This is interesting: I had no sense of time passing. The only thing I can compare it to is the experience of a general anesthetic, when you’re asked to count down from ten and you never get to zero, you get to eight, or seven if you count fast, and the next instant you’re in the recovery ward and everything feels different. It’s disconcerting. Like being teleported.
(My most recent experience of a general anesthetic was a colonoscopy. My doctor found no polyps or abnormal tissue. I am vigilant with health checks. You should be too.)
I had no memory of the long delay on the tarmac. I had no memory of the plane finally taking off. I normally enjoy the sensation of a plane taking off. I think many people do unless they have a fear of flying, which I do not.
I had no memory of being offered food and drink and apparently refusing both.
I had no memory of making a decision to stand up or of doing what I did.
I had no memory of the plane landing.
I had a very bad headache, my mouth was dry, and I felt extremely hungry. It felt as though something disastrous had happened. My first thought was that the plane must have crashed, although I soon realized that this was not the case, because the plane was intact and there was no smell of smoke, no wailing sirens.
And then I looked around and I was shocked to see that the plane was almost empty. I could see the last few passengers disembarking. Some of them were looking back at me. I thought they were probably confused as to why I was still sitting there, and I felt embarrassed.
The last person to leave the plane was a little boy wearing a backpack. I remembered him—and specifically his army camouflage backpack—from the departure gate. He was being led off the plane by another flight attendant and he was twisting around to stare back at me. His eyes met mine. I thought he was worried that I had forgotten to get off the plane, so I tried to give him a comforting smile and a wave, but he spun away, grabbed for the hand of the flight attendant. Then he was gone.
I’ve never been good with children.
“I’m sorry,” I said to the beautiful, now unkempt flight attendant. “I must have fallen asleep.”
I looked down and saw that I was holding a plastic cup, empty except for an ice cube. I felt so thirsty, I tipped the ice into my mouth and crunched it between my teeth. The sound was embarrassingly loud, but I kept crunching so as not to choke. It’s possible to choke on an ice cube and stop breathing before the ice cube melts.
“Do you need more water?” The flight attendant held out her hand for the cup. She spoke as though I’d suffered a medical episode, not fallen asleep. I am in excellent health. I take no medication. I write NONE in proud capital letters on forms that require me to list my medication and then I draw a diagonal line across the space, just to make myself clear.
“No, no,” I said, although I was still very thirsty, but I was not in a café. “No, thank you.”
I unbuckled my seat belt. I stood and did not understand why my legs trembled.
“Do you need…” She studied my face as her voice trailed off. She had the fearful, flinching smile of someone in the front row of a performance by a cruel comedian. It was as though she believed I could do or say anything at any moment.
“Do you need medical assistance?” she asked.
“Absolutely not.” I couldn’t understand why she would ask this, but once you reach a certain age you come to accept strange behavior from young people. They either look straight through you as if you’re a houseplant, or they treat you like you’re made of glass, hands hovering in case you tumble.
I handed her the plastic cup and stepped out into the aisle. The overhead bin above my seat was open and only my bag remained. Before I could reach for it, she took it down for me. I saw a spasm of pain cross her face although I knew my bag was well under the weight limit for carry-on luggage.
I released the handle so I could wheel it behind me.
“Thank you,” I said, and I sniffed, because there was a smell of vomit and it seemed to be emanating from her. “Thank you very much. I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“It’s no problem,” she said faintly.
“Are you all right?” I said. “Allegra?”
Because that was the name on her badge and the poor thing looked unwell and unhappy, and obviously I am no longer that shy little girl at the Hornsby Picture Theatre and can say people’s names, no problem at all.
She seemed to make a decision of some sort.
“I’m fine. Perfectly fine.” She smiled. Her smile was stunning. “Thank you. You have a good evening.”
I exited the plane. I walked straight to the taxi stand. I could see the injured boy ahead of me in the line. I noted he did not resemble Henry from the Hornsby Picture Theatre, or if he did, it was only in the most superficial way. I wondered if I was developing face blindness, which I understand to be an affliction suffered by the exceedingly handsome movie star Brad Pitt.
As I got into the cab I saw the young woman wearing my wedding dress and instantly solved the puzzle. There was no frightening mystery or conspiracy. How embarrassing. I had donated the dress to a charity shop in Hobart. She had bought it. Simple as that.
I did not have a good evening.
Chapter 29
“I went to my first funeral today,” Ethan explains to the older man who has introduced himself as Leo. “So I was already feeling kind of…strange.”
They’re in the back seat of a cab, which will take Ethan first to his apartment in Waverley and then on to Coogee, where Leo lives. Ethan wouldn’t have picked him as living at Coogee. He looks more inner-city, like a guy who doesn’t appreciate sand in his shoes.
“I’m sorry. Was it a family member?” asks Leo solemnly.
“No. It was a friend.” Ethan looks out the window and focuses on the giant billboards advertising luxury watches, hotels, and cars.
“A friend? A friend your own age died?” Ethan turns from the window to see Leo turning his whole body to face him so that his seat belt pulls uncomfortably across his neck. He looks horrified. Genuinely horrified. It’s gratifying.
“Yeah,” says Ethan. “Exactly the same age. He’s turning thirty in August. I mean, he would have been turning thirty.”
“Oh, mate, I’m so sorry, I thought you were going to say it was your grandfather or something—not that it’s not sad to lose a grandparent, it’s very sad, but to lose a friend at your age!” He pulls agitatedly at the seat belt. “That’s something you’ll never forget, you’ll never get over it!” He grimaces. “I mean, of course you will get over it, what a stupid thing to say, I’m so sorry.”
The taxi driver makes a sound that could possibly be a snort.
“It’s okay,” says Ethan. “Thank you.” The streetlights reveal Leo’s face. He’s wincing as if he just stubbed his toe. He actually reminds Ethan of Harvey: they both belong to the same subspecies of slightly odd, deeply intense people. Ethan has always been drawn to people like this. He likes bouncing off the surfaces of their oddness, in the same way he prefers to play tennis against a hard-hitting player. It’s more difficult to cope with the soft lobs of normal, well-adjusted people.
“I once had a friend,” says Leo. He stops and wipes vigorously around his mouth as if he’s worried he’s got tomato sauce all over it.
