September 2001
Sweat poured down my forehead. I gripped the armrests and squeezed my eyes shut, trying to remember the mantra I’d been trying out. Oh, right. Serenity now. Serenity now. Serenity now. Just because it was from Seinfeld didn’t mean it couldn’t work. In my imagination, my seat rocked and tilted, any moment prepared to plummet out from under me to certain death thirty thousand feet below.
Repeating the words in my head didn’t help, so I said, “Serenity now,” to see if hearing the chant did anything to lessen my utter dread. It didn’t.
“Excuse me?”
I cracked one eyelid. Beside me sat a woman, probably about ten years older than me. She sat so composed, so calm, she must do this all the time.
“Sorry, ma’am. I have a slight…ly paralyzing fear of flying.”
Her brow wrinkled, crackling the edges of her foundation and suggesting she’d actually lived a few more years than I originally guessed. “But we’re not even on the plane yet.”
I nodded. “Yup. I’m so afraid, panic starts in the waiting area. S-sorry.”
With effort, I sat up and undid my death grip on the armrests. At this hour, the terminal was slowly coming to life. Kiosks were opening, lights coming on at more and more gates, travelers starting to wander in, some bleary—eyed while others clutched coffee cups like a lifeline. The hush permeating the air when I arrived shortly before seven a.m., as if no one wanted to dispel the early morning magic by speaking, was mostly evaporated by now. In a few hours, it would be nearly impossible to connect that Logan with the bustling hub it turned into.
About a dozen people scattered around our gate. A group of businessmen huddled around their laptops in one corner. A family with a toddler sat against the far wall. One of the children howled, ignoring her father’s attempts at comfort. Poor kid. She must not want to fly, either. A few single travelers waited throughout the seating area. Hardly any, really. I wondered if the entire flight would be this empty. Maybe I’d get a row to myself and quake with terror in peace.
A stewardess stood behind the podium, talking quietly into the phone. I gazed at the wall, my eyes tracing the letters in United’s logo over and over, trying to control my breathing. Every time my gaze strayed to the plane outside the gate, my whole body tensed.
“It’ll be okay,” the woman beside me said. “But we’re boarding soon. You may want to head to the bathroom before takeoff, take some deep breaths, splash cold water on your face.”
“G—good idea.” I struggled not to give voice to my fears. “Thanks.”
A howl rose from the family in the corner as I walked away, slow so my legs wouldn’t shake. Poor kids. In the bright fluorescent lights of the men’s room, I looked even worse than I felt. Sweat stains soaked both sides of my shirt from the armpits down. Way to make a great first impression at my job interview.
An interview I didn’t want to go to, but my wife’s parents had arranged it. Jess loved the idea of trading Boston’s weather for the sun and fun of Los Angeles, but I hadn’t been sold on the idea yet. I hadn’t been sold on anything. It didn’t matter. My whole life, I did what people expected of me, whether I wanted to or not. Moving to the west coast was par for the course.
Pulling a bit of fabric from my pocket, I blotted my clammy hands before realizing what I clutched. The silk square my wife had given me the night before.
“I have a present for you,” she’d said with a grin, handing me a flat, squishy package with a bow on top. “A going away gift.”
“Jess, you didn’t have to get me anything,” I’d protested.
“I know,” she said. “I wanted to. I made it this afternoon.”
She’d made… what? I eyed her suspiciously. “I thought you stayed home from work because you were sick.”
She’d stuck her tongue out at me. “After lying on the couch all morning drinking tea, I felt well enough to sit up and move a needle and thread. A bit of bad shrimp doesn’t make me totally incapable of doing anything.”
Curious, I’d peeled the tape from the wrapping, leaving the bow where it was, and pulled out a large white rectangle. It looked vaguely familiar. I peered closely at the fabric, at the white whorls throughout. Up close, I recognized it.
“Is this from your wedding dress?”
“It is,” she said. “I knew you’d be nervous about your flight and the interview, so I made you a pocket square for your suit. I thought you’d like something to remind you of the happiest day of our lives.”
Sometimes, I loved her so much, emotion overwhelmed me. Tears had formed in my eyes. “Oh, Jess, you shouldn’t have destroyed your dress for me. You loved that dress.”
She’d shrugged. “It’s no big deal. Someday, we’ll cut it down to make a christening gown for our kids anyway, right? Besides, I took it from the lining. No one would ever know.”
I’d pulled her close, breathing in the scent of her, as if I created a physical imprint of her to carry with me. She put her arms around me, breathing deeply.
“I love you,” I’d said into her hair. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome.” Her voice cracked slightly. “I love you, too.”
Now I held the square over my face and inhaled deeply. Lilac and jasmine from her perfume combined with the vague undertones of the unique scent of Jess to soothe me. Not enough to go back out there, but enough to take another breath and confront my reflection.
My face matched the colorless bathroom walls. I glowered at the bathroom mirror, hating the face reflected there. I wasn’t unattractive, or scarred, or pimply, or even the wrong weight for my frame. Nothing like that. The face simply didn’t reflect the way I saw myself. In the mirror, I saw the man who played football because it was expected, dated the prom queen because it was expected, and chose the career path of least resistance, going into computers because Dad said it was the way of the future and I didn’t know what else to do.
As soon as I hit puberty, I grew a beard to hide the too-heavy brow, the angles of my jaw. My face wasn’t what I should see in the mirror. It didn’t reflect me, who I needed to be. The beard looked horrendous, took me further from my true self, but it removed the need to stare at myself for twenty minutes every morning while shaving.
Jess hated the beard. I hated it too, but I couldn’t explain to her what it is—what she was, even. Camouflage. A way for me to hide.
I loved Jess with all my heart, but our marriage was a mistake when we said “I do” and a mistake now. Marrying me was, quite simply, the worst thing Jess possibly could have done. I shouldn’t have proposed, should’ve broken up with her instead, but everyone expected us to get married. I really did love Jess, so figured if I went with it, we’d eventually be happy.
I needed to man up and get on the plane, go to the interview. Since I couldn’t be honest with her, or even myself, at least I could be the husband my wife deserved.
The guy from the waiting area entered the bathroom, interrupting my loathing. To hide that I’d been examining my face, I washed my hands again, keeping my face averted. When I turned to find the hand dryer, our eyes met in the mirror, and I paused. His eyes were as red as mine. Something twisted in my gut.
“You okay, man?”
He shook his head. “It’s hard, saying good-bye to my kids. They’re only going to visit their grandma for a week, but we couldn’t afford the extra ticket. I knew the separation would suck for them, but I didn’t realize how hard it would hit for me.”
The electric hand dryer clicked off, and Alanis Morrisette’s voice filled the restroom, pumped in on tinny speakers. Of course. Just the song I needed. Halfway through the first verse, the shakes returned. Sweat poured down my face. Perfect. I couldn’t do this. Before Alanis got to the end of her question, I started to bolt.
A voice stopped me. “What about you? You a’ight?”
“No. I am one hundred percent terrified of flying. The last thing I want in the world is to get on that flight.”
He gestured at the speakers. “Isn’t it ironic? I’d give my left nut to board.”
Something in the back of my mind clicked. I didn’t want to fly. I didn’t want to go to Los Angeles, didn’t want to interview, didn’t want any of this. And this guy did. Before I stopped to think about it, I wiped my wet hands on my ass and pulled my boarding pass out of my back pocket.
“Here.”
“What?”
I shook the pass at him. “Take it. Get on the plane. Go be with your kids.”
“No way, man. I can’t.”
“Sure you can. Consider it a… random act of kindness. Today’s your lucky day.”
He stared at me for a long moment. I didn’t flinch. “You’re like a fucking fairy godmother, aren’t you? I can’t believe it. Thank you!” A moment later, this stranger wrapped his arms around me in a hug so tight it brought tears to my eyes.
“You’re welcome.”
“Give me your address. I’ll pay you back when I can.”
I shook my head. “Someday, when you’re in a better place, help someone who needs it. And be good to those kids.”
He made it halfway out of the restroom before turning back and offering a fifty-dollar bill and a business card identifying him as Dan. “You ever need anything, dude, look me up.”
If I didn’t take it, Dan would never get on the plane and I risked changing my mind. “Sure thing. Have a safe flight.”
Flashing me a thumbs-up, he vanished. I waited by the sink, wondering how pissed Jess would be when she found out what I’d done. But I couldn’t get on the plane.
When I got back to the terminal, the people in the waiting area were boarding at the gate to my right. I slowed from a sprint to a walk. Behind me, a stewardess spoke into the intercom. “Last call for Flight 175 to Los Angeles. Passenger Cooper, please proceed to the boarding area immediately. Paging Brett Cooper. Your flight is about to take off.”
The thought of boarding a plane made me hyperventilate again. A chill went down my spine that wasn’t just from the air conditioning hitting the sweat on my brow. I couldn’t do it.
Dan trotted up to the gate and handed her my boarding pass. “I’m Cooper.”
No turning back now. What I’d just done was probably illegal. Time to go home and face the music. Thinking about the chilly reception awaiting me, I shivered.
Sorry, Jess. If you need to leave Massachusetts, we can move somewhere within driving distance.
I couldn’t get on the plane, but I also couldn’t head home and tell my wife what I’d done. Not without a plan. Instead, I turned off my cell phone and left the airport. The MBTA would take me downtown, where I could walk around until I figured out what to do. Later, I’d catch a train home to face my wife. Try to figure out how to tell her that this wasn’t the life I wanted, that I couldn’t take the job in Los Angeles. That I was sorry she’d gotten herself chained to me, that she should walk away and be free.
Without a second glance, I allowed my feet to carry me toward the airport shuttle. At the last minute, I decided to take a more scenic route. When the shuttle stopped at the waterfront, I found a water taxi to drive me across the Charles River into downtown Boston.
“Hey, man,” the driver said. “You need a lift?”
Wordlessly, I pulled a twenty from my wallet. It grew damp in my still-wet palm. He stepped back, pulling my suitcase into the tiny watercraft. I settled into a seat, my eyes skipping over the water. In the morning stillness, the quiet waves soothed me.
“I hate to disturb ya, buddy, but where we goin’?” the driver asked.
“Anywhere,” I said. “I just can’t go home yet.”
“Downtown it is.” Once we pulled away from the dock, the driver left me alone with my thoughts.
When my flight took off without me at 8:14 a.m., I sat on the boat, letting the waves relax me. My body finally unclenched, the shaking stopped. A plane flew over the water, a streak against the morning sky, and I waved, pretending Dan and his family could see me.
The water taxi dropped me off downtown, near a sea of office buildings. Living in a suburb, I didn’t spend enough time in Boston proper to have a destination in mind. All I knew was that I didn’t want to get on the T and go back to Jess. How do you say, Honey, I don’t want to come home, to the person you love most in the world?
This life was all wrong. I was all wrong. But the last thing I wanted was to hurt Jess. I simply didn’t know what to do. My feet carried me up and down the streets until I spotted a coffee shop next to a hotel, with waitresses pouring coffee at a long bar and televisions playing nothing more earth-shattering than the latest Red Sox recap.
After I settled onto a stool, a waitress brought me a menu. Although not hungry, I ordered scrambled eggs and coffee. My plane wasn’t expected to land for about six hours, so that left time to get my thoughts in order before Jess would start to wonder why I hadn’t called yet.
At 8:46 a.m., phones started beeping and whispers spread through the room. Someone changed the television on the wall from ESPN to CNN. On the screen, plumes of smoke billowed out of the World Trade Center. Was it a trick? Something like Orson Welles’ War of the Worlds? For a long minute, the only sounds in the room were forks clattering against plates, glasses thudding onto tabletops, and the reporters on the television, saying horrible words, filling me with terror yet failing to penetrate my brain at the same time. No one spoke.
Everyone in the room sat in collective horror, eyes glued to the TV. We watched, transfixed, a dozen people watching as one entity. What was going on? The word “live” in the bottom told me this wasn’t some horrifying dream.
At 9:03 a.m., another airplane flew into the second tower. An older lady in the corner shrieked and fainted. A waitress ran to help her. A child started crying, then another. Water streaked my cheeks, but I didn’t know when the tears started.
Some people pulled out their cell phones and started making calls. Scattered mentions of friends, family in New York flew about the room, interspersed with the questions, the fear.
“The signal is jammed,” the woman next to me said. “I can’t get through. Of course.”
“Do you have friends in New York?” I asked, more out of reflexive politeness than a desire to swap stories.
“No, but my sister flew out of Logan this morning.” She barely looked at me as she kept hitting redial. “Nothing. Dammit.”
“I’m sure your sister’s fine,” I said. “Those planes probably came from JFK.”
“Sure, but I won’t be able to relax until—” Her phone beeped in her hand, cutting her off. “Oh, thank God! It’s her. Still at the airport. Her flight was delayed due to a mechanical issue.”
Before I responded, the woman bolted from her stool, gathering her belongings and rushing toward the door, presumably headed for the airport to hug her sister. The scene must be madness. I hoped she made it safely.
I turned back to the TV, but my mind went back to the people on the plane. Where did the planes come from? Who were the passengers on board? No one could’ve survived a plane hitting a building at hundreds of miles per hour. Had I seen any of those people at Logan before I left? The man in line ahead of me at Starbucks, the woman buying a book where I picked up gum from the newsstand? What about the other passengers on my flight? Were Dan and his family still in the air, blissfully unaware of what was happening and planning their first trip to Disneyland?
The room buzzed with whispers, but no one moved. When the news reported a third plane crashing into the Pentagon and a fourth crashing in a field in Pennsylvania, some sick, tiny part of my mind envied the people who’d managed to escape their miserable lives to find something better in the world beyond.
What kind of asshole was I, thinking about myself in the middle of a national tragedy?
I wasn’t hungry anymore, but since I didn’t know what else to do, I stayed in the coffee shop, soaking in other people’s reactions. Waitresses moved like zombies, no one knowing what was happening or why. Rumors flew around the room. It must be terrorists. Such a thing couldn’t be an accident. Were we in danger? What if someone attacked Boston? More planes were missing, someone said, and they were headed for the state capitals.
The place slowly filled with people, everyone in a similar state of shock. People who were afraid to get on the T in case terrorists struck again. Meanwhile, horror continued to unfold on the screen. We were powerless to tear our gazes away from it. I should go home and hug my wife, tell her what I did, apologize. She’d be so happy I wasn’t in the air, nothing else would matter. Until I told her why I’d run away.
Nearly three hours later, indecision still glued me to my seat when the newscasters released information about the four hijacked planes: American Airlines, Flight 11. American Airlines, Flight 77. United Airlines, Flight 93. United Airlines, Flight 175.
My flight.