the ridge by the oblong window. Some airport workers in orange vests and jumpsuits drive food trucks and scurry around. I wonder what they look like beneath their surfaces, what sort of lives they lead, if they have swirling circles in them as well.
Once everyone boards, the flight attendant checks that the cabin is ready for departure. She demonstrates how to buckle a seat belt (I can’t believe people don’t know how to do that), shows how our seat cushions are floatation devices, and explains how to use the oxygen masks if there is a sudden drop in cabin pressure. As she talks, Astley grows paler and paler. We taxi down the runway and he just keeps swallowing way more than a normal person would.
“Are you okay?”
“I am afraid of flying,” he admits, fidgeting in his seat. He keeps crossing and uncrossing his legs like a little antsy kid.
“Um, you do know you fly all the time.”
“But that is without the airplane.”
“Oh, flying on a plane is a totally normal fear. That’s called aerophobia, aviatophobia, aviophobia, or pteromechanophobia.”
He laughs. “What is one supposed to do when faced with aerophobia, aviatophobia, aviophobia, or pteromechanophobia?”
“Do not mock my excessive knowledge of phobias,” I kid and punch him in the arm. “I always think it’s good to name your fear, face it head-on, and you’re doing that. I mean, you’re in a plane—that’s facing your fear.”
His lips press together. I can literally see the tension running off him, like blasts of orange swirls. After a moment he says, “That does not make me feel better.”
“Give me your hand,” I say as we start taxiing, building up speed. He doesn’t ask why. He just gives it to me. It’s large and sweaty and clammy. I slide my fingers between his, clamp my other hand over it, and squeeze tightly. “Sometimes, when you are scared, it just helps knowing that someone else is here.”
The plane tilts upward as the nose pokes toward the sky and the front wheels leave the ground.
“You are right,” he says, his voice deep and serious. “It does.”
It isn’t until we’re safely cruising at the highest altitude that he stops shaking. I pretend like I haven’t noticed a thing and resist the urge to wipe the sweat off my hands when he finally lets go.
Once the flight attendant has poured us both some cranapple juice and given us our packets of cookies, Astley clears his throat and starts to tell me the story. I know right away that it’s the story he mentioned at the airport because his already formal voice gets even more regulated, more regal somehow.
“When I was twelve years of age, my father died. Someday, perhaps, you will tell me how your father died, if you like,” he begins. I guess until he says it like this I’ve never realized that we both have fathers who died. “But for now I will tell you my story.”
They’d taken a cruise ship, the
Queen Mary 2
, across the Atlantic to Spain, which seems romantic to me. Astley had been excited about the trip, about being able to hang out with his father for a while, without his mother.
“She was not …” He stumbles to find the right words, which is something he rarely does. “She was not like she is now. She loved my father deeply. She loved him more than anything else, more than clocks or jewels or me or herself.”
The trip had gone well. Neither became seasick. Nobody got on anyone’s nerves. Then they arrived in Spain and made their way overland to Madrid.
“We were in a train station. It was incredibly crowded. The earth seemed to shake. I was excited because I thought that was just the train coming closer. However, it was much more than that. My father cursed and took me by the arm, just above the elbow.” He touched his elbow as if remembering. His voice grew softer. “When I looked at him I realized that something was horribly wrong.
“The rumbling grew louder and it brought the smell of fire, burning bodies.
“Only a few
Once everyone boards, the flight attendant checks that the cabin is ready for departure. She demonstrates how to buckle a seat belt (I can’t believe people don’t know how to do that), shows how our seat cushions are floatation devices, and explains how to use the oxygen masks if there is a sudden drop in cabin pressure. As she talks, Astley grows paler and paler. We taxi down the runway and he just keeps swallowing way more than a normal person would.
“Are you okay?”
“I am afraid of flying,” he admits, fidgeting in his seat. He keeps crossing and uncrossing his legs like a little antsy kid.
“Um, you do know you fly all the time.”
“But that is without the airplane.”
“Oh, flying on a plane is a totally normal fear. That’s called aerophobia, aviatophobia, aviophobia, or pteromechanophobia.”
He laughs. “What is one supposed to do when faced with aerophobia, aviatophobia, aviophobia, or pteromechanophobia?”
“Do not mock my excessive knowledge of phobias,” I kid and punch him in the arm. “I always think it’s good to name your fear, face it head-on, and you’re doing that. I mean, you’re in a plane—that’s facing your fear.”
His lips press together. I can literally see the tension running off him, like blasts of orange swirls. After a moment he says, “That does not make me feel better.”
“Give me your hand,” I say as we start taxiing, building up speed. He doesn’t ask why. He just gives it to me. It’s large and sweaty and clammy. I slide my fingers between his, clamp my other hand over it, and squeeze tightly. “Sometimes, when you are scared, it just helps knowing that someone else is here.”
The plane tilts upward as the nose pokes toward the sky and the front wheels leave the ground.
“You are right,” he says, his voice deep and serious. “It does.”
It isn’t until we’re safely cruising at the highest altitude that he stops shaking. I pretend like I haven’t noticed a thing and resist the urge to wipe the sweat off my hands when he finally lets go.
Once the flight attendant has poured us both some cranapple juice and given us our packets of cookies, Astley clears his throat and starts to tell me the story. I know right away that it’s the story he mentioned at the airport because his already formal voice gets even more regulated, more regal somehow.
“When I was twelve years of age, my father died. Someday, perhaps, you will tell me how your father died, if you like,” he begins. I guess until he says it like this I’ve never realized that we both have fathers who died. “But for now I will tell you my story.”
They’d taken a cruise ship, the
Queen Mary 2
, across the Atlantic to Spain, which seems romantic to me. Astley had been excited about the trip, about being able to hang out with his father for a while, without his mother.
“She was not …” He stumbles to find the right words, which is something he rarely does. “She was not like she is now. She loved my father deeply. She loved him more than anything else, more than clocks or jewels or me or herself.”
The trip had gone well. Neither became seasick. Nobody got on anyone’s nerves. Then they arrived in Spain and made their way overland to Madrid.
“We were in a train station. It was incredibly crowded. The earth seemed to shake. I was excited because I thought that was just the train coming closer. However, it was much more than that. My father cursed and took me by the arm, just above the elbow.” He touched his elbow as if remembering. His voice grew softer. “When I looked at him I realized that something was horribly wrong.
“The rumbling grew louder and it brought the smell of fire, burning bodies.
“Only a few
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