A Plane Ride Away

There’s a sigh at the other end of the phone. Silence stretches out over the three-thousand miles between us. “I’m sorry,” I say again. “I just can’t get on the plane tonight. There’s an emergency at work.”

“I know emergencies. I’m a doctor,” he reminds me. A fact he never lets me forget. “And there are no emergencies in newspapers, Bea. There are only deadlines. It’s not like you go out in the field to write or photograph stories. You just sit in an office all day. You could do that anywhere. You could do that here.”

“It’s different this time,” I argue.

Another sigh, “That’s what you always say. There’s always something with you. Do you have any idea how much I’ve looked forward to seeing you? It’s been six months.”

I’m aware of how neglected and lonely he must feel, but relationships are a two-way street. There are jobs here. There are always jobs for doctors in New York. But he refuses to leave California. He tells me he wouldn’t survive the winters.

I know it gets cold here—real cold. But I think that bundling up in the winter is a small price to pay to be with the person you say you’re in love with. The person you’ve planned a life with.

But, on the other hand, I can understand where he’s coming from, and it kills me not to be with him. It’s been killing me for months. His last visit was in June, and he only stayed for the weekend. I don’t think I’d ever cried so much as I did when I left him at the airport.

But this… is so much worse. It feels like the end.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he says quietly. The words cut like shards of glass on my skin.

All the things I want to tell him catch in my throat as I begin to cry. I don’t know what to say to that. I should beg him to give me a chance. Tell him that I’ll go see him when everything blows over. But that won’t change anything. In truth, I’d seen this coming.

Lately we’ve been distant. He’s been missing my calls, slow to respond to my texts. It’s difficult to love someone from so far away. I’ve tried. I really have. And I want to tell him all these things, but before I could respond, my phone beeped.

I look at the screen. He’s hung up.

For the next fifteen minutes, I try to call him back, but he forwards my calls to voicemail. I toss my phone onto my desk and wipe the tears from my face.

As I look at my inbox, there are ten new emails. All of them similar versions of: Newspaper shut down.

I set up my iPad, so I have something to listen to while I try to put out this fire. While I try to hold together the pieces of my life. I pick a random movie and laugh sardonically when I’m halfway through. It’s about an old woman’s reunion with the man she loved decades before. They’re getting married.

Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe I should get on that plane tonight. It’s up to me to fix things this time around. We could talk it out—make plans for the future. Perhaps I could even talk him into moving to New York. Once he gets past the weather, I think he could grow to love it here. Everyone does. There’s so much to do and see. We could go for evening walks in Central Park when we have a little time away from work. It would be great. Perfect even.

Then again, maybe I’m the one who needs to make a change. These last three years I’ve spent away from my partner have been because of a job. Not just any job, my dream job as editor-in-chief of The New York Times. A position I’d dreamed of since I was ten years old. Ever since I’d laid eyes on my first newspaper, I loved everything about it. The smell. The sound as I turned the page. Every section was different and connected me to the outside world—something I was missing as a homeschooled child. Back then, my world consisted of tutors and online homework. Too shy to join sports with other kids my age, I collected newspapers.

Now, I’m not so sure I want it anymore. I’ve given up too much to be here—an apartment I loved, my Volkswagen beetle, weekends at the beach with my partner, and my time. There’s no freedom in a job like this. I’m practically married to my phone. Most of my calls are for work. My parents and my partner have grown used to the rarity of a reply during working hours. Even so, I try to balance it all.

I’m don't know what it is about New York, but it’s changed me. All I do is work. My friends and colleagues have been neglected. How many more coffee and lunch dates will I have to decline? How many vacations will I miss?

I glance at the clock on the wall. 4:46 PM.

My flight leaves in four hours.

Two hours later, I’m still at my desk fielding calls and frantically replying to emails.

My phone rings and I answer it without looking at the caller id, “Bee Torres speaking.”

There’s a long shuddering breath followed by a choked sob on the other end of the phone. I pull it away from my ear and see that it’s not for work. “Mom? What’s the matter?”

She releases a fresh bout of sobs. “It’s your dad.”

“What happened?” I ask. My voice is a shaky mess.

“There’s… been… an accident,” she manages between hiccups.

“Okay. What kind of accident?”

“He fell off the roof and hit his head on my garden gnome.”

I nearly laugh at the hilarity of it, but I instantly push away the thought of her ugly pink gnome and my mind begins to race. “How bad is it?”

“I don’t know. The doctors rushed him into surgery as soon as we got here. They said he has a skull fracture and a severe brain bleed.”

“What hospital are you at?”

“Cedars-Sinai.”

I curse under my breath before a thought comes to mind. “Hold tight,” I tell her. “I’ll be on a plane in two hours. If traffic isn’t too bad, I’ll be at the hospital by—” I stare at the clock and do a fair amount of mental math, “Six, tomorrow morning. I’ll text Aaron to see if he can do anything. At the very least consult with dad’s doctors to get you some answers.”

After we hang up, I take several shaky breaths and squeeze my eyes shut. I place my hands on my chest and try to calm my racing heart. When I open them, I pack my things and request an uber.

By the time I arrive downstairs, a blue prius is waiting. I climb inside after reading the license plate. The driver is an Indian man who’s playing the new Billie Eilish album on full blast. Even though it’s an upbeat song, her voice always sounds so sullen to me. And that thought makes my eyes well with tears.

The driver looks in his rearview mirror and hands me a box of tissues.

Grateful, I take them and wipe my eyes. Then, I pull out my phone and send Aaron a text message that reads, “I know you don’t want to speak to me, but it’s an emergency. Your kind of emergency…” And I give him the briefest explanation of my dad’s accident and tell him he’s at Cedars-Sinai.

Twenty minutes later, I’m rushing up the five floor walkup and into my apartment. It’s small and homey. I only wish I could spend more time here.

Shrugging off the thought, I gather my already packed luggage and return to my uber that has kindly waited for me downstairs. I ask him to go as fast as he can, but the airport traffic is always a nightmare.

The second he stops at the drop off zone, I’m out of the car and pulling my luggage from the trunk.

I’m grateful that I always pack my belongings in a carryon bag because I can skip the baggage counter and head straight for security. Though I have TSA PreCheck, the line is still too long. I find myself begging the people in front of me to cut in front of them. And each of them takes one look at me and waves me forward. For a split second I’m worried about what I might look like to them.

Once I’m through, I hear my name called on the intercom. My plane has already boarded. Doors close in five minutes.

I pump my arms and run as fast as my legs could carry me, weaving around old ladies in bucket hats and children riding their luggage bags—something I’ve never seen before today.

When my gate is in sight, I see that the door is still open.

I still have time.

With one final sprint, I whipped my license and phone from my purse for the attendant to scan. The woman checks my id and scans the QR code. We make the briefest eye contact before I’m racing down the hall and onto the plane.