Margo was crouched in her seat like a track star awaiting the starter’s pistol. She had her carry-on in her lap, her handbag on her shoulder, and her winter coat over her arm.
She hadn’t taken her eyes off the man in 1B since the flight attendant handed him the trench coat. She watched as he stuffed it into his carry-on.
She made a move to get up before the plane had come to a complete stop, but the ever-watchful flight attendant motioned to her to sit down.
‘Only a minute or two more, Mrs McCarthy,’ she said. ‘I do hope everything works out.’
‘Thank you,’ Margo answered, still watching 1B.
Finally the chime sounded to signal the passengers they could move around the cabin. The plane’s door slid open and there was the usual scramble to be first out. Everyone was in the aisle at once, gathering books and newspapers, pulling carry-on luggage from the overhead rack. It was an obstacle course.
Margo was undaunted. She dodged, she turned, she side-stepped her way toward the front of the plane. It took less than a minute between the time the doors opened and the time she reached 1B. But the man was gone.
Margo went tearing up one of the airport’s jet ways, clutching her belongings in one hand, her phone in the other. He can’t have gone far, she told herself. He has to go through immigration and customs like everyone else. This was not a huge airport. She would find him.
Several planes had landed at the same time and the immigration area at Gustavo Diaz Ordaz International was alive with people shouting at one another in a variety of languages.
Margo stood on her suitcase to survey the throng. She had memorized every feature of the man’s face but he was not here.
Frustrated, she got in line to present her passport. She consciously tried to slow the pace of her pulse. She didn’t want to get flagged as a potential security risk by appearing anxious.
Margo had been dialling Jack’s phone non-stop since the plane touched down but each time she got the same strange message: the number was not in service. He had said at O’Hare that he intended to disable his phone for the two weeks of their trip. Had he forgotten to turn it back on? Nevertheless, it should be going to voice mail. And when he missed the plane, why didn’t he call her?
Breathe, she told herself once more. She smiled her brightest smile at the immigration officer. He smiled back, stamped her passport, and she was free to enter the customs area. The man from 1B was nowhere to be seen.
She approached one of the exits to the terminal and freedom, praying silently for the green light. Green meant you were free to go. Red light meant you waited. There was no telling how long it would take to get out of this customs hall.