I
MAMA TOLD ME every night when she tucked me in, There are some things you carry with you everywhere you go.
I never talk about it. I keep us safe.
Someday, I will ask her. When I turn thirty, she will be sixty. It will be okay to ask then.
II
“Put your clothes on over your pajamas,” Mama whispered, shaking my arm. “Pack a suitcase and be quiet.”
“What are we packing for?” I squinted at the light.
“Bring only what you can grab in a hurry.”
I’d heard those words before and was already pulling my blue Samsonite train case out of the closet. You got to have a suitcase you can depend on. I handed Blanche her pink one. Always take what you can’t replace, plus a pair of fresh panties. I grabbed those first. My birthday card from my father was by my bed—Sorry to miss number ten. I’ll always love you, Daddy. I stuck that in. Under my blanket I found my Nancy Drew book, which my grandfather had written in. Lilli and I are so proud of you! Happy Birthday, April. Love, Paw Paw. I added that, then my white pad, my two pencils with my name on them, and the little metal globe pencil sharpener. My Caroline Kennedy doll in her pink flowered playsuit. After that, I just stuffed until the case was full.
“You better hurry,” I told Blanche, clicking my case shut. “Mama’ll leave you.”
In the kitchen, I put the case on the floor and pushed with my hands, making a noise like a train on its track. Mama was coming in from the carport, and she frowned, shushing me. I glanced at the darkness under my grandparents’ closed door. Then I stood up and watched as Mama washed her hands like she always did, counting to sixty, her lips moving just slightly.
She began to fill three brown paper lunch bags lined up in a row on the counter. “Napkin, two, three. Salt, two, three. Pepper, two, three.” Three squares of wax paper on the counter and three pieces of Sunbeam bread following right behind. She lifted a fried egg from the skillet and said, without looking at me, “I just love car food.”
I picked up my case by the handle and clasped it close to my chest. At the screen door, I put it down again. I looked back at Mama, her long brown hair twisted into a knot on her neck. She looked so happy, standing at the stove making our sack breakfasts. Car food meant we were going somewhere, and Mama loved going.
I board the plane wearing the watch Mama sent for my thirtieth birthday. In the cockpit, the pilots are laughing, and I wonder if they should be. Flying, like driving, is dangerous. Mama says the first minute after the plane takes off is the most dangerous. If you make it through those sixty seconds, you can relax—your chances of surviving are good. The watch Mama sent has a second hand, so I will know when the danger is over.
I find my middle seat and sit. I’m hungry. Blanche is always telling me it’s not like you’re going to die of hunger. I must have said that about being hungry out loud. The next thing I know, a man behind me is handing me a pack of peanut butter crackers.
Mama says it’s okay to depend on a Chrysler but not on a man.
I say to myself, I wasn’t depending on him. I didn’t even know he was there.
As I unwrap the little package in my lap and inhale the salty sweet smell of peanut butter, the woman next to me says, “Remember airplane food? That cute little saltshaker. I used to love to peel the tiny white label off.” She’s in her sixties, I guess, with gray hair twisted into a bun on her neck, bright red roughly outlining her lips. “Everything you needed was on your tray,” she says. “Remember?”
I will ask Mama face to face. I will have to fly, which I don’t do often. I will buy new suitcases, a matching set. A family of three.
III
In the carport, I put both hands on the passenger door of Mama’s baby-blue Chrysler DeSoto and pulled its shiny silver handle. I lifted my train case and put it in the car. When I got back to the kitchen, the tops of the breakfast bags were rolled down, the grease already showing through. I took a sack and went back to the car and got in, shutting the door. That was another thing I learned from Mama. Always be ready.
There go the front wheels. Exactly eleven-fifteen. I look out the window, and that fast, the back wheels lift off. We’re flying.
In my mind the third second is the critical one. That’s where I’m looking for the thrust. The nod from the captain that he’s seriously committed. No second thoughts. And there it is. I can feel the plane move up and away from the ground. I check my seatbelt and, with one squeeze, crumple the wrapper from the crackers tight into a fist, and I hold it. I can hold it for as long as it takes.
Ten seconds. The sound of the landing gear retracting. Which doesn’t make any sense. Can they not leave it down just in case? Until we pass to the other side of the danger zone? Until they’re sure everything is going to work? But it’s like the pilots are playing truth or dare. I dare you to pull up the landing gear the second the last wheel is off the ground. Or the other game: John, I can retract that landing gear before the last wheel is off the ground. Okay, Richard. Retract that gear.
The man next to me has closed his eyes. He was reading, but now his book is face down on his legs. Maybe he’s tired. Or maybe he’s going with the movement. Making himself limp against the thrust, making it easier for the captain to get us off the ground. As opposed to the woman across the aisle, who continues to work as we gain altitude. Making it more difficult, making herself heavier by hunkering down, pretending as if nothing has changed, as if she’s oblivious to the fact that we’re no longer on firm ground.
If Mama actually killed someone that dark morning, it will be okay to know. We will talk about it. She will feel better. I will feel better. Then I will call the police. Blanche and I will be okay.
IV
Mama came out the door carrying two breakfasts, Blanche’s train case, and Blanche, back asleep, her long red hair falling into the night. When Mama got in the front seat, I looked at her for some sign she was proud of me. “I took care of my business, didn’t I?” I said. She just put the key in the ignition. And then nothing happened. She pumped her foot on the pedal and tried again. Coughing, the car came to life. As she backed down the driveway, the car made a screeching sound, which didn’t seem to bother her. I asked why the red light was on, and she said, “Never you mind.”
Twenty seconds. I lean my head back on the seat and close my eyes, doing my part. Then I remember. What if this is my last minute? I should be thinking about peace and love and wishing well to Mama and Blanche.
Now the plane is screeching as if something isn’t working quite right. I look around to see if anyone else is concerned. The man next to me still has his eyes closed. Boy, he’s good. The woman across the way continues to work. But the man next to her is looking around too. He sees me watching him and looks away. Now he’s going to pretend he isn’t worried at all.
Thirty seconds. I take a deep breath and try to relax. Then I remember. It’s not time to relax yet.
Oh, God, we’re turning. Now a different sound—a higher, whinnying kind of sound. I hate it when they turn the airplane in this critical period. Can we not just go in a straight line, the path of least resistance, until we’ve been up here a whole minute? Then we can move to the fancy stuff. And this is one of those long, severe turns, almost as if we had to take off this way because of the wind or something, but really we want to go in entirely the opposite direction. I see nothing but ground out our window, nothing but sky out the window across the aisle. I check the worrier. Yep, he’s looking around, and watching me.
Forty-five seconds. We’re nearing that one-minute mark, straightening out now. I try to imagine that an airplane makes inconsequential sounds just as a car sometimes does, but really there are no inconsequential sounds. And besides, an airplane falling out of the sky will never be the same as a car breaking down. I try not to see the engine light flashing red.
After I ask Mama, my life will change. I’ll feel lighter, free.
V
In the street, Mama paused. She looked at me finally, and I returned her look steady. We were doing that grown-up thing, exchanging a look, Mama called it. Which was even better than her being proud of me. It put me on her side of things.
We set off, the looming trees making it seem darker than it was.
“Mama, lights,” I said.
Thump. Thump. The car climbed something soft like my mama when I wrapped my arms around her. Then it slid and thudded back to earth.
“Lord have mercy,” she said, turning on the lights.
I got on my knees to look back, the ridges of the seat digging in, but I felt her hand on my arm, and when I looked at her, she was looking at me, steady, and I slid back down in my seat.
The thing about being a passenger is you have to count on someone else. Relinquish control. And that’s hard enough with someone you know, let alone a complete stranger. Having no say-so about when to turn, for example. Or when to turn on the lights.
My body feels plastered against the seat as the plane goes higher. The woman in front of me puts her seat back, ramming it into my knees. Fifty seconds and she decides on her own that it’s okay to recline. I expect the stewardess to come by and tell her, seats in the upright position, please, miss, until the captain gives the okay. But no footsteps down the aisle. I wait a few more seconds, and then I recline my seat too. I imagine the man behind me waiting a few seconds and then reclining his. Like dominos. Hey, for all I know, it started up front the second we took off. A revolt. Not exactly a revolt, but a small we-can-be-in-control-of-something action.
We hit an air pocket and drop just enough to feel it—just a little turbulence, just a little thump. Then another. Thump. Thump.
I will fly home. After I land, I’ll stand at the baggage carousel, holding my new black carry-on by the handle, listening for the three loud beeps, watching for the flashing red lights. I will need to go to the bathroom, but I’ll wait. When the bags come, one by one people will pick theirs off the belt and leave. A dirty white suitcase with a brown strap like a giant rubber band will keep circling, but there will be no sign of my two black bags. The red light will go out. The belt will stop. An agent will arrive to remove the dirty bag.
“You still waiting for a suitcase?” he will ask.
“Two,” I’ll say.
“You have to file a claim,” he will say and point toward a glass-fronted room marked Lost and Found. “So we can deliver them when they show up.”
I will thank him and fast-walk to the bathroom. At the sink, I’ll wash my hands, counting to sixty as I always do, glancing in the mirror to see my lips moving just slightly. Back at baggage claim, I will stare through the glass into the room full of bags piled on top of bags. I will imagine my two together wherever they are, and then, separate from me. My body will take in a breath of air, sharp like a hiccup. I will have to let it go, and I will turn away, knowing what I will miss most will be the worn flannel pajamas—mine blue, Blanche’s pink. I will keep going toward the exit, clasping my small black carry-on to my chest, and, with a pair of fresh panties if I need them, I will step lightly into the day.
Cynthia Newberry Martin is the author of three novels: The Art of Her Life (Fomite), Love Like This (Vine Leaves), and Tidal Flats (Turner), which won the gold medal in literary fiction at the 2020 Independent Publisher Book Awards.
