Strangers on a Plane

Strangers on a Plane

By 

Lori Jan  Melnyk

jan.mikemelnyk@gmail.com

 3000 words

                                                                                                                                                              Jennifer’s watch stopped at six o’clock on the dot, the moment of departure. She thumped on it, trying to see if it would work. It had a new battery, she remembered. After a nap, she removed her Walkman, Sounds like Teen Spirit—still running through her head. She turned to her seatmate. Hopefully, he was on Toronto time. “Excuse me, sir—do you have the time?”

He gazed at her as if she were a hologram, turning back to his newspaper which looked to be 100 years old, tattered and yellowing. The fiftyish man looked very British schoolmaster in his tweed suit with the Argyle vest and matching socks. She remembered her mom saying people used to dress up fancy for an airplane trip.

She realized that the tray in front of her displayed the monster sweet potato. What an idiot. He must think her crazy. She turned to him again. “It’s the sweet potato, right?”

He peered at her through his Coke bottle bottom glasses. “I beg your pardon, Miss?”

“It’s a Martha Stewart thing. She always takes a sweet potato to nibble on when flying. Prevents jet lag. Lots of nutrients. Vitamins A, B and C. Calcium, potassium and iron. She calls it the king of vegetables.”

“Who does?”

“Martha Stewart.”

 “She a friend of yours?”

Jennifer was stymied. This geezer had never heard of Martha Stewart? Was her seatmate Neanderthal Man? Where had he been hanging? On an ice floe in the Antarctica? C’mon, these were the ‘90s.

“You do know of her,” she insisted. “The one and only Martha Stewart. The maven of style?”

He shrugged. “Is it in vogue to carry a large potato with you on a plane nowadays?”

She nodded, gnawing a bit on the hard vegetable. “Sweet potato.”

He turned back to his newspaper, but she glimpsed a hint of a grin beneath his salt and pepper moustache. 

 “Why didn’t you tell me the time when I asked?”

Folding his newspaper, he turned to her. “I don’t know the time.”

She then noticed his wrists were bare. Didn’t everyone wear a watch?

“I was curious though as to why you were attempting to damage your unique timepiece,” he said.

 “Isn’t it cool? It’s a Swatch. The colors match my plaid jacket. I don’t get why it doesn’t work. It has a new battery.”

“Battery?” he said. “You don’t wind them up anymore?”

Seriously. This man must be Rip Van Winkle. 

“I’m lucky I didn’t miss my flight,” she said. “If it had stopped a few hours ago, I wouldn’t be here. Hey, how did you ever catch this plane without a watch?”

“I hadn’t planned on being on this plane at all.”

She scanned the few empty seats on the flight. “Stand-by? You don’t look the type,” she said, noting his polished leather shoes.

“The trip didn’t cost me a dime actually.” 

 “Frequent flyer miles?” 

He looked flummoxed. 

“Connections, hey?” she said. “Don’t tell me your son is pilot of this plane. Or you’re president of the airlines.”

“I do have connections,” he admitted, but didn’t elaborate. “Are you on holiday?”

“Sort of.  I’m actually on Cloud Nine,” she said, looking outside at the billowy clouds. “I’m meeting my sister in Toronto.”

“Has it been long since you’ve seen her?”

Her eyes widened— her voice escalated a few decibels. “I’ve never met her,” she said. “Well, since we were very little. We just found each other last month. She put an ad in my local newspaper. She’s only two years older than me. And already married and has a baby. Can you imagine?”

“Were you given up for adoption?”

She nodded. 

He narrowed his eyes.

 “Hey, don’t feel sorry for me,” she said. “My parents were killed in a car crash. I was only a baby—I don’t remember them.”

The man looked uncomfortable. Too much information, she realized. Her brother would tell her that. Not everybody wants to hear your life story, especially held hostage on an airplane. But she was a born chatterbox. “Look, it’s not as bad as being abandoned because your parents don’t want you. I know they loved us. But there were no relatives to take us in.”

“You were separated from your sister?”

“Yep,” she said. “That’s the hard thing. Up until now. I know my birth parents wouldn’t have been happy about that.”

The man stared out the window, stroking his silver threaded moustache. 

“Look,” she said, “I have great parents who are wholly behind this trip. My dad even sprung for my ticket. He says he can use a break from my constant nattering. But it’s weird not knowing if a single person is related to you. Not having the same eyes or voice or laugh.” She pulled a photo out of her wallet. “But I do now. I have a picture of my sister and niece,” she said, handing it to him. 

 “See? The same ski-jump nose. And the baby is a strawberry blonde like me. A real niece,” she said, her voice emanating wonder. “I’m an auntie. Her name is Clarissa. I brought her a Beanie Baby. I hope she likes it.”

“Is that a dolly? Like Betsy Wetsy?”

“Betsy Wetsy? I’ve heard of Chatty Cathy. My mom had that doll. No, these are stuffed toys. I got her the newest one. Misty, the Unicorn.”

The man was still staring at the photograph.

“You and your sister both have green eyes,” said the man.

“Wrong,” she said, moving close so he could look into her eyes. “Hazel.”

He studied them and nodded. “Hmm, yes.”

“I hope I fit in Toronto with my new Rachel  haircut. I used to braid my long hair, but got it all chopped off.”

“Who is Rachael? Is she a television character?”

“Surely you’ve heard of the show, Friends?” She hummed a few bars from the opening song.

The man shrugged. 

Rip Van Winkle, she thought. He must have been asleep for 100 years. 

The flight attendant stopped the cart in the aisle. 

“Chicken pot pie or vegetarian lasagne?” the woman asked her, opening the cart drawer.

“Chicken, please.”

After the flight attendant handed her the meal, the man waved her onto the next row.

Jennifer turned to her seatmate. “Why aren’t you eating? These are freebies.”

“I’m not hungry,” he said. “But you go ahead. Young people need their sustenance.”

“Actually, I’m too nervous to eat,” she said, pushing her food around the plate with her fork.

She was amazed at how comfortable she felt with this stranger. Conversation did make trips go faster her mom had always said.  

“And to think we have the same name,” she said.

“The same name?” The man look startled. “We do?”

“No, of course not. My sister and I.  My sister’s adoptive name is Jennifer too,” she said. “ How cool is that?”

“Two Jennifers in one family,” he said,  a grin spreading across his face.

“Do you have kids?” she asked, noticing his wedding ring.

“Two.”

“What are their names?”

“Sam and Kelly.”

“Are they grown up now?”

“Yes, they’re adults now, although I still picture them as little ones.”

“Do they look like you?”

He grinned wryly. “Oh, heavens, no. Luckily, they both take after their mother.”

“Do you see them often?”

The man took a moment. “It’s been a very long time,” he said, looking regretful. “But . . .” his voice trailed off.

The girl felt his pain. She’d heard of children being estranged from their parents. Maybe he was divorced and remarried to an evil stepmother. Or a widower.

“I see it on Oprah all the time. Families split up.”

“Oprah?” he asked. “What’s that?”

Was this man living in a cave? First Martha Stewart, Friends and now Oprah Winfrey. “You’re joshing me, right?”

He shook his head. 

This man was a Sphinx. Professor Plum from the Clue game. Probably he had no television. Or he was a hermit living in the mountains. She noticed that his eyes looked sad.  Why was he estranged from his kids, she wondered? 

But she shouldn’t be a nosy parker. “It’s none of your beeswax,” her brother would chide.

“I’ve been very lucky even though I wasn’t raised by my biological parents,” she said. 

“You’re blessed indeed,” he said. “If you don’t mind advice from an old codger, I’ll offer a little. Just be yourself with the other Jennifer. You have a delightful personality. You and your sister have the rest of your lives to get acquainted. Make every second count.”

 “I wonder if we’ll like the same things,” she said, biting her lip. “What if we have nothing to talk about? That’s my biggest worry. I’ve lived my whole life in the middle of nowhere. Weeding sugar beets and driving a combine. And she’s had a much more exciting life. Growing up in a family of lawyers—she’s a family lawyre, living in a high-rise overlooking Lake Ontario. She even has a nanny and a cottage in a place called Muskoka. It’ll be so surreal. We’ll be like apples and oranges.”

“Or watermelon and strawberries,” he said.

“That can’t be worse than chalk and cheese. That’s my brother and me. Always at loggerheads. Glen couldn’t wait to escape the farm. Calls me a hick.”

“Are you interested in farming?” he asked. 

She nodded. “I love our farm. I’m taking agriculture at Lethbridge Community College—my second year. My brother thinks I’m nuts. He wants to do stand-up comedy. Pretty funny guy, actually. Glen’s done a few comedy clubs in Calgary. Me, I love the smell of alfalfa. Being able to look out at Big Chief Mountain. Putting up bluebird boxes. The song of the meadowlark. “

“I love birdsongs too,” the stranger said.  “I grew up on a farm as well. I remember a haunting birdsong. I never saw the bird though. It went, “Hello? Hello? Hello? “

“SpookyDid it sound like it wanted you to answer?”

“It sounded like  it was somebody lost, looking to be found.”

“I wonder what kind of bird it was,” she said.

“I later read that ravens can make a call that sounds like hello.”

“Ravens? I’ve only heard them cawing. I’ll tell my mom about that. She’s a birdwatcher.”

He looked pensive. “It sounds like your brother is the only one drawn to the city.”

             Jennifer nodded. “I have no need for a corner office or a brick wall for a comedy gig. I’ll probably be a country bumpkin to my sister though.” 

“If she’s a lawyer and you’re a farmer, you’ll spend days just learning about each other,” he said.

“And bonding, I hope.”

“That will happen. You won’t even have to try.”

She wasn’t so sure.  Could a sister actually be a friend? Remembering her only friend in high school,  Nicolle, she had her doubts.

She remembered the time her friend had said, “If we were horses, I would be a thoroughbred and you would be a Clydesdale.”

Yikes. She’d been dumbfounded. What did that mean? That Nicolle was graceful and beautiful. And that she plodded along with big hairy feet? There were songs written about thoroughbreds. Wasn’t there one called, Run for the Roses? After being hurt, she’d given up on having a best friend.

Lightning flashed on the plane’s wing, lighting up the tiny window. “Will we be safe?” 

“The pilot knows how to navigate around storms,” he said. 

“Are you sure your son’s not the pilot?” she teased. “You said you had connections.”

“Quite sure,” he said.

She studied him carefully. “What about you? Are you still a farm boy?”

“I left the farm after university and moved to town. But one never leave’s one’s childhood behind.”

“Do you think my sister would ever visit the sticks?”

“I can’t think of a healthier place to bring a wee bairn.”

“Bairn?” 

“That’s Scottish for child.”

It figured he was Scottish with all that tweed going on. “My family has Scottish roots,” she said. “My dad buys all the hokey T-shirts with the Scottish sayings. One like Haud yer wheesht. Know that one?”

“That I do. Be quiet.”

“My dad always tells us to keep it down to a dull roar,” she said, grinning.

The lightning flashed on the wing again. “I’m afraid to look out the window,” she said. “Maybe I’ll see The Wicked Witch of the West riding her bicycle with Toto in the basket.”

The man chuckled. “I think we’ve averted the storm. No landing in Oz.”

The seatbelt light pinged.  They snapped their seat belts together as the turbulence began. The plane grew silent as the flight attendants seated themselves. Jennifer fought the impulse to grab onto his arm. It’s just like our boat hitting the chop on Stafford Lake, she told herself.  Her fellow passenger looked calm. 

“Whoah,” she said. “Quite a ride,” as the plane lurched. 

“We’ll be fine,” he said. 

The turbulence finally ended, and the plane came back to life.

She noticed a middle-aged couple a few rows over, staring at them. Like they were from another planet.  She never backed down from a challenge. She glommed onto their disapproving faces until they looked away. Gawking. Did they think the professor was hitting on her? The man was old enough to be her father. And he wasn’t flirting in the least. She felt like she’d found a kindred spirit. 

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“I thought I recognized someone on the other side of the plane,” she said. “I can’t believe I unloaded on you. Why is it so easy to tell a stranger your whole life story?”

“Perhaps because you don’t expect to see that person again,” he said. “Although I confided in my bartender on a regular basis.”

She noticed the man’s hand trembling. Maybe he was an alcoholic craving a drink. That would explain his memory problem.

“I hope your family has a happy reunion as well in the future.” She wanted to touch his arm.

“I think it may.” He nudged his glasses upwards on his nose.

The flight attendant reached for the plate and cutlery. Jennifer was slipping the sweet potato into a plastic bag when the seatbelt light flashed—the plane was preparing for descent.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

He’d buried his nose in his newspaper once more. 

“Sir? Your name? I don’t know your name.”

He hesitated. “Al Star. Albert Star.”

“Well, Mr. Star, when we got off this plane, I want to introduce you to my new family.”

“I’d be honored.”

The plane banked sharply to the right. “Look. there’s the CN Tower off in the distance.”

The city lights beckoned. She turned to the man, but he’d left his seat. He must have gone to the restroom. She felt concerned as passengers were supposed to be buckled in for landing. But maybe he’d taken anempty seat near the back, seeking peace and quiet. Darn. She was planning to give him the farm phone number. Her parents would like his homespun personality. But then her brother would be critical of her trusting strangers too easily. The man could be a serial killer, he’d say.  

When the plane ground to a halt, she motioned to the flight attendant. “What happened to the passenger sitting next to me?”

She looked puzzled. “There was no passenger in Seat 27B.”

Jennifer picked up the yellowed newspaper. “You don’t remember the man sitting here, reading this newspaper?”

The flight attendant shook her head while closing an overhead bin.

Jennifer read the masthead on the front page. The St. Albert Star. Weird. She’d been born in St. Albert. Just north of Edmonton. Her adoptive parents had told her that.

“Wait a minute,” she muttered. So that’s where he got the name Al Star.  What kind of a huckster was he? What game was he playing? She grabbed her backpack to make sure her wallet hadn’t been pickpocketed. Phew, her wallet was still there.

She noticed the date of the newspaper. A few days after her birthday.  The yellowed paper was really old.She turned to the birth announcements.

Anna Kelly, born April 22, 1973. Proud parents, Arthur and Marybeth Ainsley. Sister to Samantha.

Her birth name had been Anna. She only knew her middle initial was K. She remembered the man’s words: “Sam and Kelly.” It hit her. She’d assumed his children were boys. As well, he had connections, he said. Connections. Had that monster sweet potato given her hallucinations? She pondered these wild imaginings while her fellow passengers stood up, waiting for the doors to open. 

She tucked the newspaper into her knapsack. Her Swatch had inexplicably started to tell time again. 

Another reunion awaited. But what would her sister think of this strange meeting with the ghostly stowaway? Would she think her crazy? Did her sister know her name was originally Samantha? She remembered the man’s face when she said, “And to think we have the same name.” That should have raised a red flag. And his nose. His glasses kept sliding down. An upturned nose just like hers. 

She’d stumbled upon the truth. Her seatmate was Arthur Ainsley. Marybeth must be her birth mom. Why hadn’t she come along on thia trip, she wondered. Maybe there hadn’t been a choice for this celestial hitchhiker’s appearance.

Joining the queue, she made her way to the baggage area. While descending the escalator, she spotted the man again, standing behind a young woman. He was looking lovingly onto the baby she held. The woman had to be her sister—it wasn’t the physical resemblance—it was her posture. Motionless, like a heron with one leg tucked behind the other. That’s exactly how she stood. 

She looked againfor the unearthly passenger. But he’d vanished.

A childhood memory came floating back. Her adoptive mother told her how she loved watermelon as a baby.

“Watermelon and strawberries,” the man had said. He remembered too. Her sister must have loved strawberries. 

            “Ciao, da,” she whispered. 

She dashed ahead. “Jennifer! It’s me! Hello? Hello?”

THE END