without mishap, as long as you comply with our instructions. If you don’t…” Missouri looks pointedly toward Carmel’s body, and everyone swallows their fear.
Several TV screens are still playing, headsets trailing uselessly across empty seats. I watch Zac Efron mouth angry words at an equally angry and silent woman. Slowly, small groups of passengers form again, comforting one another or exchanging fevered whispers. As the focus of attention shifts away from Missouri, away from me, I ask her once more, hating the begging tone I hear in my voice.
“Please just tell me she’s okay.”
Missouri sighs, as though I’m an irritant. “It’s not my department.”
“But you promised!” You promised. As though it were an ice cream, a new bike. I should never have believed them; they’re criminals, terrorists. My hands curl into fists, and Cesca touches my arm, as though she can sense what I might do.
“May we hand ’round some water?” she asks Missouri. “It might help to calm down the passengers.”
Missouri considers this for a moment. “Fine. But quickly. And don’t try anything.” Raising her voice, she sends Erik and Rowan across to the other side of the cabin, leaving the aisle clear as she walks toward the middle of the plane.
Cesca releases my arm. “She’ll be okay,” she says softly, and even though she can’t possibly know that, it steadies me enough to take a step back. My breathing stabilizes, and I blink away the lingering tears.
I have to stay calm. I have to focus.
I’ve done all I can to save my daughter; now we have to save ourselves.
I promised Sophia I’d always come back to her.
Somehow, I have to find a way to keep that promise.
THIRTY-FOUR
2 A.M. | ADAM
Sophia’s “worst” turns out to be a sharp jab with the nail in the fleshy part of my hand, prompting a yell of pain and the metallic tang of fresh blood. I tell her it’s no big deal, pressing the wound hard to the back of my shirt and wondering when I last had a tetanus shot. But she’s already screaming, as if she’s been holding it all in and now it’s flooding out in tears and homesickness and misplaced rage.
I’m the first to admit I’ve never handled Sophia’s meltdowns well. Even after I knew the psychology behind them—knew that she wasn’t being deliberately badly behaved—I still struggled to cope.
“It’s like shaking up a fizzy drink bottle,” the counselor said. “Every new encounter, every challenge shakes it up a little more. The lid can only stay on for so long; sooner or later, it’s going to blow.”
The solution, she said, was to open the lid very slowly—to give Sophia a chance to let off steam in a controlled way. Take her to the park after nursery, or stick her on the trampoline for ten minutes, was the advice, which was sound in principle but useless in the face of a child who would sometimes throw herself to the floor the second we left the school grounds, screaming till she was physically sick.
“Sophia, that’s enough!” I’d tell her, knowing even as I did it that I was making it worse but somehow unable to stop it.
“Come on, baby. Let me carry you,” Mina would wheedle, as though Sophia were ill instead of angry, and out of my frustration and helplessness would grow an argument.
“Mummy!” Sophia cries now. “I want Mummy!”
“I want her too!” The ferocity of my response shocks her into silence, and for a second, we stare at each other, until I realize I’m crying. I drop my head, wiping my cheeks with my shoulders. Mina, Mina, Mina…
Soon after Mina started flying, there was a hijack attempt on another airline. Everyone was scared. Every time she flew, I’d feel as though I was holding my breath till she landed, and I begged her to look at roles in other parts of the industry.
“I love my job, though.”
“But I love you. And I’d quite like to know you’ll come home in one piece.”
Still in one piece, she’d text after that, the second they landed. Slowly, we relaxed, the years bringing false confidence, until by the time Sophia arrived, I hardly thought about the risks at all. There hadn’t been another significant attempt since, and so the whole world believed there wouldn’t be. Couldn’t be.
Now there has been.
Sophia pulls her dressing gown sleeves over her hands and wipes away my tears. She whispers as if she’s afraid to hear her own words. “Has Mummy’s plane crashed?”