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When I return to the kitchen, I find James sitting with both hands gripping his drink. Denny’s phone has a blackened screen and rests unused.
“Done already?” I ask, wanting to break into his thoughts.
James releases the cup and puts both hands on his pant legs, repeatedly rubbing the fabric. He bows his head.
“Anything wrong? Anything I can do?” I don’t want to hear his answer yet and consider mentioning my job since he had shown interest in it and my camera. But at the same time, I want to learn everything about the plane crash. Don’t you?
Before I can speak, he whispers wistfully, “Eddie.”
“I see. Is he your friend, brother, dad?” I want to know but feel I’m as intrusive as the television crew outside. Do you think it could be about his parents divorcing?
“The guy next to me.”
“Oh.” That could change the dynamics. Did he know this person or not? Does this relate to the plane crash?
Do you think I should ask more? Am I being too nosy?
Trying not to pry, I stutter to get the words out, “O-on the plane?”
James rubs his eyes as I sit down on the stool next to him. I want to put my hand on his shoulder, to comfort him, but I can’t do it; I don’t know this kid. I want to ask but don’t know what to say. I want to know who this person is or was to James. I wait for him to speak again.
Daddy taught me that—whoever is silent the longest in a discussion usually gets what he or she wants from the other person by letting him speak first, even if there’s a long lapse. Unfortunately, I rarely use the technique; it’s quite hard for me to keep my mouth shut for any period (unless, of course, it involves an argument with my husband, then I can be as tight-lipped as Denny is. I’m on to him). But at this second, it’s the only idea that comes to mind. Have you ever tried it?
I wait, arduously attempting not to be a journalist for once in my life. Wanting to be a friend or confidant—something I’m not comfortable doing, ever. I feel out of my element, allowing this kid to think that he controls the conversation.
Finally, after what seems like three days of dead air, James looks at me. His eyes are bloodshot. Has he been crying?
“He was in the seat next to me, next to the window. A guy who I’d just met.”
I presume this Eddie was in the crash; maybe the poor kid saw him die. That would be enough to cave me. His distress makes sense. I bet even you’d be more up a creek without a paddle than this boy, wouldn’t you?
I keep silent, consciously clenching my molars.
“We’re talking about the Lakers and other basketball teams, you know, guy stuff. Who he liked and didn’t like, teams we hope go to the finals. He was cool; he offered to give me tickets to next Friday’s game since he can’t use his season passes.” He twiddles his thumbs in his lap.
“Is he your age?” I ask, contributing minimally.
“Older, lots older, guessing twenties. Dunno.”
“Hmm. Go on.”
James starts to bounce his left knee up and down nervously. I can feel it slightly vibrate through the floor.
“Since we were getting ready to land, he gave me a pen to write down my email address on one of those napkins the flight attendants give you. Saying he would send me the tickets later. I was right next to him. And, and . . .”
Here I imagine it’s at this point that the plane started to fall from the sky; it’s tilted, and everyone was holding on for dear life, or perhaps there was an onboard fire.
“I handed the napkin to him. He took it and was starting to put it and a candy bar into the pocket of the back of the seat in front of him, where he kept his wallet.”
“Uh-huh.” It’s like pulling teeth to get this kid to spit out what he wants to say. What did Daddy tell me? Oh, yeah, say only “really, uh-huh, and oh” if you want someone to keep talking. Don’t voice your opinion. I’d never believed in such a theory, but I try it.
“Oh?” I add.
“Have you ever watched any of the Star Trek movies?” That was unexpected. I wonder if the kid hit his head on something and lost his marbles when the plane crashed. “You know, the movies with Captain Kirk and Spock?”
“Uh-huh.” There is an allowed pause, but I must add my two cents worth, “Of course, my husband is a Trekkie fan.” There’s a hint of pride in my tone while I ignore my thoughts of the boy being delusional by going totally off-topic. I don’t care for the iconic genre or its silliness and lack of logic, but I know of the television series and all the movies, along with their characters and plots, since Denny drags me to the theater every time a new flick releases.
“You know about the transporter and how it can instantly take one person from one place to another?”
“Yup, like ‘Beam me up, Scottie’ and Kirk hits that communicator on his chest to go back to the spacecraft—a strange concept, but it’d be neat to have one instead of taking a car or plane to get somewhere. Denny could use it for his sales calls.” Do you have any idea why we’re talking about this? “Think how much time he’d save not being in Valley traffic.”
I’m not following my father’s advice of being quiet, am I? I’m taking over the conversation again. I know you’re thinking, shut up, Sar, and let him talk.
“Okay, picture that.” He stops to take a big gulp of his drink.
I squint my eyes, trying to connect the dots, but I don’t get it. How does a transformer correlate to an airplane crash? Would you happen to know?
“Let me backtrack.” He rubs his forehead as though massaging the vision will clear in his memory.
Goodness, get on with the story, kid! What happens next? This is insane. Are you getting as flustered as I am?
Is he worried I will make fun of him or mock him?
“Eddie had a cast on his left arm because he cracked a bone snowboarding and was looking forward to getting it off next week. He was putting a candy bar and the napkin I wrote on in the seat pocket, but somehow the edge of his cast got stuck in the webbing, so he makes some comment about how nothing is easy. I look over at the guy, and he’s laughing. And then, like in a second, he vanishes right while I’m staring at him.” He mutters the words. They’re full of fear and uncertainty.
“Really?” is all I can reply, thinking of what John had told me about the dead man who disappeared when he was touching him.
“But it wasn’t like the transporter in Star Trek.” James’s right knee is banging up and down now. “There was no swirling of brightly colored molecules into a circle that disappears into nothing—no, nothing like that. He left his clothes. There, right there, on his seat. Even the cast on his arm bounced off the seat backing and may have rolled behind us!”
“No!” I cover my mouth with my hand in unbelief.
“And his sunglasses on top of his head, well, they fell on top of his clothes. I mean, I was looking at the candy bar, which I watched fall to the floor, but I could see him, too. His face, hands, and body, all of it disappeared—just gone. Poof. Nothing was left of him, of his body. It didn’t disintegrate or fade away. He went away in an instant. I was so freaked out; I even dropped the pen that I was holding.”
The analytical side of me takes the realistic approach. “James, don’t take this the wrong way, but maybe you suffered head trauma. Did you hit your head on anything right before he supposedly disappeared? Or are you on any medications or drugs that could have made you think you saw this?” I tap my fingers nervously on the counter, hoping he’s not a psycho who forgot to take his pills on time and is ready to attack me in my house and leave me for dead. “Or you thought you saw this; maybe you were under too much stress.”
The teen unlocks his hands and slams a fist on the granite, causing little tremors in his drinking container. “No!” He leaps to his feet. “This happened before the crash, right when there was a loud noise throughout the plane. And I don’t do drugs, and I’m not on anything. You weren’t there, but I saw it. I saw Eddie disappear!”
Scared he’ll react more violently with further questioning, I immediately respond, “Okay, no problem, just a thought.” I change the subject, “Want another La Croix?” I stand up, ready to flee if the situation goes south.
He runs his hands through his hair. “You don’t believe me, do you? No one will. I must be crazy. Mom will send me back to her weird analyst, therapist, or whatever they call them. I know it. This’ll make me even more screwed up.” He plops back down on the chair and rubs both red eyes again. “Fine, don’t believe me, but I know what I saw.”
I’m thinking the same thing as you are. This kid needs help. He’s in shock.
“I should’ve asked Eddie more questions.”
What’s he talking about now?
As I sit back down, the kid looks at me, calm and collected. Just like that, he switches to a different personality. How can he flip-flop from being so out of whack to being under total control? I thought I had the conversation-domination issue down to a science, but this boy is good, especially for his age. All the more reason to like him.
He slowly turns his cup in a half-circle on its coaster. “Eddie was telling me things earlier on the flight, and I have no clue what they mean. He asked me if I believed in God, and I told him there’s never been any discussion about any kind of religion in our house, even after my parents divorced. As a matter of fact, I’ve never been to a talk or sermon or whatever you call them unless you consider weddings or funerals. There’s nothing of that, never has been. All my parents ever did was fight and yell. Eddie was saying how I can know God and have peace and that kinda stuff. I’m a lost soul, he said. I don’t know what he was talking about, but he sounded so sure of himself, so, um, happy—or what’s that word? Contented. Yeah, he said he was content. He told me I should read the Bible, said everything’s in there.”
Irritated by the mention of the topic, I interrupt, “Stop, please, James. Stop. I’ve heard all about religion, and don’t you believe any of it; it’s hogwash. You need to forget about what Eddie told you. I know about God and Jesus and the Bible, and it’s all a farce. It’s all untrue; please don’t believe it. Please, let’s talk about something else.”
I think I’ve had enough. Have you yet? No religion, remember.
Ladies and gentlemen, what’s with this theme today of all days?
I pointedly change the subject again, reverting to my journalist role. “Do you know what happened to the plane? Did you hear a thump or see an engine blow?” I recall not seeing any flames when the plane whizzed by the townhouse’s windows.
“No, no thud or bump. Flying along, and a sudden dip downward, then a turn on its side, and a crash. It happened so fast.” He reports the words mechanically, apparently still super-glued to Eddie’s religious conversation. “Never heard so many people scream. It was awful.” He closes his eyes for a long time, perhaps reliving the memory. Or maybe trying to purge it.
“Did the pilot or crew tell you what had happened?”
“No, no time to. First, a weird noise and Eddie disappearing, and next some lady comes on the overhead speaker screaming something real fast like, ‘We need a pilot! Emergency! Brace yourselves!’ By then, the plane had rolled on its side. Everything was falling all around us inside the plane. I got hit in the back of my head by something soft, like a purse or carry-on bag. It wasn’t someone’s laptop or tablet. I remember after it that my shoulder hit the seat in front of me, and I slumped downward.”
“Are you bleeding? Where were you hit in the head? Want me to check?” The thought of looking for blood in his hair makes me queasy, but I offer to do so out of worry.
“No, I checked in the mirror in the bathroom and couldn’t find any blood; only a bump right here.” He points to the back of his head, shrugs, and then takes a drink of his La Croix.
Silence falls between us.
While staring at his tumbler, I formulate more questions in my head. I speculate what the pilot was doing, where he was, and why he didn’t have control of the plane. Did something happen to him? Why else would the flight attendant ask if there was a pilot on board? Could this be terrorism? After 9/11, you never know. Why was there neither fire nor smoke? Do you think this boy may have a concussion since he admits to being clunked in the head? There are so many unresolved answers.
Mesmerized by his story, I’m dying to know how the event happened, especially since I also heard an unusual sound. Maybe it came from the plane, but John had mentioned it, also. How weird that we all heard it—including you—and at the same time!
I organize my thoughts to figure out which angle to take in writing the article on the plane crash. Should it be from the perspective of the only person to survive the crash, this polite, poised fifteen-year-old or the confused, hit-in-the-head teenager who says he saw a guy disappear before his eyes right before the plane did its deathly nosedive? Was there a pilot flying the plane? Are you as confused as I am?
James brings me back to the present, continuing with stubbornness. “But I’ll never, ever, ever forget what happened to Eddie, and I promise, I’m gonna read that Bible from start to finish and find out what he was talking about. He knew something; I know he did.”
Thankfully, our doorbell rings, rescuing me from having to yank him out of his Biblical trance.