Read Online Permanence by Vincent Zandri - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Vincent Zandri
Tags: Literary, Suspense, Romance, Literature & Fiction, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Contemporary Fiction, romantic suspense, Literary Fiction, Mystery & Suspense
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the plane increases its angle of descent. Here’s what I do to prepare for Emergency “Crash” landing: I let go of doctor’s hand. I return my seat to its upright position. I sit up straight. I smooth the creases in my clothing. I smooth the creases in my life preserver. Flight attendants scurry about the isles, checking and testing the security of the passengers’ seatbelts. The flight attendants no longer have the look of cool confidence. They now have the same horrified expression I must be wearing.
Thank God for the absence of mirrors.
There is nothing outside but brown, arid land. Clumps of buildings and scattered farmlands separated by the black, snaking outline of roads; sometimes pools of water that glisten like tinfoil in the sun.
I feel my stomach turn inside out.
I place the seat cushion into my abdomen and, along with doctor, lean forward and place my head between my knees. I can see my feet. Quite suddenly, I sense a sharp drop in altitude. Then a quick rise. I say nothing, make no reaction at all. I do not look up. Neither does doctor. I look at my feet. My head is groggy from the Valium and scotch. My head buzzes. My mouth is dry. My stomach is tied in double knots from nerves and the presence of doctor’s baby.
I do not pray.
There is a small cry for “help” coming from the front of coach class. This is the old woman with the inflated life preserver.
“Thank God for life preservers,” shouts the drunken man from four rows ahead. “We can swim in the dirt.”
What happens next happens quickly.
There is the sound of the remaining engines screaming and the quick jolt of the plane as it touches down on the solid runway. My forehead bounces into the soft underside of the seat in front of me. I hold my head tightly between my knees, stare onto the floor and my feet. I am isolated, alone. But in my mind I picture the smiling faces of baby and Jamie. They are my comfort in the very face of death. I feel the braking of this plane thrusting me forward, the seat cushion compressed into my abdomen. We speed along the runway, the air rushing through the engines and the break flaps.
Abruptly, we begin to slow down.
We come to a dead stop.
There is an eerie silence coming from the cabin, as though we have crashed and I am the sole survivor.
But we haven’t crashed.
I reach my hand out to doctor. He takes my hand into his. Thank God, I think. Thank God doctor is alive too. Suddenly, I am praying.
A solid round of applause erupts from the passengers.
There is a call for everyone to remain in their seats.
I raise my head. In the narrow distance of this jet plane, I recognize the sound of people crying happy tears.
“Tears for fears,” says doctor, as he raises his head from crash position.
“Truly,” I say.
But then I lower my head again back into crash-landing position. I keep it down, stuffed into my seat cushion, the cushion pressed into my stomach. I do not cry as the Emergency Exit doors are thrown open by the flight attendants. I do not shout for joy. I live. That’s all.
Once on the solid ground
“Welcome to Italy,” says doctor.
Is he joking?
Together, we are clinging to the floor-to-ceiling stainless steel railings inside the bus that transports us from an isolated airstrip to the airport terminal. The old woman from the front of coach class has been transported not by bus, but by ambulance. Her body was prone, laid out on a stretcher with wheels, a transparent oxygen mask attached to her face. Once on the solid ground, the drunken man from four rows up went to his knees and kissed the tarmac. He took a separate bus to the terminal. I suppose I’ll never see him again, for as long as I live.
We ride these buses in silence.
Not a mention of the disaster that, only moments before, we narrowly avoided. As if nothing happened. Maybe risking our lives had all been a bad dream.
For your fear
“The best thing for your fear,” says doctor inside the busy airport terminal in
Thank God for the absence of mirrors.
There is nothing outside but brown, arid land. Clumps of buildings and scattered farmlands separated by the black, snaking outline of roads; sometimes pools of water that glisten like tinfoil in the sun.
I feel my stomach turn inside out.
I place the seat cushion into my abdomen and, along with doctor, lean forward and place my head between my knees. I can see my feet. Quite suddenly, I sense a sharp drop in altitude. Then a quick rise. I say nothing, make no reaction at all. I do not look up. Neither does doctor. I look at my feet. My head is groggy from the Valium and scotch. My head buzzes. My mouth is dry. My stomach is tied in double knots from nerves and the presence of doctor’s baby.
I do not pray.
There is a small cry for “help” coming from the front of coach class. This is the old woman with the inflated life preserver.
“Thank God for life preservers,” shouts the drunken man from four rows ahead. “We can swim in the dirt.”
What happens next happens quickly.
There is the sound of the remaining engines screaming and the quick jolt of the plane as it touches down on the solid runway. My forehead bounces into the soft underside of the seat in front of me. I hold my head tightly between my knees, stare onto the floor and my feet. I am isolated, alone. But in my mind I picture the smiling faces of baby and Jamie. They are my comfort in the very face of death. I feel the braking of this plane thrusting me forward, the seat cushion compressed into my abdomen. We speed along the runway, the air rushing through the engines and the break flaps.
Abruptly, we begin to slow down.
We come to a dead stop.
There is an eerie silence coming from the cabin, as though we have crashed and I am the sole survivor.
But we haven’t crashed.
I reach my hand out to doctor. He takes my hand into his. Thank God, I think. Thank God doctor is alive too. Suddenly, I am praying.
A solid round of applause erupts from the passengers.
There is a call for everyone to remain in their seats.
I raise my head. In the narrow distance of this jet plane, I recognize the sound of people crying happy tears.
“Tears for fears,” says doctor, as he raises his head from crash position.
“Truly,” I say.
But then I lower my head again back into crash-landing position. I keep it down, stuffed into my seat cushion, the cushion pressed into my stomach. I do not cry as the Emergency Exit doors are thrown open by the flight attendants. I do not shout for joy. I live. That’s all.
Once on the solid ground
“Welcome to Italy,” says doctor.
Is he joking?
Together, we are clinging to the floor-to-ceiling stainless steel railings inside the bus that transports us from an isolated airstrip to the airport terminal. The old woman from the front of coach class has been transported not by bus, but by ambulance. Her body was prone, laid out on a stretcher with wheels, a transparent oxygen mask attached to her face. Once on the solid ground, the drunken man from four rows up went to his knees and kissed the tarmac. He took a separate bus to the terminal. I suppose I’ll never see him again, for as long as I live.
We ride these buses in silence.
Not a mention of the disaster that, only moments before, we narrowly avoided. As if nothing happened. Maybe risking our lives had all been a bad dream.
For your fear
“The best thing for your fear,” says doctor inside the busy airport terminal in
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