Chapter 10 - The Flight That Finally Ended
Six months later, I boarded another airplane.
This flight was shorter.
Chicago to Seattle.
Four hours, give or take the weather.
I settled into my seat, placed my bag beneath the one ahead, and heard the unmistakable sound of a small shoe striking the back of my chair.
Once.
I closed my eyes.
Then a woman behind me spoke.
“Feet down, sweetheart. Someone’s sitting there.”
“Sorry!”
I turned around.
A little boy stared at me over the seat.
“Thanks,” I said.
His mother smiled.
That was all.
A problem.
A boundary.
An ending.
I faced forward and felt an unexpected tightness in my throat.
The last six months had been full of small endings.
My hospital stopped receiving messages.
The photograph of my sons disappeared from the larger accounts after enough reports and requests.
Rebecca’s correction remained on her page.
She had not erased it once the attention faded.
Walter completed cardiac rehabilitation.
June sent updates with photographs he pretended to resent.
In one, he stood beside a treadmill holding a sign that read:
STILL HERE. STILL ASSIGNING HOMEWORK.
I printed it and taped it inside my office cabinet.
Sophie came to Owen’s birthday party.
She brought a card she had made herself and spent twenty minutes helping Ben repair a paper airplane everyone else had declared beyond saving.
Rebecca stayed to help Hannah clean the kitchen.
I found them laughing over something that apparently required both of them to stop speaking when I entered.
I chose to consider that encouraging.
There were difficult moments too.
Rebecca and Sophie still argued.
My boys still tested boundaries.
I still became impatient when I was tired.
Once, after a rough night at the hospital, I snapped at Ben for spilling milk.
Then I heard my own voice.
I stopped.
Got a towel.
Apologized.
The lesson from that flight had turned out to require regular practice.
A week before Seattle, Walter invited us back for dinner.
This time, nobody arrived carrying the weight of an apology.
We brought food.
The children argued over a board game.
June complained affectionately that Walter had become impossible since discovering people were pleased he was alive.
After dinner, Sophie handed me an envelope.
“Open it later,” she said.
I did, at home.
Inside was a drawing of an airplane.
The seats were colorful.
Every passenger had an enormous smile.
At the center stood a man with a stethoscope, a woman holding a tray, another woman wearing a nurse’s badge, and a very stern principal carrying a puzzle book.
Underneath, Sophie had written:
THANK YOU FOR HELPING WHEN EVERYBODY WAS SCARED.
On the back was another sentence.
I know how to ask for attention now.
I sat at the kitchen table holding that drawing until Hannah found me.
She read it.
Then she brought the refrigerator magnet.
Now, on the flight to Seattle, I took out my phone before departure.
A message waited from Rebecca.
Sophie got an award at school today. Most improved in classroom citizenship. She says that sounds boring, but she’s secretly thrilled.
Below it was a photograph, shared privately.
Sophie stood beside her teacher holding a certificate.
Purple sneakers.
Yellow sweatshirt.
A smile that did not ask anyone else to lose.
I replied:
Please tell her congratulations from all of us.
Then another message arrived.
Walter this time.
June says you’re flying. Keep your seat belt fastened. Avoid fractions.
I laughed aloud.
The boy behind me asked his mother what was funny.
I turned once more.
“An old friend.”
As the plane rolled toward the runway, Hannah sent a photograph of our sons.
Another cardboard sign.
COME HOME SOON, DAD.
Every word spelled correctly.
I saved the picture.
Then I leaned back, felt my seat remain perfectly still, and finally slept.
May you like
The flight that had begun with two hours of kicking had taken much longer to end.
But it had brought us somewhere worth arriving.
