life rafts were stashed inside the overhead compartments and the
nearest exit doors were pretty far away from row 23, seat A. As she studied
the brightly colored diagrams, she became convinced that should the
plane crash for whatever reason, she and the strange man! seated next to
her would plummet into some polluted, unknown city and become one
with the asphalt.
Daisy shoved the laminated sheet
back in its plastic; sleeve and closed her eyes while the plane bucked
and shuddered against the oncoming wind. They were thousands of feet
above the cold, silent earth. She wanted an, aspirin badly but had packed
the bottle inside her checked luggage. The next jolt against the jet
stream took her breath away. Fear was shortness of breath. Fear; was rapid
breathing.
Now the strange man seated next to
her said, " Watcb the flight attendants. If
they're not scared, don't you be."
She smiled at him gratefully.
He offered her a peanut.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Daisy."
"Hi. I'm Bram."
"Hello, Bram." They shook
hands.
"Are you from Boston, Daisy?"
"Yes." She wasn't very good
at idle chatter. Most people didn't like to talk about the things she wanted
to talk about-quantum physics, the earth's rotation around the sun, the
fact that Einstein got his best ideas while shaving.
"Just visiting?"
"Sort of."
"Sort of? What brings you to
L.A.?"
"My sister's missing,"
she blurted.
"Missing? Really?"
"She's schizophrenic. I'm a
little concerned. The police have no idea where she is."
He was looking at her oddly now, as
if she'd rattled off a list of fatal plane crashes.
"Wow, that's a conversation
stopper, huh?" she said with an embarrassed laugh, trying to make
light of it, but he'd already smelled the raw fear on her, and there was
no turning back.
They exchanged a few more pleasantries
before he fumbled for a magazine, then Daisy turned to stare out the
window again. It was dark on Planet Earth tonight. After a while, the turbulence
eased, and she could swallow normally again. She gazed at the pitch black
below, at the seeming emptiness of the American West. The sun felt all
of its 93 million miles away. She could hear Detective Makowski's voice inside her head, low-pitched and
authoritative . We checked the Jane
Does. We've checked all the morgues. Nothing's come up . She stopped
breathing momentarily, unable to absorb the fact that the police were
already thinking that her sister might be dead.
After they landed safely at LAX,
the man named Bram followed her silently off the airplane. The terminal
was a blur of activity. She trailed a huge crowd down a long green corridor
toward the baggage pickup area. There were countless twists and turns,
and they passed by two metal detectors. Daisy found an ATM, but it was
broken. She looked around and realized she was lost. "Which way to
baggage pickup?" she asked a passing stranger.
"Follow me." Bram took
her by the elbow.
Daisy didn't trust men who steered
you places, since there was no telling when the steering would end. It
was only eleven o'clock (2:00 a.m. back in Boston), and she'd had too many
bravery drinks. Most of the people inside the terminal were dressed
for the beach, colorful logos splashed across their jeans and T-shirts,
and Daisy was feeling seriously overdressed in her tailored blouse
and knife-pleat skirt. These terminals were well air-conditioned. She
felt a chill and wished she'd worn a sweater.
They found the baggage pickup
area and waited for their luggage to rotate by. The baggage handlers
kept hurling people's suitcases through a trapdoor in the ceiling.
Bram got his right away, then stood around waiting for hers to arrive.
"It's okay," she said.
"I'm fine."
"I'll wait."
"Thank you. Really."
He left looking mildly disappointed.
She didn't like the sickening fluorescent
wavelengths and grew dizzy watching people's luggage rotate by. Several
other night flights had arrived from the East Coast, and soon this corner
of the terminal was noisy and
nearest exit doors were pretty far away from row 23, seat A. As she studied
the brightly colored diagrams, she became convinced that should the
plane crash for whatever reason, she and the strange man! seated next to
her would plummet into some polluted, unknown city and become one
with the asphalt.
Daisy shoved the laminated sheet
back in its plastic; sleeve and closed her eyes while the plane bucked
and shuddered against the oncoming wind. They were thousands of feet
above the cold, silent earth. She wanted an, aspirin badly but had packed
the bottle inside her checked luggage. The next jolt against the jet
stream took her breath away. Fear was shortness of breath. Fear; was rapid
breathing.
Now the strange man seated next to
her said, " Watcb the flight attendants. If
they're not scared, don't you be."
She smiled at him gratefully.
He offered her a peanut.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Daisy."
"Hi. I'm Bram."
"Hello, Bram." They shook
hands.
"Are you from Boston, Daisy?"
"Yes." She wasn't very good
at idle chatter. Most people didn't like to talk about the things she wanted
to talk about-quantum physics, the earth's rotation around the sun, the
fact that Einstein got his best ideas while shaving.
"Just visiting?"
"Sort of."
"Sort of? What brings you to
L.A.?"
"My sister's missing,"
she blurted.
"Missing? Really?"
"She's schizophrenic. I'm a
little concerned. The police have no idea where she is."
He was looking at her oddly now, as
if she'd rattled off a list of fatal plane crashes.
"Wow, that's a conversation
stopper, huh?" she said with an embarrassed laugh, trying to make
light of it, but he'd already smelled the raw fear on her, and there was
no turning back.
They exchanged a few more pleasantries
before he fumbled for a magazine, then Daisy turned to stare out the
window again. It was dark on Planet Earth tonight. After a while, the turbulence
eased, and she could swallow normally again. She gazed at the pitch black
below, at the seeming emptiness of the American West. The sun felt all
of its 93 million miles away. She could hear Detective Makowski's voice inside her head, low-pitched and
authoritative . We checked the Jane
Does. We've checked all the morgues. Nothing's come up . She stopped
breathing momentarily, unable to absorb the fact that the police were
already thinking that her sister might be dead.
After they landed safely at LAX,
the man named Bram followed her silently off the airplane. The terminal
was a blur of activity. She trailed a huge crowd down a long green corridor
toward the baggage pickup area. There were countless twists and turns,
and they passed by two metal detectors. Daisy found an ATM, but it was
broken. She looked around and realized she was lost. "Which way to
baggage pickup?" she asked a passing stranger.
"Follow me." Bram took
her by the elbow.
Daisy didn't trust men who steered
you places, since there was no telling when the steering would end. It
was only eleven o'clock (2:00 a.m. back in Boston), and she'd had too many
bravery drinks. Most of the people inside the terminal were dressed
for the beach, colorful logos splashed across their jeans and T-shirts,
and Daisy was feeling seriously overdressed in her tailored blouse
and knife-pleat skirt. These terminals were well air-conditioned. She
felt a chill and wished she'd worn a sweater.
They found the baggage pickup
area and waited for their luggage to rotate by. The baggage handlers
kept hurling people's suitcases through a trapdoor in the ceiling.
Bram got his right away, then stood around waiting for hers to arrive.
"It's okay," she said.
"I'm fine."
"I'll wait."
"Thank you. Really."
He left looking mildly disappointed.
She didn't like the sickening fluorescent
wavelengths and grew dizzy watching people's luggage rotate by. Several
other night flights had arrived from the East Coast, and soon this corner
of the terminal was noisy and
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