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Again, most characters belong to E. L. James.
2. Flashbacks and Surprises
I had arrived three hours early.
That was when all the seats in the boarding area next to Gate 14 were still empty. I'd sat down near the windows in the first row closest to the counter—not that there was much to look at anyway, except for cloudy skies and the occasional drifting of light snow.
My dear father hadn't even bothered to see me off from my grandparents' penthouse. He'd simply called for a car to pick me up at two, instructing the driver to get me to Shanghai's Pudong airport before my flight took off. The Chinese driver, unsure of how to pronounce my name, had gone so far into the trouble as to have made a handwritten poster with my name—Anastasia Steele—inscribed in black ink on the white canvas with delicate calligraphy. I don't know how long he'd been holding it up, but when I exited the revolving doors, he had it sticking out the top of the car—one in a long line where other private cars and taxis were also stalling.
That was the only thing that had gotten a laugh out of me all day, though I couldn't help noticing that my father had evidently neglected to mention that I much preferred just to be called Ana.
He also didn't call to tell me he'd made the arrangements; I'd only found out from my grandparents that very morning over breakfast. Originally, I'd thought I was staying for the entire break, but my obviously my father wanted to usher me off back to Chicago. So, without a protest against my father's wishes like a good little girl, I'd quickly said my goodbyes to my grandparents and packed up my suitcase—not that I had brought much with me. Then I'd gotten into the black Lexus with my bags, shut the door, and had shed a few silent tears in the backseat as the driver swiftly pulled away from the curb.
So, I can't exactly say today been the greatest day of my life. Speaking of which, my eyes were also aching from having spent the previous two and a half hours with my head buried in The Best American Essays of the Century—the book which I'd been assigned to read over break for English—and a blue pen in my other hand as I attempted to annotate in the side margins. Attempted, meaning I keep finding myself stuck on one page as my mind wanders elsewhere. Not that the book isn't great—I'd even go so far to describe it as fascinating—but I just can't seem to get myself into the stories. My mind just isn't focusing on—
"Excuse me, miss."
I jump a little, my pen almost slipping out of my hand. "Pardon me?" I look up to see an old man with brilliantly white hair, sporting a pinstriped shirt beneath faded, denim overalls. A heavy overcoat drapes over his shoulders, and his small frame is hunched over an elaborately carved cane that I can't help admiring. A small, carry-on suitcase is gripped tightly in his other hand. Despite his age, his eyes are alert and bright, brimming with energy.
"Is the seat next to you taken?"
"Oh! No, not at all. I'm sorry, I'll just—" I hurriedly rise and gather my red shoulder bag, my coat, and my phone, "—clear it right away."
"No, my apologies," the elderly man says as he eases himself down. "I wouldn't have asked if any other seats were available or if my old body wasn't so fragile." He gives a little chuckle, then looks around, seeming very satisfied with himself. "The seats sure fill up fast, don't they?"
I smile politely in response.
"So, aren't you a little too young to be traveling alone?" he asks a moment later as he pulls out a battered copy of the newspaper from within his suitcase. "Where are your parents?"
He says something else afterwards but I don't hear it. A wave of grief mixed with despair washes over me. My parents. I'd forgotten I could put them together and label them as a unit. I've simply thought of them as mother and father separately for so long that I'd forgotten how I used to think of the three of us as a family. Family. The word feels foreign in my mind.
I swallow hard as I try to formulate a response. Finally, I say, "They're currently preoccupied with…other matters." I don't meet his eyes even though I can feel his gaze scrutinizing my expression, waiting for me to continue. But when I don't, he simply nods understandingly and eases himself into his seat to admire the dreary view.
Trying to keep my hands steady, I busy myself with putting my book back into my bag and finding my boarding pass from within it. My mouth trembles with the effort of keeping in a sob as I try to stop my tears from spilling over, and for once, they seem to subside after a minute or so. I let out a breath of relief. I hate making a scene in public.
I note the time on my watch—4:55—then glance up at the large, flashing display reporting the estimated departure times that are more commonly late than punctual. In bold red text, it notes that Flight 2289, heading for Chicago, has been delayed for half an hour. Thirty five minutes left to go, my subconscious thinks flatly as she flops, facedown, onto her bed with a groan. Yippee.
Three hours. Three whole hours that I've spent trying to stop myself from thinking, to stop myself from remembering. Every time I close my eyes, I see my mother, dressed in those flakey hospital gowns and lying in the bed across from mine in the cramped room of the infirmary. Her face is pale and sallow, no longer carrying the rosy glow she once had. In a dreamlike state, she cries out my name, my father's name, moaning softly as she curls into a tiny ball, huddling further into her bedsheets. I sit by her bedside and reach out to hold her hand, but she's still trembling; she doesn't know I'm here, doesn't know when anyone's here. She's only living in her mind now, no longer aware of anything going on around her. I cradle her hand in mine: it's so frail now, so rough. I swallow back my tears, but they still trail down my cheeks. My mother. This is my mother now.
I gasp, my eyes flying open. I didn't even realize when they'd closed. With my hands shaking, I pull out a tissue from my bag and wipe the tears from my face. I will not cry. I will not cry.
Holding her hand in mine, that was the last time I saw my mother. I don't remember the rest of it. It's all a blur, coming to think of it, though it had only been nine days since.
Four months ago, right before my senior year of high school had begun, she and I had both been diagnosed—her with small cell lung cancer, and myself with diabetes. Both having been untreated for months, unknowingly. I'd replayed that day so many times in my mind, first simply just for myself to accept it, but now more because I can't seem to stop it from being on repeat.
The nurse first knocked on our door, sounding rather timid. "Come in!" my mother had called, laughing as she tickled me and I'd squealed, jumping up from where I sat on her knees. My father had looked upon us with a slight disapproving look, but he, too, smiled when I looked over at him, standing just to the left of my mother's chair.
When she came in, the nurse quickly shut the door behind her and that's when I got the feeling that something was wrong. But nothing could be wrong, right? We were all perfectly healthy!
Yet the feeling that she was about to deliver bad news further intensified when the nurse cleared her throat and checked for our names. By that point, my mother seemed to have gotten the hint as well and a look of seriousness had dawned across her face.
But nothing could've prepared any of us for the diagnoses. My mother—lung cancer? Whaaaaaat? She'd never smoked, and was passionately opposed to anything similar of the sort! And myself—diabetes. Diabetes. What would've been a hard blow was only adding a little more fuel to the fire; I was already in too much shock about my mother's diagnosis.
It'd taken me days to finally understand that my mother, my sweet, intelligent, caring mother, would be gone in the span of four months, if she was lucky. Lucky. All of a sudden, four months seemed like such a short amount of time, when I used to think a month was too long.
"Ah, excuse me, miss?" The elderly man sitting besides me gently nudges me in the shoulder as he and, seemingly everyone else around me, starts getting up from their seat. "Boarding for flight 2289 has just begun. I thought you would've liked to know."
"Thank you," I say gratefully as I scramble up and collect my belongings. I hold out a hand. "Ana Steele."
He grins a wide, toothy smile as he reaches out and shakes my hand firmly. "Jeffrey Kraughlin. CEO of Republic Airlines. Congratulations, Ana, you have been upgraded to first class."
"Wait, what?"
