Butterflies
The plane lurches. My hands hover over my laptop while my eyes dart around. Most passengers are wearing headsets, eyes glued to the tiny personal movie screens in front of them. No one seems bothered by the turbulence. From the corner of my eye, I notice a colorful flash. The guy across the aisle is watching National Lampoon’s Vacation. I squint a little and I can see that the main characters just arrived at an amusement park.
I think back to my childhood summers at amusement parks. My friends and I would wait in line, sometimes for hours, for the opportunity to be buckled into giant metal monsters that would whip us around until we screamed. I remember the sudden plunge, my stomach floating as if it was trying desperately to keep me in the air, the ground rushing to slam into us, the last minute swerves that stopped us from becoming human pancakes.
The plane lurches and my stomach flips. The captain’s tinny voice cuts through the deep rumbling. “Ladies and gentlemen, please fasten your seatbelts and stow your tray tables.” I follow the instructions and put away my laptop. I feel a little nauseous anyway.
I close my eyes and think about what I’ll do when I land. I’ll grab a car to the hotel, freshen up, then meet the investors. I’ve been pitching them for months and we’re finally having an in-person meeting. It’s also the last meeting before they tell me if they’ll write me a check. At the hotel, I’ll give myself a pep talk and look myself in the mirror, shoulders back. Close the deal. Get the money. Save the business built on years of my and my family’s sacrifices.
The plane lurches. I feel my heart pounding, my pulse racing.
“Hold hands?” The passenger next to me is Alexa, a kid dressed in a Totoro onesie, shoes kicked off and legs swinging, a lollipop sticking out of her mouth. On her way to see her dad, she told me when I sat down. 8 years old, the same age as my daughter.
I muster a smile. “Sure.” I fold her little hand into mine and she goes back to playing Fruit Ninja on her iPad. Clearly, she’s a lefty.
The plane lurches. I immediately lift my head and clock the exit rows. The other passengers are removing their headsets now and looking around wide-eyed, their movie screens frozen and forgotten. I feel a nervous energy in the stiff, stale air of the cabin.
The plane lurches. I hear sharp clattering from the kitchen behind us. My stomach is in my chest and I’m sweating. I clench my hands and squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t bring myself to look at Alexa. I’m reminded of my daughter. I missed her school recital yesterday. I wasn’t there when she scored her first goal in soccer. I didn’t know her art was being featured at the library. When I get back from this trip, I’ll apologize, take my family on a nice vacation, and make it up to them. I’ll tell them I love them.
The plane lurches, and lurches, and lurches. My stomach is floating in my throat and I can’t breathe. I feel Alexa squeeze her hand tightly around mine. My eyes are wet.
Preamble
Model: Bear Story by Sage Marsters
Narrator: First person, present tense
Mood: Uneasy, fear | Tone: Descriptive, anxious, reflective
Posts in this series
Butterflies
Sweet Everythings
The Magic Notebook
chrononaut
Closing Time
Both of us holding our breath