Finally a new chapter! Sorry I've been super busy, I hope you enjoy this! Don't forget to review!
At the gate, they stood apart from the others. Maybe because they were off duty cops, or maybe because she was the most publicized person on the news right now. Elliot had his overcoat with him, even though it was hitting eighty outside. London was apparently rainy for the week, but humid, high sixties. It was folded twice over a plastic seat. He had put his overnight bag on top of the coat, something a woman never would have done, Olivia thought, and he was reading the Wall Street Journal. Olivia held her coat over her arm and examined the plane in front of her, tethered to the gate by it's accordion umbilical. The plane was pretty, she thought, white with bright red and blue markings on it, the American Airlines logo written in bold script. The Boeing 777 was angled in such a way that she could see the cockpit, could see men in shirtsleeves, their faces in shadow, their arms moving along the instrument panel as they worked their way through the checklist. She wondered if she had ever met any of the crew before. Had they come to memorial service?
Her feet hurt, and she wanted to sit down. But to do so would have meant sandwiching herself between two overburdened passengers. In any event, there were only minutes left until they buried. Olivia had on a fitted black skirt, stopping mid calf and a black long sleeve knitted shirt, framing her nicely. She wore black boots with thick three inch heels to them. Black nylons covered her legs, keeping her to herself. Her her hair was in a loose twist, falling to frame her face. She thought she looked rather good, under the circumstances, certainly more together than she had in weeks. But she had lost weight in her face and knew she looked older than she had. Elliot wore black pants and a deep forest green dress shirt, almost black, with a black tie.
That morning, after she had told Elliot about her proposal trip to London, she had went up to Margaret's to tell her of her plan. Margaret had agreed to taking care of Julia. Olivia had told Julia when she was half asleep, and all she had said was "can I go back to bed now?"
As the widow of a pilot, Olivia was entitled to fly on a pass wherever American Airlines went, in the first class section whenever seats were available. She gestured to Elliot to take the window, and she stowed her luggage under the seat in front of her. Immediately she became aware of the stale air inside the plane, with it's distinctive artificial smell. The door to the cockpit was open, and Olivia could see the crew. The size of the cockpit never failed to startle her, many of them were smaller than the front seats of automobiles. She wondered how it was possible for the scenario suggested by the CVR on James' plane to have taken place. There seemed hardly room for three men to sit, let alone move around to have a scuffle.
From her vantage point, she could only see the inner third of the cockpit, bits of each pilot in shirtsleeves. It was impossibly, gazing at the tableau-the thickish arms, the confident gestures-not to imagine the man in the left hand seat as James. She pictured the shape of his shoulder, the whiteness of his inner wrist. She had never been a passenger on an airliner James was flying.
The captain rose and turned toward the cabin. His eyes found Olivia's and she understood that he meant to express his sympathy. He was an older man with a fringe of gray hair and light brown eyes. He seemed almost too kindly to be in charge. He was hopeless with the condolences, and she liked him for his inarticulateness. She thanked him and even managed, a slight smile. She said she was doing well as could be expected under the circumstances, which was all anyone ever wanted to hear. He asked her if she would be traveling on to County Clare with the other family members, and she answered, quickly and perhaps to emphatically, no. He seemed embarrassed for having asked. She turned then and introduced the captain to Elliot. The captain studied Elliot as if he might be someone he had met before. Then the man excused himself, went back up to the cockpit, and locked the door behind him. For his safety. For their safety.
The flight attendant collected the champagne glasses she'd brought around earlier, and Olivia saw to her surprise that she had drained hers. She couldn't remember drinking it, though she could taste it in her mouth. She looked at her watch, eight fourteen in the evening. It would be one fourteen am in London.
The plane lumbered on the runway. The pilot-the captain with the washed out eyes?-revved the engines for the takeoff. Her heart stalled for one prolonged beat, then kicked painfully inside her chest. Her vision narrowed to a dot, the way the picture used to do when one turned off the TV. Olivia held the armrests and closed her eyes. She bit her lower lip. A veil of protective mist dissipated, and she saw all that was possible: pieces of bulkhead flooring ripped from the cabin, a person, perhaps a child, harnessed into a seat, spinning through the open air, a fire beginning in a cargo hold and spreading into the cabin.
The plane gathered speed with unnatural momentum. The staggeringly heavy mass of the Boeing 777 would refuse to lift. She shut her eyes and began to pray the only prayer she could remember from her friend's trips to church...Our Father...
She had never before known fear on an airliner. Even on the bumpiest transatlantic flights. James had always been relaxed on a plane, as both a pilot and a passenger, and his calm had seemed to seep into Olivia through a kind of marital osmosis. But that protection was gone now. If she had believed herself safe in an airplane because James had, didn't it follow that she could die in a plane if he had? She felt then the shame and revulsion of knowing she was going to be sick. Elliot put his hand on hers.
When the plane was airborne, Elliot signaled the first flight attendant, who brought ice water and cold towels and a discreet paper bag. Olivia's body, unable to perceive relief in having made it aloft, rebelled. She vomited up the champagne, she was amazing at how intensely visceral the fear of one's own death was. She hadn't been this sick even when she'd learned that James had died.
As soon as the seat belt sign was turned off, Olivia rose unsteadily to use the lavatory. A flight attendant handed her a plastic envelope containing a toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash, a bar of soap, and a comb, and Olivia had realized such kits were kept on hand expressly for physically distraught passengers. Were they for first class passengers only, or did everyone get one?
In the tiny lavatory, Olivia washed her face. Her long sleeves were rolled up and soaked with sweat, where she tried to dry the skin of her neck and arms with paper towels. The plane lurched, and she banged her head against the cabinet. She brushed her teeth as best as she could and thought of all the times she'd felt condescending towards people who were afraid to fly.
When she returned, Elliot rose from his seat and took her arm.
"I can't explain." she said, sitting down and gesturing for him to do the same. "I suppose it was fear. I was certain the plane wouldn't get off the ground and that we'd be going so fast, we'd crash."
He gently squeezed her arm.
She pressed her seat back, and Elliot aligned his seat with hers. Almost reluctantly, it seemed, he took a magazine from the pocket in the seat in front of him. She fingered her wedding ring.
Over the intercom, the captain spoke with a resonant voice that was meant to be reassuring. Yet flight itself still felt wrong. The difficulty lay with the mind accommodating itself to the notion of the plane, with all its weight, defying gravity, staying aloft. She understood the aerodynamics of flight, could comprehend the laws of physics that made flight possible, but her heart, at the moment, would have none of it. Her heart knew the plane could fall out of the sky.
When she woke, it was dark both inside and outside of the plane. Overhead, a washed out movie played silently on a screen. They were flying toward morning. When James had died, he'd flown into light, as if he were outrunning darkness.
Through the windows, she saw clouds. Over where? she wondered. Newfoundland? The Atlantic? The Cliffs of Moher?
She wondered if the heart stopped from the concussion of the bomb, of it it stopped at the moment of certain knowledge that one would die, or if it stopped in reaction to the horror of falling through the sky, or if it did not stop until the body hit the water.
What was it like to watch the cockpit split away from the cabin, and then to feel yourself, still harnessed to your seat, falling through the sky, knowing that you would hit the water at terminal velocity, as surely James would have known if he were conscious? Did he cry out Olivia's name? Another woman's name? Was it Julia's name he called in the end? Or had James too, in the last desperate wail of his life, called out for his mother?
She hoped her husband had not had to cry out a name, that he had not had a second to know that he had died.
Beside her in the taxi, Elliot stretched his legs. She raised a hand to her hair and tried to refasten a wisp. Between them were two overnight bags, both remarkably small. She had packed hastily, without much thought. Her case contained a change of underwear and stockings, a different blouse. They entered London proper and began to pass through pleasant residential areas. The taxi pulled abruptly to a curb.
Through the rain, Olivia saw a street of white stucco town houses, an immaculate row of identical facades. The houses rose four stories and were graced with front window balconies. Delicate wrought iron fences bordered the sidewalk, and each house bore a lantern hanging from each door. Only the front doors spoke of individuality. Some were thick, wood paneled doors, some had small glass panes, others were painted dark green. The houses closest to the taxi were identified with discreet numbers on small brass plaques. The house they'd parked in front of read number 21.
Olivia sat back on the upholstered seat.
"Not yet" she said
"Do you want me to go instead?" he asked
She thought about the offer and smoothed her skirt. Like the steady hum of the engine, the driver seemed unperturbed by the wait.
"What would you do when you got there?" she asked
He shook his head, as if to say he hadn't given it any thought. Or that he would do what she asked him to.
"Why will you do?" he asked
Olivia felt light headed and thought she could no longer predict with any accuracy the actions and reactions of her body. The difficulty with not thinking about the immediate future, she decided, was that it left one prepared for its reality.
The drive to the hotel was brief, the block on which it stood eerily like the one they had just left. The hotel had taken over seven or eight town houses and had a discreet entrance. The upper floors were ringed with pristine white balustrades.
Elliot had booked two adjacent, but not adjoining rooms. He carried her bag to the door.
"We'll have lunch downstairs in the pub." he said. He checked his watch. "At noon?"
"Sure" she answered
"You don't have to do this" he said
Her room was small but perfectly adequate. The walls bore innocuous wallpaper, brass was sconces. There was a desk and a bed, a trouser press, an alcove where one could make a cup or coffee or tea. She showered, changed her underwear and shirt, brushed her hair. Looking into the mirror, she put her hands to her face. She could no longer deny that something was waiting for her here in this city. Sometimes, she thought courage was simply a matter of putting one foot in front of another and not stopping.
The pub was dark with wood paneled alcoves. Irish music played from overhead. Prints of horses, matted in dark green and framed in gold, were hung upon the walls. A half dozen men sat at the bar drinking large glasses of beer, and pairs of business men were seated in the alcoves. She spotted Elliot across the room, slouched comfortably against a banquette cushion. He looked contented, perhaps more than contented, he waved to her.
She crossed the room and approached him.
"I took the liberty of ordering you a drink." he said
She glanced at the ale. In front of Elliot was a glass of Guinness. She slipped in next to him. Her feet brushed against his, but it seemed rude to pull away.
Olivia studied the man in front of her. What did she know about him, except that he had been her partner for years? He seemed good at his job, and he was undeniably attractive. She wondered if accompanying her to London was somehow part of his job description.
"We might of come here for no good reason." she said "Elliot, I'm sorry, this is nuts, I know you must think I'm out of my mind. I'm really sorry to have dragged you into it."
"I love London" he said quickly, seemingly unwilling to dismiss their joint venture so quickly. "You need to eat something" he said
She studied the menu, laid it down on the polished but slightly sticky veneer of the table.
"You have a beautiful face" he said suddenly
She blushed. No one had said to her in a long time. She was embarrassed that she had colored, that he could see it mattered. She picked up the menu again and began to reexamine it. "I can't eat, Elliot. I can't."
"There's something I want to tell you" he said
She held her hand up. She didn't want him to say anything that would require her to respond.
"I'm sorry" he said, glancing away "You don't need this."
"I was thinking about how enjoyable this is" she said quietly
And she saw, with surprise, that he couldn't hide his disappointment at the tepid offering.
"I'm going to go now" she said
"I'll go with you."
"No." she said "I have to do this alone."
She went out onto the street blindly, moving now with a momentum she didn't dare to question. The taxi dropped her n front of the narrow townhouse she had seen little more than an hour before. She surveyed the street, studied a small pink lamp in a ground floor window. She paid the driver and was certain, as she stepped out onto the curb, that she had given the man too many coins.
The rain poured over the edges of her umbrella and soaked the back of her legs, spotting and then running down her stockings. There was a moment, as she stood on the steps in front of the imposing wooden door, when she thought, I don't have to do this. Though she understood in the same moment that it was knowing that she would positively do this that had allowed her the luxury of indecision.
She raised the heavy brass knocker and rapped on the door. She heard footsteps on an inner staircase, the short impatient cry of a child. The door opened abruptly, as though the person behind it were expecting a delivery.
It was a woman, a tall, angular woman with dark hair that fell along her collarbone. The woman was younger than her, maybe thirty five. She held a small child on her hip, a child so astonishing that it was all Olivia could do not to cry out.
Olivia began to tremble inside her coat. She held the umbrella at an unnatural angle. The woman with the child looked surprised, and for a moment, quizzical. And then she did not seem surprised at all.
"I've been imagining this moment for years" the woman said
I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I have a surprise! I am making a fan video of bensler and it will be up within the next few chapters! Don't forget to review!