1

It always ended horribly. It always began the same way. It began with stale smells of plastic and jet fuel, smells you’d normally encounter making the journey down the narrow aisle of any jumbo airliner towards your seat. Her boarding pass clutched in one hand, her shoulder bag awkwardly slung over her belly as if it were her expected child, Julie kept looking at the seat numbers printed below the luggage bins. She was checking them against her ticket, as if somehow the number might have changed, or possibly she’d read it wrong the first eight times. 21b. When she found her seat, she stowed her bag, sat down and quickly fastened her seatbelt—a kind of psychological Band-Aid against her fear of flying. She leaned back hard, pressing her cranium into the headrest, closing her eyes and rocking her head side to side while listening to the muted hissing of the overhead air nozzles. Exhaling, she sat forward opening her eyes, trying her best to relax. An overweight man with crimson cheeks and notable perspiration was struggling with his carry-on bag. He was pushing at it, pounding it with his fist as if he were in a fight. The passengers coming down the aisle had come to a standstill waiting for the battle to finish. Eventually an airline attendant came shimmying up through the traffic jam. Wiping his brow, the man took his seat while the attendant took over. Clearly the bag was too big. The attendant told the man as much, and to the relief of the other impatient passengers took the bag away to stow it at the front of the plane, freeing up the aisle.

A little girl with bright blonde hair pulled her mother’s hand, dragging her to the seats across from Julie.

“We’re here! We’re here!” the little girl exclaimed. “Can I have the window seat, mom?”

“Yes, yes,” answered her mother, barely able to keep up. “Somebody’s excited,” she said to Julie.

“I can see that,” said Julie smiling, wishing she shared the young girl’s enthusiasm for flying.

“We’re going to see my dad!” said the child, peering around her mother’s waist as she stowed their jackets.

“Oh, where does he live?” asked Julie.

“Where we’re going, silly,” stated the child.

And this puzzled Julie. Where were they all going? Why didn’t she know that? Then she saw the girl’s T-shirt. Written in a kind of Seventies psychedelic bubbled scrawl were the words San Francisco. Of course, how could she forget that?

The plane filled up as everyone took their seats. The little screen embedded in the headrest before her initiated the pre-flight safety video, zen-like attendants performing smooth demonstrations of life vests, oxygen masks and emergency exits. Julie watched with a detached puzzlement. Why did it seem so . . . familiar? Was it déjà vu?

When the door of the plane closed, an overwhelming sense of doom washed over Julie, the kind of sensation she got when the safety bar was clamped down over her knees on a rollercoaster. This was it. She was now locked into this stomach-churning ride for the duration.

Thankfully, the seat beside her remained empty as the plane began to roll backwards and away from the gate. She watched the little girl peer out the window. then turn to her mother and announce excitedly that they were moving. The mother shot Julie a smile which she dutifully reciprocated, trying to disguise the fear she felt.

As the plane taxied down the runway, bobbing and swaying gently as it went, Julie felt a sweat break out down her back. She gripped the armrests and looked out the little oval window at the grass and asphalt floating by. A windsock fluttered lazily as the plane turned and came to a stop. This was it. When the tower said it was time to go, they would go. Julie hated take-offs. Hated them. She knew it was irrational. She understood the physics behind it. But no matter how much she thought about it, she couldn’t quite wrap her mind around the notion of this enormous tin can flying through the air. And with all that explosive jet fuel too.

The whine from the engines preceded the acceleration. The plane was moving. Fast. Julie felt herself being sucked back against the seat, as if her soul were being torn from her body. She hated this sensation. It was as if she were connected to the plane, plugged into it. Spine to nerve, nerve to seat, seat to wheels, and when they lifted off the ground she had the sensation she might be sick.

The plane ascended at a sharp angle, then pitched hard to the left. Julie could see the streets, the cars, and all the little blue circles and squares of swimming pools in the backyards of all those little houses, whizzing by her window. Toy houses. And there again was that feeling, that feeling something wasn’t right. Like walking into a room and forgetting what it was she was there to do. She couldn’t put her finger on it. What was it?

The plane leveled out and continued its gradual climb. Julie squirmed in her seat and took some long deep breaths, trying as best she could to calm down. She looked over at the mother and little girl. “Look, mom, I can see our building,” said the girl and that’s when it happened.

A large bright flash of light. White light. And noise so loud that Julie was temporarily deafened. A high note held on a synthesizer rang in her head. Black smoke and debris filled the cabin. Air masks sprung down like medical marionettes as the plane spun right and began to plummet. Julie gripped the armrests. The ringing in her ears disappeared into the screams of passengers. Flames shot out of the smoke from the front section of the plane and danced against the top of the fuselage. She fumbled for her mask as the pilot struggled to level out the plane. The engines oscillated in speed as the plane pitched back and forth. A flight attendant came ping-ponging up the aisle from the rear swaddling a fire extinguisher. She held out the red canister and squeezed the nozzle. The plane jerked violently. She lost her balance, smacking her head against the luggage bins, and sprawled backwards. She let go of the extinguisher and it rolled back down the aisle. Julie tried to reach for it but missed. The mother across the aisle was yelling for help. The seats in front of them were on fire. Julie saw the terror on their faces. She had only seen that look, that level of terror, once before. She understood. This was the woman’s child. You would do anything to protect your child. Now here they were and there was nothing that could be done. Julie fought with her belt buckle but it wouldn’t come free. She was panicking. She knew she needed to calm down and focus if she was going to help. The plane dipped and the fire extinguisher came rolling back towards her seat. This time she was able to grab it. She lifted it and aimed the nozzle at the flaming seats across the aisle. She pushed against the silver handle and nothing happened. The mother screamed. Julie saw the flames had leapt onto the child’s sleeve and the mother’s pants. The little girl cried hysterically. Julie clawed again at her seatbelt. Nothing. She couldn’t get the thing off. She tried pushing on the handle of the extinguisher once more. Nothing.

“Help us!” screamed the mother.

“I’m trying,” said Julie.

“HELP US!”

Julie kept trying, kept pushing the lever. Nothing came out. The little girl screamed. Then the mother did too.

“SAVE HER!”

Julie jolted awake. She was disoriented and didn’t understand the layout of the room. The sheets were wet, soaked in sweat. Ryan lay next to her, his back to her. He stirred, but didn’t roll over.

“Did you have it again?” he asked without moving.

“Yes,” she said.

It always ended horribly. Always with that mother yelling, “Save her.” But Julie always awoke before she could. This was not a good way to start a race, especially not this one, her first Ironman. She already felt exhausted.

The hotel clock displayed 4:45. Fifteen minutes before the alarm was to go off. Race time was 7:00am. She got up to take a shower even though she was about to swim 3.8 kilometres in Okanagan Lake. Julie never felt truly awake until she had her shower, never felt ready for the day. It helped her clear her head. When she closed her eyes, she could still see the little girl on fire, screaming. She made the water warmer and closed her eyes, letting it spray against her face and head. She breathed through her mouth, letting the water fall from her lips and nose while she focused on visualising the first leg of the race: running into the water, finding a good position, and swimming around the huge orange buoys. She imagined herself from a short distance, as if she were the cameraman on a reality show following her every move. Then she played out the second section in her head: exiting the water, changing in the transition area, stepping astride her bike and pedalling 180 kilometers. Finally she visualized the final section: racking her bike, changing and heading out onto the run. A full marathon—42.2 km. She saw herself crossing the finish line, fists held high in the air. Then she flashed to the little girl on fire.

It was exactly three years ago to the day that the dream first occurred. It started when Julie began to train seriously for the Ironman. The first time she had it, she didn’t think anything of it. Chalked it up to stress. After it happened the second time, she cut down on her coffee. It became a monthly event. When it occurred, it often left her so shaken that she had to call in sick for work. She thought it might be connected to her period, a latent desire to have children, to protect them. Then the dream began to happen more regularly. She incorporated yoga and meditation into her exercise regime and this seemed to help. The dream’s frequency slowed. Last year she only had it every second month, then only every four. It had been almost six months since she’d last had it. She thought she was done with it. Last night was a setback. And on this big day, the day she had been working toward for so long.

She turned off the shower and pulled back the curtain. Ryan was at the sink, brushing his teeth.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” she said. She wasn’t sure she was, but then again she wasn’t sure she wasn’t. She didn’t want Ryan’s pity, a possible motivational pep talk. She knew she had done her homework. It was that fucking dream. Why today of all days?

“Are you going to shower?” she asked.

“No, I’ll go down ahead and grab you some breakfast. I’ll come back and shower when you’re on the bike,” he said.

Ryan was good like that. Sweet natured. She slapped him on the ass on her way out of the bathroom. The TV was on the Weather Channel. Sunny day, clouding over in the afternoon with a 30% chance of rain. High of 25. Perfect, she thought.

“Looks good,” he said, emerging from the bathroom.

“Fantastic.”

“You want the usual?” he asked, opening the hotel door.

“Banana, toast, and a hardboiled egg,” she said, drying her hair with a towel while checking over her racing gear.

“Right. See you down there,” he said and disappeared, the door clicking shut behind him.

She threw on her bathing suit and shorts, then a T-shirt over top. She faced the mirror beside the TV and balanced on her left leg. Her right foot pressed against her inner left thigh and knee as she threw her arms over her head, palms together in tree pose. She looked at herself in the mirror to make sure her position was correct, then closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Deep controlled breaths. She felt a wave of calm instantly wash over her, the tension of the dream flowing out of her body, down her leg, down the roots of her tree, the roots she imagined grew out of her foot and into the hotel floor.

Then she saw the little girl’s screaming face. She lost her balance, put her foot down.

“Fuck,” she said, switching legs and trying again.