Wanda Stroud gripped the armrests as the 737 accelerated down the runway at Mexico City’s International Airport.
The fluttering in her stomach increased as the plane left the earth and climbed, the force pushing her into her seat. Taking deep breaths, she glanced out her window at the metropolis rolling below. The jet ascended higher and higher, until finally it leveled off. Relief washed over her.
Wanda might be a nervous flyer—okay, I’m nervous about a lot of things since I lost Ed—but she would not let it prevent her from traveling, especially since it concerned her medical condition. She’d hoped the specialists in Mexico would identify what she had and treat her, unlike the doctors in California.
She’d always been vigilant about her health, constantly checking for signs of illness. Always anxious about whether a sore throat or runny nose was an indication of something serious, then consulting her doctor to see if she needed immediate attention.
One night, a couple of months ago, Wanda had watched a TV program about a woman who had what was feared to be a new form of incurable cancer. Convinced she had the symptoms, Wanda went to her doctor, who ran a number of tests.
“Your results are negative. You’re fine,” Dr. Singer said, smiling at her from behind her red-framed glasses.
But Wanda didn’t believe that she was well. She went to a second doctor, who, after testing Wanda, agreed with the first doctor’s findings; there was nothing wrong with Wanda’s physical health.
Still, Wanda suspected the tests were incorrect, and that she’d been misdiagnosed. She feared that she had the new form of incurable cancer. So, she did what she often did—she went online to do her own research. At her own expense, she arranged to go to Mexico to see doctors there, who—according to the online chat groups—were close to finding breakthrough therapies for the cancer that Wanda was convinced she had.
After spending a small fortune and several weeks being examined in Mexico City—first at the renowned research center, then at the cancer institute—the results came back.
“The cancer you are concerned about is extremely rare, and, I assure you, you do not have it.” Dr. Salazar of the University Center had removed his glasses, and looked at her with a measure of mild, but warm, exasperation. Then he gave her the same advice that her doctors in Los Angeles had given her.
“Mrs. Stroud,” Dr. Salazar said, “when you return to Los Angeles, I suggest you consult your physician about relaxation techniques and refrain from online searches about your health. Your family doctor might recommend medication or therapy to help you with your anxiety and coping skills every time you think you experience a symptom.”
Now, as the jetliner cruised 35,000 feet over the Sonoran Desert, Wanda settled into her new seat. She was late boarding because she had requested to move from her assigned seat, at the back of the plane, to one closer to the front, where she preferred to be. The flight was at 50% capacity, so the attendant moved her up when the plane leveled. Wanda looked at the two vacant seats in her row, then to the seats near her. Most were empty, leaving her to take stock of her life.
It’d been five years since Ed, a city bus driver, clutched his chest in the grocery store, collapsed, and died in the deli section. Some days she swore she still heard him shaving in the bathroom, or making a sandwich in the kitchen. She was a 66-year-old retired librarian, a widow with no children, going home to an empty house, fearing she had an undetected illness.
She swallowed, and felt a tickle in her throat.
What was that? Did they miss something? Maybe I should see a new specialist in L.A.?
She turned to the window and sighed.
Maybe I should just stop acting like a foolish old woman.
Wanda then considered her paperback mystery novel. She decided to take her mind off of her worries, settle in, and resume reading.
That’s when she looked at the lone passenger in the row in front of her—a man, in his 50s, with white hair, and working on his laptop. It had a big screen with a large font, giving Wanda a clear and inviting view over his shoulder. Being interested in what people read, Wanda decided to take a peek.
Just a little one.
Was he reading a book, or working on something business-related? She was curious.
Okay, so I’m nosy.
He had a few files open and was scrolling through them—photos of children.
His children? Grandchildren, nieces, nephews?
Smiling, Wanda thought, whoever they were, it was nice. She often wished she’d had children, but pushed the regret away. Reaching for her book, she thought again.
Wait.
She glanced back at the man’s screen and the little faces flowing by. The children all appeared to be young. Occasionally, he stopped the flow, which allowed Wanda to see how each child’s face was framed exactly the same way. Focusing, she noticed that the bottom right corner of each photo was labeled with a multidigit number.
Like a catalog or gallery of children. Is it a school album?
The man’s keyboard clicked as he typed, with Wanda reading his messages. Several terms and fragments of sentences emerged: adoptee…agreement…transfer of rights to adoptive parents…will obtain a decree…facilitator…fees…will secure authentic-looking records and legal documents…validating legal status as an orphan…
Wanda caught her breath.
Authentic-looking records? What does that mean?
The man’s keyboard continued clicking as he continued what appeared to be a discussion with other parties.
Correct. This week, we have solid offers for #0247 from Madrid, #6796 from Melbourne, #0055 from Johannesburg, #2095 from Moscow, #8849 from Buenos Aires, #3716 from London, and #9902 from Toronto.
Wanda tried to make sense of what she was seeing, when the man typed, Updating price list offerings now.
Price list? What could that be?
His laptop flickered. The gallery of faces now showed a dollar figure in U.S. currency next to each catalog number. The numbers and young faces scrolled by: $185,000…$130,000…$155,000…
Wanda’s skin tingled.
Something appeared to be very wrong—illicit, even.
Could that man in the seat in front of me be part of some sort of adoption ring?
She cast around for an answer. Finding none, she came to accept that there had to be some rational explanation for what the man was doing. Besides, it was none of Wanda’s business.
She opened her book.
But she couldn’t read as the man continued his work. Again, Wanda was drawn to the faces of the children—their digital names and price tags.
My God! What if something truly horrible is going on right in front of me, and I sat here and did nothing? How could I live with myself? What’s the message about doing something if you see something? I have to do something.
Okay, Wanda thought, she could get evidence, report it and let someone expert in these things decide.
She reached into her bag, got her phone, and casually swiped through it while checking to ensure no one was watching. She silenced the snapshot shutter click on her phone, muted the video recording beep, and then began taking photos of the man’s screen. Carefully, she zoomed in, taking crisp pictures, photo after photo, until she’d lost count. Then she switched to video mode, and recorded the man at work and the contents on his screen. She felt a tinge of embarrassment for invading his privacy.
This is probably nothing, but at least I’m doing something about it.
Suddenly the man stopped typing.
He turned his head slightly toward Wanda without looking at her.
Oh, no! Did he see my reflection on his screen?
He closed his laptop with a snap, and then raised his seat.
Wanda shoved her phone in her bag.
Oh God! He knows! He knows I’ve been watching him!