477 was heading to Puerto Rico, with 96 passengers on board.
The picture flashes to a live shot of the ocean, pieces of wreckage floating on the surface.
The ground seems to move beneath me, and I wobble into the man standing next to me. He steadies my elbow and hangs on long enough to make sure I don’t fall. “You okay?” he asks.
I shake him off and push through the crowd, unable to reconcile what I’m seeing on the television screen with the memory of Eva still sharp in my mind—whose voice I can still hear, whose smile I can still see as the bathroom stall door closed behind me.
With my head down, I make my way through the concourse, suddenly aware of how many television screens there are, all of them broadcasting what’s happened. I swallow the bile creeping up the back of my throat and locate a pay phone next to the restrooms.
With trembling fingers, I pull out the receipt where I’d jotted down Petra’s number and dial. A voice directs me to insert one dollar and twenty-five cents. I dig around in Eva’s wallet until I’ve counted out five quarters and slip them into the slot, one at a time, my heart racing.
But instead of ringing, I hear three tones and an automated voice saying, We’re sorry, this number is no longer in service.
In my haste to reach her, I must have misdialed, double-entered a digit by accident, so I take a deep breath, willing my hands to stop shaking. I collect the quarters from the change receptacle and dial again, slower this time.
Again I’m told the number is no longer in service.
I replace the receiver, feeling as if I’ve separated from reality, lifting straight out of my body. Wandering over to a deserted bank of chairs, I collapse, staring across the concourse. People move in and out of my field of vision, pulling suitcases, corralling children, speaking into cell phones.
I must have copied the number wrong. I think back to the bathroom stall, scribbling Petra’s number, adrenaline causing my attention to spread thin like scattershot.
And now, I’m completely cut off.
Across the way the television screens change again, pulling my attention back.
The names of the passengers have not been released yet, but NTSB officials say they will be holding a press conference later this evening.
I realize how vulnerable I’m about to become, how things like this take hold, grabbing the heartstrings of the nation. First, the grisly details, the speculation about what went wrong. Then the human interest. The victims. Their lives, their hopes. Their faces, smiling, laughing, unaware of how it will end. Because of who Rory is, my story will be amplified, my minutes of anonymity slipping away at an alarming rate. My image will soon be splashed across the media, recognizable to anyone looking. I’m about to become as infamous as Maggie Moretti. Yet another tragedy Rory will have to bravely endure. And I’ll be stuck, with very little money, no identification, and nowhere to hide.
My eyes land on Eva’s purse, and I reach into it and pull out a ring of keys and her wallet. I pocket the keys and open the wallet, memorizing the address on her license. 543 Le Roy. I don’t hesitate. I walk out of the airport, into the bright California sun, and hail a cab.
* * *
We speed along a freeway, the San Francisco skyline peeking between industrial buildings on the east side of the bay, but it barely registers. Instead, I’m remembering Eva’s final moments in the bathroom stall with me, determined to carve out a second chance for herself, not imagining that she never would. I rest my head against the window and try to focus on the cold glass pressing against my skin. Just a little bit longer. I can’t let myself fall apart until I’m behind closed doors.
Soon, we’ve exited onto streets crowded with college kids, colorful and upbeat. I try to imagine what Rory might be doing right now. Most likely, he’s on his way back to New York, having canceled the event in Detroit. Quietly depositing the forty thousand dollars back into the bank and hiding everything else in his secret drawer.
I stare out the window as we pass the university, students crossing the street in a haphazard way, oblivious the way only college students can be. We skirt around the eastern edge of campus and into a residential neighborhood on the north side with hills and winding streets. Houses, duplexes, and apartments