different child, couldn’t it? Another five- or six-year-old with dark curls and a blue-and-white uniform?
Everywhere, there are voices—talking, laughing—and underneath it all, the incessant white noise thrum of the plane itself. I push through the throng—suddenly aware of how tired I am, how much my feet ache, my head hurts—and someone jostles against me, their drink spilling over my sleeve.
“This isn’t the bar, you know!”
Everyone stops talking. Carmel widens her eyes at me.
“Sorry. I—” I swallow hard, tears pricking at the backs of my eyes.
“We’re making the place look untidy, aren’t we?” Ben cuts into the silence with professional joviality, dissolving the tension as quickly as I created it. “Let’s clear off and let the crew do their job.”
“I’m sorry,” I say as the passengers drift from the galley. “I’m a bit—”
“You’re doing the important job.” He winks. “Give me a plane over people any day.”
“It’s just a bit busy, that’s all.”
If it isn’t Sophia, then everything’s okay, right? I brought the EpiPen on board myself without realizing. The man who died—I mean, it’s awful, but it’s got nothing to do with me, with Sophia. Not if the girl in the picture isn’t her.
Ben picks up the drink Carmel’s made for him. “We’ll take these up and get out of your way. Thanks again.”
And they disappear. I know I’ve been rude, but pressure is building in my head, and I have to see that photo again. I have to look properly this time, see the difference in features, realize how ridiculous I was to even see a resemblance to my daughter. Slowly, the queue for the bathroom thins out. A call bell rings, and Carmel goes, after the tiniest glance at me. I’ve not been pulling my weight, and it’s starting to show. Finally alone, I take the printed picture from my pocket and smooth it out.
It is not a good photograph. Not the sort you’d frame or send to the grandparents. Not even the sort of accidental snap you keep for the memories it prompts. Sophia—and there is no doubt that it is Sophia—is sitting in her classroom at school. There is a display of painted butterflies behind her, and papier-mâché planets are suspended above her head. In the background, through the classroom door, I glimpse children in the cloakroom, shrugging off coats. This photo was taken at drop-off, then.
Has it been printed from the school website? I try to remember if I signed a permission slip—what the website even looks like—but there’s a fuzziness in the foreground that would make it a poor choice for a promotional tool.
No, not fuzziness. A reflection. Someone took this through a window. I run my finger over my daughter’s image—over her face, the curls around her forehead, the plaits that tame the rest into two neat lines over her shoulders—and terror fills my veins with ice.
One red bobble, one blue.
The photograph was taken this morning.
The plane banks suddenly to the left. A water bottle slides from one end of the counter to the other, stops for a split second, then slides back again as we roll to the right. In the cabin, people hold their drinks in front of them, trying to keep the liquid level as we pitch forward. Another violent lurch sends Alice Davanti, on her way back from the bathroom, sideways. She clutches at the seat nearest to her before gripping each one in turn to get safely back to her own. I call the flight deck.
“Everything okay? It’s pretty bumpy back here.” As I’m talking, the seat belt sign pings on, and Carmel and Erik take an aisle each, checking that all the passengers are safely buckled up.
“Sorry about that,” Mike says. “Crosswind—had to turn to get back on course. It’ll be a few minutes, I’m afraid.” The water bottle that’s been sliding back and forth in the galley makes its final descent, crashing onto the floor at my feet, and I hear Cesca’s command in stereo, through the intercom and over the PA: Cabin crew, please take your seats.
We buckle up, and I stare out the window at the seemingly innocuous night sky. It’ll be another six or seven hours before we’ll catch a glimpse of Australia, yet I’m already five thousand miles from home. I miss Sophia so much, there’s a physical ache in my chest, love and guilt so intermingled, they’re impossible to separate. I shouldn’t have left her. I shouldn’t be here at all.
I squeeze my eyes closed, making silent, pointless promises. Keep everyone