No Passengers Beyond This Point(13)

Bouncing, jerking all around. Turbulence is a polite term for this, that’s for sure. It feels like the plane is having a seizure.

The sky outside looks strange; half dark, half light, as if somebody forgot to tell the day sky it was night and the two have met unexpectedly. India pulls the shade closed as the plane wobbles and dips.

A pretty flight attendant with puffy lips tries to maneuver the drink cart back down the aisle so she can buckle herself in. My stomach dives, then rises, bringing up the taste of leftover moo-shu pork.

Mouse keeps on coloring, undaunted by the bumps and vibrations. She is determined to finish copying a picture of a Black Hawk helicopter she found in the seat pouch. She put a dog in the pilot seat and another one riding on the tail of the helicopter.

“Henry?” I point to the brown dog. “But who’s her friend?”

“Ask Henry,” she answers as she begins drawing signs for the dog pilot. No flying without dogs, one says.

Mouse is having trouble with the second dog because the plane is jerking her markers all over the place. She takes out the barf bag.

Uh-oh.

But no, she’s not throwing up. She’s trying to draw the helicopter on the barf bag. This is crazy, but at least she’s quiet, at least she isn’t scared, at least she’s not trying to exit the plane and get her book again, and India isn’t threatening to call the police. I think Mouse was just upset about not seeing Mom in the window. Sometimes when Mouse gets upset it comes out in a weird way. My mom told me that once.

Up, down, up, down. I’m thirsty, I want to get rid of the Chinese food taste in my mouth that’s making my tongue feel hairy, but there’s no way the flight attendant will be able to serve drinks now.

“India?” I flick the fringe on my sister’s vest. “What’s going on?” I’ve never been on a flight with this many bumps. “When is this going to end?”

She shrugs, not the least bit concerned. She is more upset that she can’t text Maddy because you’re not allowed to use your cell when the plane is in the air.

But hey wait. I push open the blind again. It looks as if we’re landing. We hit the runway hard, the tires bump and hit, bump and hit like the ground has come up too soon.

My mom must have gotten these tickets cheap. Maybe pilot-in-training flights are half price because this pilot has no idea what he’s doing. I’d have done a better job than him. At least we landed, though. Jeez.

I look over at India.

Her forehead has worry lines. She peeks at her cell. “It’s only been an hour,” she whispers in my ear.

“Time change?” I suggest. “Mom said it was an hour difference. Maybe your cell changes time zones automatically.”

She nods hesitantly, then raises the window shade to peer at the sky. It’s night now, except for this one patch of blue—a puzzle piece from the wrong puzzle.

“You should call Mom,” I suggest. “Now that we’re down, you’re allowed.”

She clicks open her cell and hits the home icon, listens for a minute, then shoves the phone in my ear. The number you have reached has been disconnected, the recorded message states.

We catch each other’s eye. The home icon isn’t home anymore.

India stares out into the black part of the night. She takes a deep breath and hits the icon for Mom’s cell.

I hear my mom’s recorded voice. At least her cell isn’t disconnected.

India sighs and leaves a message: “Hi Mom.” Her voice trembles. “We’re here. The plane just landed. Call us, okay?”

Mouse stands up. She’s finally finished copying the helicopter and she’s ready to go.

“C’mon,” she scolds. “We’re the only ones left on the plane.”





CHAPTER 7

BEYOND THE JETWAY

When I walk by the cockpit, the door is open and I see the pilot writing on his clipboard. From the back he definitely looks young. How old do you have to be to fly a commercial airline anyway?

My footsteps sound hollow on the Jetway rug as if there’s nothing underneath us, but that’s the way Jet-ways are. They aren’t built to the ground on a solid foundation the way a building is. “India, what was it Mom told us we’re supposed to do now?” I ask.

I steer my roller bag over the metal connector ridges with one arm and hold Mouse’s hand with the other.

“She said somebody would be here to meet us in baggage claim. She said they’d have a sign,” India reports.

“Uncle Red won’t be meeting us?” I ask.

“What kind of sign?” Mouse hops up and down.

“He doesn’t drive in Denver. He drives, but not that far, or not at night. I dunno, something like that. He sent some kind of car service.” India is walking as if she has to think about each footstep.