Flight Fright

My biggest fear flying across the country alone was being kidnapped. Sure, I was an adult now, and could take care of myself. But I was still a paranoid young woman who had never been on a plane.

The moment I stepped foot in the airport, I was hit with the rising panic that I had no idea how to navigate the place. The milling groups of people going every which way, with suitcases and screaming babies, the twists and turns of endless hallways like a shopping mall, the escalators and moving walkways, the flashing signs and bright lights…

I was overwhelmed.

But I kept walking, gripping the handle of my suitcase and scanning the walls and ceiling for any helpful illuminated words. I was going to find my way onto that plane to LA, one way or another.

“Terminal B, terminal B” I mumbled to myself. That was the first step. I just needed to find the right terminal. Then check-in, then security, then boarding a plane that would take me to my dad, who I haven't seen in, like, a year. For the millionth time, I wonder in frustration why I was the one that had to go to him. I wasn’t the one that left for some work thing.

I make a turn after spotting a sign saying Terminal B and an arrow pointing to the right, the wheels of my suitcase bumping along the cracks in the tiled floor. I avoid eye contact with people as I pass, paranoid that they can see right through me.

I reach an open space, and a big sign above declares it as departure terminal B. Cool. Step One of the plan is done. When I told my mother about being nervous about flying, all she told me was: “Have a plan, stick to the plan.” So that is what I’m doing.

I take a deep breath, scanning my surroundings. Hey, I made it this far already. Just need to keep going.

I’m aware of people walking around me and realize I’m standing in the middle of the floor, in everyone's way. I quickly move to the side, until a friendly wall is at my back. The clamor of travellers’ movements fills my ears as I try to locate check-in for my luggage. There’s a few line ups across from me, so I examine the signs above. There's huge boards, listing all the flights and times. I feel my chest grow tight as my eyes scroll down the list, seeing words like delayed and cancelled next to flights. Finally, I find mine, 232, and sigh with relief.

Spotting a sign with the words check-in and my airline on it, I start walking towards it. Look at me go! I’m going through this much easier than I thought I would.

Waiting in line, I have a moment to relax. All that needs to be done is wait for now. Things are rolling, with plenty of time to spare. My eyes start wandering, watching people around me; a guy with a funny hat, an exhausted mother trying to drag her toddler after her, an old couple complaining at a desk. Just like me, everyone came to the airport on their own journeys.

“Miss?” a harsh voice shocks me to attention. I turn to find an airport worker, a concierge, I guess, with her sleek bun, blue suit and necktie/scarf thing around her neck. She stands with her arms crossed, staring me down.

“Y-yes?” I stutter. What did I do?

“You are not supposed to be here.” Not supposed to… what does she mean? Doubts spark to life in my mind. Did I make a mistake? Did I somehow miss a security step or something?

“But my flight… it said terminal B. I’m taking my lugg—”

“You are in the wrong terminal,” she states, almost angry, yet her expression remains neutral. “Look at the board. Your flight is not here.” But that couldn’t be… I literally just saw it. I look up anyway, feeling the woman’s impatient presence at my shoulder. Sure enough, I can’t find my flight anywhere on the board. I feel my cheeks heat as I turn back to her. My moment of confidence is over, and I just can’t believe I already messed this up. Had I hallucinated my flight number earlier?

The concierge just stares at me, as if waiting for me to process. “Come with me”, she says.

I leave the line and follow this woman, rushing along behind her. In what feels like a whirlwind, we go through the airport, ending up at what seems to be the completely opposite end. I don’t have time to even understand where we're going.

“Excuse me,” I huff, trying to keep up with her. “Where exactly are we? Where do I need to go?” I don’t like this scrambling; following this worker blindly. This was not part of my plan.

“I’m here to help you, " she says, smiling stiffly. “Here. I’ll take your luggage. Go through there, and get on your plane, quickly!” The last word comes out like a hiss. A shine fills her eyes, and I’m overcome with a grounding, sure feeling. She is the perfect person to help me.

“Wait—” But she’s already gone, dress shoes tapping in the distance, my suitcase dragging behind her. I head toward the direction she pointed me to, mind blank. I just know, with certainty, what to do now.

I go through the small door, which is positioned randomly on the wall like a storage closet. Usually I would have thought that it would lead nowhere, but right now it makes perfect sense to me.

I enter an empty room. The gate is quiet, and I look out the windows, watching the planes move on the tarmac. The attendant at the door spots me, then yells out, “Over here! Hurry!” Jumping, I run toward her, scrambling with my documents in my hands to show her.

“No need for that,” she says, putting a hand on my back and guiding me into the tunnel. “Get!” Like I’m a herd of cattle.

I run down the tunnel, spotting the door of the plane ahead. The flight attendant grabs my hand, pulling me in before shutting the door. “Take your seat,” she growls.

“Right,” I say, already moving down the aisle, packed with people, all staring ahead with the same blank expressions.

Somehow I know which seat to take without having to look at my boarding pass. I just know I’m in 24-C, in the aisle seat. I sit, clutching my bag to my chest. I stare ahead, not caring about the people around me nor worrying about anything.

I followed the concierge’s instructions. Thank goodness, or else who knows how long I would have been lost in there.

An eerie silence fills the space. None of the passengers are speaking. I feel the plane lurch into motion, rolling away from the airport. The movement seems to wake me up a bit, and I gasp in air, looking around. Others are doing the same, their faces taking on a multitude of expressions.

For a moment I am just confused. Then my stomach drops like a rock. Something’s not right. I have the horrible sense of being in the wrong place.

I glance down at my boarding pass as panic surges into my chest.

There’s a crackling in the speakers above our seats as the pilot speaks into his mic. “Flight 575, to —”

I’m on the wrong plane. Have I been kidnapped?