Some Things About Flying (20 page)

For all Lila knows, there
is
music playing.

She's happy for them. They're almost certainly among the people here who will make the most of the results of the day.

She's happy for Sarah, too, whom she spots standing over to the left, with a woman bending towards her holding a steaming cup. It's like watching one of those time-lapse photography programs that show a plant growing, unfolding, beginning to blossom. Sarah nods, sips, and slowly, slowly begins to look up, look around, her eyes focusing, her body straightening. Rejoining the land of the living, Lila thinks.

Sarah spots her and grins, a big, wide, full, sudden grin. She raises her fist, a gesture of defiance and victory. Lila grins back, raising hers in return.

This
is
a victory. They have taken part in a triumph.

Sarah's sister will be waiting somewhere in the terminal. Whole different dramas will have been endured by anxious people waiting on the ground. Probably they've been herded into a huge room of their own, to be fed syrupy coffee and careful, hopeful words. In that room, too, there will have been weeping and suspense, some unfortunate behaviour and some acts of virtue, and also, in some instances, no doubt some reconsiderations.

Lila imagines Sarah and her sister will be spectacularly glad to see each other. Soon, Sarah will be jumping with impatience; unless she has changed, too, and no longer speaks whatever comes into her head. Her husband may well find her a surprise when she gets home. Her children may be puzzled.

Lila can't see Adele, but she's little and easily lost in a crowd. Also she is old, and may have been one of those whisked off by ambulance. Her bones could be as brittle as her faith.

“Brittle” is one of those appealing, ambiguous words Lila likes: implying something breakable when referring to bones, but something much harsher in connection with faith.

It's a relief to feel words coming back.

Her hearing, too, is sorting itself out. She can distinguish some individual voices now. “Jesus Christ,” she hears. And “How long till we get out of here?” and “I don't have a thing; I can't even prove who I am,” and “I swear to god, I'll never fly again.” Nearby, a man's sceptical tone: “It probably wasn't even that serious. Nobody tells the truth about anything. I bet they ditched our luggage for nothing.”

This, Lila thinks, is a truly impressive cynicism. She has an impulse to say to him, “Asshole.” She was a gentler woman, with gentler impulses, when she couldn't hear. She laughs, but only to herself.

A bulky, grey-haired woman barrels through, talking loudly although not to anyone in particular. “Did anybody see what's going on out there? The plane's on fire. I heard there're three people dead, a couple and an old woman. Dead! Never mind how many hurt. My god!”

Is this true?

It could have happened easily in that dark stampede. Briefly, Lila feels herself back there, her own breath being squeezed, her own bones crushed. To have all those hours, and all that fear, desire and grace, turn out fatally—tears finally come to her eyes. It seems they're for everything. Everything.

She hopes the couple was content, being together. She hopes the old woman was not Adele.

She hopes what the bulky grey-haired woman said is not true.

Imagine making it all the way to that moment of stillness, to have life right in your sights, and then to be trampled by frantic fellow passengers also with life right in their sights.

Terrible, too, to know yourself later as one of those with frantic feet.

And the poor plane, getting just as far as it needed to, doing the very best it could, and then not being saved, itself.

So much for Tom's letter. It'll be burned to a crisp.

She laughs again, about that at least, and oh hell, here's that white-jacketed fellow back at her side. “Please, come sit down. We'll get you looked after in no time.” Now that she can hear him, she decides his voice has a rather pleasing, lilting cadence. Something northern, nearly Scottish. She smiles at him, but pulls away. “Are you injured?” he is asking. “Are you hurt?”

Hard to say, really. Her soul feels somewhat bashed, if that counts, but she doesn't suppose there's much aid here for battered souls. “Just fine,” she says brightly. “I had a little trouble hearing, but that's fixed itself, and now I'm perfectly fine.”

“Are you with anyone?”

“Yes, I just spotted him away over there,” and she gestures in a direction far from Tom. “If you'll excuse me, I'll go let him know I'm all right, and make sure he is too. I do thank you for your concern, though.”

How very kind people can be. She is again suddenly, profoundly, fond of each one here, and very glad to be among them still.

Someone with a microphone is setting out to create order, bringing everyone back to normal life.

There will be those forms to fill out, practical matters to be dealt with. Spirits will begin to enclose themselves, the trembling of remembered terror will gradually ease. Love and gratitude will lose their most acute, sharp edges.

Strands of people are already forming into structures, patterns of movement are developing, attentions are being gathered up and aimed in one direction.

It turns out not to be very difficult to slip away.

Lila keeps an eye on Tom as she works her way around the edge of the crowd towards an unobtrusive, unmarked grey door. He is a rare, kind, funny, cold-tempered, greedy, generous man who has desired everything, and tried very hard. Now events crash down on him. He looks lost and sad, and also quite worried. He is still trying to manage two things at once.

She would like at least to be able to comfort him, but can't afford to. These moments of clear possibility are rare in a life, as briefly illuminated as strobes or fireflies.

He will be frantic, but although it's cruel, and hardly the same, she has worried at times about him. When he's been out of touch. Off on a trip. Driving through hazards without her. Or at home with his wife.

Later he'll be terribly angry, but there have been times Lila's been angry with him, including today. He will grieve, too, but there have been hours and days when sorrow has emptied her heart.

This isn't vengeance, merely something she knows.

The grey door opens into a very long, grey, narrow corridor. Sliding through, she could still slide back; it's not too late.

Far away, she can see another unmarked door. She feels each step, remembering her yearning not long ago to have her feet on firm ground, heels touching, toes touching, moving forward.

The next door opens into another hallway, and shuts behind her with a click.

The silence now is so impressive it almost feels solid, and she stops for a moment. There are also not many truly silent moments in a life.

In this passage, red arrows have been painted on the walls, pointing only ahead. It still isn't too late, though, never mind locked doors. Nothing is irretrievable yet. She is creating irretrievability, however, by heading towards something which may not be quite familiar, but which is there for her to put her hands to, her mind on. Something touchable.

A day like this is a gift, although a monstrous one.

It turns out, as she pushes open the next door, that she has reached a broad and finally familiar concourse. She's never before been in the customs and immigration hall when it's empty, but the painted lines and signs and booths are recognizable and oddly, comfortingly, homey. She only came at it from an unusual angle, that's all, possibly following the private route of employees or baggage.

Now she knows where she is.

There are arrows and signs for people moving to this country, temporary visitors, people with items to declare and those sailing right through. A woman about Lila's age, in uniform and perched on a stool in one of the sailing-through booths, looks up startled from a book. “Who are you? What are you doing here? You from that plane?” It's obvious what plane she means. “They letting you people through already?” She has grooves at the sides of her mouth, and tiny, withery lines running along her upper lip; surely she looks much older than Lila. Or more weathered. How arduous is her life, when she isn't sitting here?

Lila remembers intending to look up “arduous” and “ardour.” Why was that? “They're starting to,” she tells the woman.

“There's supposed to be somebody with you. I thought it was going to be ages yet.”

“It may be for most people, but I checked out fine and I have everything with me, all my documents, so it was a lot quicker for me. Here's my passport,” handing it over. “My ticket.”

The woman still looks uneasy. “There's supposed to be staff back there doing identification and claims.”

“There are. A lot of people are helping. I'm lucky, getting through so fast. Well”—Lila smiles disarmingly, gratefully—“I feel incredibly lucky all around. Such a day.”

The woman nods sympathetically, reminded of what Lila has been through, although, Lila thinks, she has no way whatever of knowing. “Awful thing. I expect you're exhausted.”

“I just want to get away, that's for sure. Collect myself. Recover.”

“All you have is your handbag?”

“That's all. Others don't even have that much.”

“I know. It's going to be a nightmare. You've done the luggage claim?”

“All taken care of.” If, tomorrow or the next day, Lila wants to add up and claim her losses, it will irritate and inconvenience the airline people, but that's a small concern. Anyway, a few lost possessions are the least of the matter. Lila catches a flicker of her original holiday vision, then it's gone.

“At least all you lost was luggage.” The woman is typing Lila's information into her computer. “Must have been horrid.”

Yes, and much more.

Once Tom sorts himself out, he'll probably go to his conference. That will be good for him, in a concerned, angry, grieving sort of way. At least it'll be reasonably easy for him to find out Lila's alive and uninjured. Thanks to this computer, he won't have to fret about something as basic as that.

There is something about the size and texture of a small rock in Lila's heart when she considers him. She regrets his worry and sorrow, that's all.

“Ma'am?” The woman is looking at her sharply—she must have missed something. “Are you sure you're all right? Were you checked by a doctor?”

“Oh yes, a very thorough and attentive young man.” If that white-coated medical person was a doctor, he was certainly attentive, at least. “I just got a few scrapes. And my clothes are pretty much wrecked, as you see. But we heard three people were killed. Do you know if that's right? Do you know who?”

She has succeeded in both flustering and diverting the woman. “Oh. Yes. I believe that's the case, unfortunately. But we're not giving out names until families are notified.”

Families. Always families. As if they're necessarily nearest and dearest.

That bitter flash is just an old, bad, irrelevant habit. Bound to happen now and again.

“Only, I heard one was an old woman, and I wondered if it might be someone I had a long chat with on the plane. I didn't see her afterwards, and I've been wondering. Adele Simpson?” Lila also wonders why she's risking her own capture to find out about someone she didn't much like in the first place.

Capture?

Well, she is becoming a fugitive of sorts, that's all she meant.

The woman looks alarmed. “Oh dear. I shouldn't. Don't tell anyone. But that is one of the names. I'm terribly sorry. This is all dreadful, just dreadful.” She even reaches out to touch Lila's arm. Another kind person beneath the uniform, after all, another good sign.

Poor Adele, in her prim, print housedress—was she in any doubt, or was she praying joyfully at the end, however it came? Was she very scared, or in pain? Is she already happy in heaven, her reward for an unforgiving life?

“That's too bad,” Lila says. “A shame.” Because you can't assume people will be happier, or better, elsewhere. Or if they get what they claim to want most passionately.

They may have merely fallen into a habit of passionately wanting, forgetting the roots and origins of their desire.

“I'd better get going.” Lila retrieves her passport and ticket. “When the rush starts, you'll be busy.”

“Do you know where to go? There's a room where people meeting the passengers are waiting.”

“Thanks, but I wasn't being met.” The woman looks pitying; Lila may have sounded pathetic. “I was getting together with someone at a hotel in the city.” There, that sounds more interesting. And it's true, also. That is what she had been going to do.

“You're sure you're all right?”

“Absolutely. And very glad to be alive.” Which is entirely and gloriously true. “Thank you.”

After his conference, Tom will go home.

She'll probably go home as well, although she can't imagine the flight, getting back on a plane. Will she be able to?