Final Departure

When I die, do you think I will get wings to carry me to heaven? They say Death is an angel. Angels have wings. Do you think Death would loan me a pair, if I asked? Boarding a tube of steel bolts and carbon fibers is as close as I will get in this lifetime. Planes are terrifying and magnificent and as I walk towards my flight, I am reminded of my mom relaying the most standard phrase: “If we were meant to fly, God would’ve given us wings.” One takes off outside the roof-to-floor glass. From below, the wings and tail give visions of a cross.

My hands cover my ears as the engines screech undeterred by the walls around me; a dissonant, full-bodied vibrato stirs the marrows in my bones. The metal walkway will surely slip out from beneath me. My carry on clinks with each crease as the wheels get stuck for a second on the bumps in the path. The hum gets closer. Flight attendants, dressed in clean pressed suits and mini skirts and silver, winged lapel pins, greet passengers.  One plays nursemaid; an elderly woman in her wheelchair waits to board. She is in distress and a paramedic is clearing her to join — it’s likely anxiety.

It was a last minute flight. The day before I was to visit my mother in Connecticut, a drunk driver totaled my car. Mother, bless her heart, sent me a plane ticket — my shift had already been planned and covered weeks in advance. I wouldn’t be able to make the the trip out at least for another year.

The walkway narrows and constricts towards the fuselage. It is a Boeing 737. I pray it is safe. The news had extolled over and over how unsafe the brand is and anxiety shoots up and down my spine. An attendant greets me at the door. Her hair is blond and bouncy and her face is set in the biggest grin as she waves me toward the aisle. Lauren is displayed on a name tag beside her wing pin. Lauren must sense my frantic energy because she says, “Don’t be afraid. Our captain’s been on the job for decades!”

My seat is in economy class. Truly, and I can’t stress this enough, God bless my mother — I’m lucky she was even able to afford this with the money she makes working tables in old age. I slide my carry on bag into the storage compartment above the seat. I didn’t bring my purse but I did have my phone and a pair of ear buds. I pop them in my ears and scroll through my albums. AC/DC’s Highway to Hell, a classic, plays through the speakers and Led Zeppelin’s Stairway to Heaven is next in queue. Perfect. I lean back in my window seat and relax to the guitar riffs as people continue to board.

A child sits next to me. Metallica is scrawled in bold contrast letters on his dirty, worn and ripped t-shirt and his pants barely reach shin length. The stewardess hands him a plush blanket and reassures him with a touch to the shoulder. She departs and I stare. Surely the boy is too young to travel alone. I can see the boy’s collarbones standing in sharp relief against the wan skin.

A boom blows out my hearing. Silence. A second ticks. The plane shudders and groans as  the following shock wave slams into us. The boy shrieks, tears streaming down his face and I pull him to my chest, holding him tight as the tremors settle. It is a miracle the windows did not shatter. Wind brings tar ash and the sky turns to black pitch. Ripples of the pulse are visible in the stratosphere. The sun is gone. Wing lights flicker and the runway is illuminates the dark. Hissing static breaks the stupor.

“This is your captain speaking. We regret to inform you that all flights are canceled, effective immediately, until further notice. We apologize after all the trouble you went through to board the plane, but we need you to exit as quickly and orderly as possible.”

This trip must be doomed. The boy is removed from my arms by an attendant and people shove to be the first off. It takes over thirty minutes to exit. The pervasive drone of idling planes and the roar of take-off is absent. Crowds of people linger in around the terminal, demanding answers and wellness checks. Outside, it has begun to rain and thunder from the heat. People bicker and shout while employees try to keep the peace. No one knows what is happening. Our pilot comes out.

His black suit, crisp and unruffled and embossed in gold, sticks out in the crowd of refugees and sour customers. He too, has a pin on his breast. The wings are bigger and more vibrant. I want one of those. Maybe the gift shop sells them. I buy a chocolate bar from a nearby vending machine and wait. There’s nothing else to do.

I spot the boy. Eyes wild, clothes disheveled, he searches for help. Familiarity. The grandma in the wheelchair is speaking to him in hushed tones. She is trying to soothe but the boy is no calmer for it and his eyes are watery and vacant. Lauren is busy with a stream of furious fliers huddling around an information booth. 

“Hey there kid,” I say. “You hungry?”

Mute and trembling, he ignores the candy I am holding out for him. Ash piles up in great dunes against the windows and black mud water and scorching darkness. It’s noon yet it is quiet and absent like the depths of the ocean. Anyone still outside has to be dead. There is power, a backup generator, and the cold lights paint shadows across the boy’s sunken eyes. I try again, “Do you have parents nearby?”

He shakes his head and bawls on the nasty airport floor. The lady attempts to lean down and calm him, running gentle fingers through knotted, greasy hair streaked with grime. He latches to her leg hard enough to bruise. I feel in over my head. Perhaps I should buy him some new clothes and brush from a shop.

I thought I would be stuck here for a few days, max. The airport is full to bursting. Refugees have flooded in; victims of an eruption — Yellowstone — they say. Everything will be grounded for months, the air choked with soot and debris. Leaving is more dangerous than staying. I keep the boy and grandma by my side. I wasn’t able to buy a pin either, with what little my monopoly money will be worth in the following weeks. The pins are only for crew. 

Fast food and restaurants in the canteen operate at set times now. No one can get in or out of the airport. The highway outside is a hellscape of solidified, burning ash and abandoned cars. EMS, flight crews, and even high school shift workers are stuck here. I wonder how long it will take us to run out of food.

Everyone sets up blankets made of foil and pillows from suitcases and jackets. Some had the foresight to bring comforts of home with them before the disaster. These supplies are guarded jealously. I have a blanket and pillow in my luggage. The boy’s grandma lets him have the pillow and I gift the pair my blanket. I sleep in the chair and the boy spreads out by my feet wrapped tight in warm fabrics. Hot nights have transitioned to black blizzards beyond the glass.

Some executive manages to get the airport short-listed for food and supplies, all delivered on foot. Society suffers from a catastrophe but in here, we are safe.

The boy starts to put on fat and muscle. It seems he’s too short for his age. He tells me that a nice officer brought him here. That the nice man told the boy he was going to a better place — a new home with a dad  who loved him. I tell him to stick by me so he won’t miss his flight. Hopefully, the ash clears fast enough that we aren’t stuck here forever. Day and night blurs together in the eternal darkness. I start to join the boy when he sleeps and he burrows into my arms. It’s warm even though the air outside is frozen and dead.

A plane departs. Names are called, dawn from a lot to attempt flights out, to reunite loved ones. The crews tell us it’s a one-way trip to a sanctuary that is better prepared to take care of us. The first plane leaves with scores of people. I hold my boy tight — I won’t go without him. I watch those souls fly into the clouds of smoke. Our new home gets less crowded.

My boy tells me he wants me to come with him. Of course I will. We only have each other now; grandma went up the stairs and departed into the sky. Moving on seems scary but living in this environment is like being stuck in a purgatory. Cell service went down the first day and remaining communication lines are limited to personnel. Routines are strict. The floor chafes at night. We are taken care of but there is no freedom. Perhaps my mother is in this sanctuary, still waiting for her child to get off the plane. Maybe my boy’s father is still waiting for him, wondering if his lost child survived.

We’re ready to move on — to take the risk of crashing into the ashen hell. Others decide they can’t, they won’t. It’s safe but we don’t know if the darkness will encroach on our sanctuary. One day, aid might dry up; the plants are already dying. How long until our generators fail? Lost souls will ride those planes into the sky and choking soot will careen them back towards the ground. No one returns — we’re being taken to the slaughter. 

I watch, holding my boy’s hand, as roving bands set out down the highway. Shadows lurk among wreckage, pipe weapons and jacket armor made from pleather, waiting for unfortunate people to trace their path. To abandon peace in favor of madness. Their eyes are red-rimmed and swollen and their voices cracked and rough from the dusty air. Demons, my son calls them, as tribes stalk the pitch black. My fist clenches around his trusting grip. Here, it is safe. 

My boy is called.  He refuses to go up the stairs without me. I must be allowed on the plane, he says, or he won’t move on. He hold me close. Our pilot walks down the stairs. His touch is cold, voice made of sharp gravel, but his smile is sincere. “Is he yours?”

“Yes.”

He’s been mine for months.

“You can go together.” The pilot notes our names on his tablet. I don’t know how it still has a charge. How we still have power and food and water. The city exists in a bubble; transients whisper in envy and sob in remembrance of better times while we remain in stasis. Sometimes, there are new arrivals. Bullet holes and gouges riddle their flesh; others beg for water and food. They are welcomed.

We go up the stairs, together, and through the walkway with palms clasped tight. I am not scared, this time. Seatbelts click and the engine revs. My boy is confident, certain. I gave him the window seat. He turns to me.

“Do you remember? How you died?”

“Yes.” I got t-boned on the highway and died on impact. The drunk driver walked away, head bleeding. He’s still out there, somewhere, among the skulls and bones. It’s nothing more than a long-forgotten dream. I’m not upset, not anymore.

“Me too.” My boy’s grip tightens. The lady in the aisle seat is covered in ash. Burned flesh and puss ooze from a cheek wound. Her teeth are, raw, yellowed, and exposed.  Bandages from the flight crew mummify her scorched face and I am reminded of the pins on lapels.

“Yellowstone,” she says.

I give the right ear bud to my son and draw a blanket over us. My boy chooses the music and he settles on Zeppelin. This time we are in first class, our spots reserved in advance. We settle back in our seats and stretch out. The sky is vast and stretches out into eternity. Even in this awful moment, I met someone beautiful.