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Still cramping, I hit the blaring ceiling fan and light switches off and exit the bathroom again. I’m resolved to forget the last half hour. Not preggo, what a relief.
As I open the bathroom door, I yell, “Denny?”
Outside noises loudly compete with my scream.
Cries from a mother. That lady who was calling for her two girls must be frantic. The sound of her voice wailing is interminable. She must be right outside on the walkway by our patio gate. It sounds like she and a man are arguing. Something about her accusing him of taking her adorable kids. She laments that they were right there on the swings, and now there’s no trace of them. I can’t and don’t want to hear her shrieking. Can you hear her? Is it driving you crazy? The odious woman is relentless.
“Denny?” I holler upstairs once again, trying to outmatch her din. What a flake he is. Can’t he hear all these noises? Can you believe him sometimes? He’s pulled stunts like this before when we’ve argued. He ignores me or doesn’t speak to me for hours. Drives me crazy. It’s as if he’s not here. I’ve no problem getting your attention, but I can’t get his right now.
Mixing with the mother’s mournful wails is crying from the unit next to ours. Sounds like our next-door neighbor Adam’s voice crying, “No, Poppa, no. Not now. No.” Adam’s a middle-aged bachelor, and his dear ninety-year-old father lives with him. Such a nice old-timer who’s polite and kind. The first time I met him, he gave me a silver one-dollar coin, remarking he does it for everyone who crosses his path. Rambled something about “render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.”
Occasionally, the son intermingles foul language with his rant, repeating the words “no” and “Poppa.” Why would Adam use profanity around his father? He’s never sworn like that before when we hear any loud conversations between the thinly plastered walls.
Car alarms are going off. I run to the living room bay window, stand on my tiptoes, and gaze over my flowers to the far right where there’s a partial view of a common parking lot that can be seen between our patio’s fence and the walkway to our front door. I notice the Alexa unit has an orange glow, meaning there’s a notification.
“Alexa, what’s my notification?” I hope she answers me this time.
“I’m sorry, but we’re having technical difficulties.”
Enough already with these worthless electronics!
After yanking the cordless device off its stand, I hurl it against the fireplace. It bounces off the brick tiles and cracks, its pieces clattering on the hearth.
I go back to looking outside; about a half dozen residents are standing next to three cars in the parking lot. Looks like a simple car accident. A white Toyota Prius has crashed into a beat-up green Volvo station wagon, yet there’s a look of bewilderment by those standing near a third vehicle. It looks like at least two insurance companies will be raising their drivers’ rates the second the claims get filed.
Past them at the far end of the lot is a solo black Dodge SUV with all-black tinted windows, blocking the entrance, presumably dead in its tracks. Nobody’s hanging around it. What’s the deal?
I hear emergency sirens, maybe police or fire trucks, in the distance. Sounds like several of them going in different directions. The multiple sirens remind me of Daddy telling me about the 1950s and 60s civil-alert drills where he had to crawl under his desk during school. Blindly obeying, he and other students thought hiding under a pathetic metal structure would save them from a nuclear blast. This isn’t anything like that or the ongoing terrorist bombing alerts or sniper lockdowns at schools or stores. Although I was a child, I remember our country being attacked; I can’t imagine experiencing 9/11 again, or any other bombing since then. I thought we’re safer nowadays; it’s overseas in those funky Middle Eastern countries where there are continual conflicts. Often, it’s Israel, not us, that has been the problem. Yes, the world has changed drastically in the last twenty-plus years, with viruses, skyrocketing inflation, empty store shelves, train derailments, port closures, and supply-chain disruptions, but we’re still here and functioning.
My, what happened when I was in the bathroom for mere minutes?
What’s your take on this? Are you as bemused as I am?
I scan the grassy parkway area next to the parking lot and focus, observing the view with a journalistic eye. An unattended lawnmower is stopped at the end of a straight line of grass while a trail of clothing neatly rests behind it. Three teenagers in T-shirts and jeans stand ten feet away on a sidewalk, appearing to be in a conversation. The one I’ve seen before with tattoos inked on both his arms bounces a basketball, head down, not looking at the other two talking. Suddenly, a scantily dressed teenage girl with short shorts comes running up to the three, pulling on the basketball guy’s arm frantically. She must want him to go with her. Her body language conveys she’s distraught; she keeps pawing at him.
The front of our townhouse faces another two-story building with single-bedroom units. It has an exterior stairway, and I see white smoke pouring out of an upper unit. Two men with hand-held fire extinguishers stand on the stairs and top landing. One is wearing only boxer shorts while the other is in a gray suit with a blue tie. A teen in a T-shirt and jeans comes out of the smoky condo, coughing. He looks frightened as the two men grab him and help him down the stairs. He throws up in the ajuga ground cover next to the walkway. He remains bent over, hands firmly on both knees, possibly waiting for the next round of nausea.
What’s going on, and what’s next? It seems like the entire area around me is falling apart in seconds. Do you see this? What do you think?
“Denny!”
No response.
My anger toward that man is growing. Well, I can keep on playing his game if he’s still mad at me. Remember, I aim to win. Always. He needs to grow up, let me know what’s going on, and be the one to break the silence first, not me.
Remain calm and collected, Sarah. There’s a logical explanation for this weirdness.
Then I hear a motoring sound, sputtering and choking, getting louder and louder. It sounds like it’s coming from above the townhouse. I stretch my neck and look upward through the bay window, outside, between two of the buildings, above the unit that had been spewing out white smoke.
There—a plane, an extremely low-flying plane.
The aircraft looks like a Boeing 737, the mid-size type that holds over a hundred-and-fifty people. It has one engine under each wing and is veering off to the left of the housing units.
I have no time to look at the few bystanders or the barfer’s reactions. Their silhouettes are in my vision; they are stick figures, motionless in my mind. My eyes are concentrating on the plane. The plane passes the groups of cookie-cutter townhouses slowly, tipping on its side with one of the wings barely grazing the roof of the building across from us. That close!
The roar is horrendous; the windows are rattling.
I see no flames, no smoke. Only a plane almost sideways in the sky and way too close to the buildings.
Screeching engine noises fill my home. The floor is shaking below my feet.
I run to the kitchen to look out the window above the sink as the plane continues to bank left.
“Denny!” I helplessly yell over the constant noise and vibration.
A thunderous rumble fills the sky as the plane passes by my view. The aircraft tilts farther on its side; I’m guessing it’s thirty feet above the playground. The empty swings bow at the rush of wind and passing of the jet. No smoke. No fire.
The window shakes and rattles. I feel the floor tremble as I hold on to the counter and stretch myself toward the windowpane, trying not to knock over the vase that I had moved over on the sill.
My eyes don’t leave the scene as the plane passes, as if in slow motion.
It’s barely in my sight now, headed for the field on my far left. Toward the desolate football-field-sized terrain that caught fire about three years ago during the Santa Ana winds that burned down hundreds of nearby homes. Thankfully, the wind switched directions and spared our complex. Now the field has wild orange and yellow California poppies and overgrown weeds.
I press my cheek to the window glass, straining to watch the plane’s final descent.
Bam!
An astronomically loud thud occurs.
The sound is so shocking it startles me; the vase starts to tip into the sink from me elbowing it. I catch it in time, spilling water on my hands and into the still-dirty lasagna pan, yet all the vase’s flowers stay intact.
When the plane hits the ground with a tumultuous boom, only a part of its tail section can be seen from my window. At once, a bright red and yellow fireball shoots a couple of hundred feet upward into the cloudless blue sky. Black smoke billows out of the aircraft’s tail.
Without flinching, I grasp my smartphone from the island top, grab a towel with my wet hand, and hit the number “4” button with a cloth-covered finger. My work number.
I go back to the window to try to examine the carnage in the field.
Are you still here? Are you seeing this? Can you believe it?
“Valley News,” Carl states in a short and gruff voice that I recognize instantly, but that sounds highly tensed and strained. My boss. Why is he answering the phone when he has an entire staff at his disposal?
“Carl, Sarah here. Listen, I may have something hot. A plane grazed past my kitchen window and crashed in a field by the complex. I’m unsure if hit the nearby church or not.” I say the words fast and succinctly, determined to state my case. “I have my gear, so I’m going to run over for photos. Can you leave space for a picture or video? High-priority Internet and print footage.”
He doesn’t seem to be listening to me. Here I practically have a plane fall out of the sky right on top of me and have the perfect opportunity for capturing “the Big Photo” that can go global, and he’s not excited.
As I speak on the phone, I quickly go to my photo bag by the front door and pick up my digital video camera. Denny got it for me three birthdays ago. One good thing about his job is he can get any consumer electronic gadget at or below wholesale cost. My beloved Nikon D4 Digital SLR camera has 16.2 megapixels and a CMOS sensor with FX-format and image processor. I know that means nothing to you, and you don’t give a hoot. There’s probably a camera that’s more up to date for professional applications with more doodads, but this camera rocks. It’s an excellent device, my prized possession. I check the zoom and make sure I’ve got enough space on the digital card for tons of award-winning photos; its worn leather strap wraps around my neck. This is going to get attention; I know it.
Watch me. Let me show you how Sarah works.
Intuitively other thoughts must be occupying Carl’s attention, but he interrupts me. “Things are freaking out everywhere,” he says, “and I’ve sent everyone out in the field. The world has gone upside-down. Major things are happening spontaneously, things I’ve never seen in my life. Strange things.
“Go, Sar. The entire flipped-out world is going whack. The world is a madhouse. Too much is going on at one time.”
I answer, confused. “Okay.” He tells me to be safe and that he has no promises, then ends the call.
Perturbed about his aloofness, I tuck my phone in the back pocket of my jeans. I pull on my neon yellow press vest complete with a clip-on credentials badge and swing my gear bag over my shoulder.
Well, I’ll show Carl. I’ll give him the best, incredible video of a plane crash he’s ever seen. This will make me well-known. Sarah Colton has arrived once again, and you’re with me to see it happen.
Holding onto the entry area’s table for balance, I slip my bare feet into the black clogs I ritualistically leave under the stand, and I’m ready to go, fully loaded. I scream once more up the stairs, “Denny!”
Where is that man, and how could he not have heard that plane crash? What a dolt.
Hmm. Maybe he left the house when I was in the bathroom with that silly pregnancy issue. Could be.
You didn’t see him go, did you?
By chance, did you hear him call out my name?
If he left, he could’ve at least knocked on the door and told me.
I notice that his keys and smartphone remain untouched on the entrance table. With a shaky hand, I pull out a pen from the side pocket of my gear bag and scribble a quick note on the back of an opened envelope from the Humane Society asking for a donation:
––––––––
D ~
Where R U? At plane 4 pics.
Luv,
~ S
––––––––
As I cover Denny’s cell phone with my note, I stop for a second and bitingly repeat what Amy blared out about her God tonight, “ . . . and He shall direct thy paths.” Right. Well, I’m directing my paths right over to that plane and taking pictures so I can be famous. I’m in control.
I open the front door and step out into a strange world of uncertainty.