection of vending devices I’ve ever seen. Of the five machines, one offers hot pizza, a second will toast a sandwich in a panini grill before serving, and the third offers boxed salads. The fourth, looking more like every vending machine I’ve ever seen, holds cold drinks—but the fifth? For five Singaporean dollars, you can buy a fillet from the world’s first Norwegian Salmon ATM.

  Snap frozen in the fjords.

  As we’re busily buying up a collection from every machine—apart from the salmon, which I’m pretty sure won’t keep—Klahan comes trotting up. His beaming smile and air of manic energy have returned in full force.

  “Good news!” he crows. “While they fix wing, I trade for Seletar Flying Club machine. Special double tank for six-hour journey. Already gassed up. We leave in five.”

  He gestures across the runway. A small man, his shock of white hair shooting straight up from his scalp, waves cheerfully. He’s standing beside what looks like a small air force cargo plane.

  Klahan waves back before turning to us. “You ready?” he says. “You get food? Go pee? No toilet on board.”

  After the whole broken wing-flap situation that got us here, I feel unwilling to risk another questionable airborne experience, but it appears we have no other choice.

  Sumaya, a slice of pizza in one hand, bounces over to the plane and, unclasping the door handle, swings the built-in step down as expertly as if she’s been doing it all her life. Stepping onto the lowest riser, she sticks her head through the door.

  “It is very full inside,” she reports doubtfully.

  And indeed it is.

  The plane turns out to be principally intended for use as a skydiving training vehicle. The back is loaded with a number of parachutes, all neatly packed up, along with the rest of Klahan’s cargo for transport to Hong Kong. By the time I look inside, Sumaya has climbed in and pulled down one of the jump seats that line the walls.