Page 11 of You Know Why

Get on the plane. Remember what I told you. Anything. I love you.

“Okay, kids, let’s go. Daddy will meet us on board.”

Amid the cheers of the kids, I glance over my shoulder again, hoping to see Trey hurrying toward us. But nothing.

We line up, and I have our passports ready. The kids are bouncing off the walls. Finally, we’re ushered through. The jet bridge is long, twisting back on itself, but soon enough, we get to the door of the plane. I knock the side of the fuselage three times with my ring, a habit I adopted back when I flew nonstop. Just a little blessing from me to the plane: Keep us safe, in the air, et cetera.

The first-class cabin boasts all the comforts. It smells a bit plasticky; the people who’ve made it on ahead of us are ripping into the amenities bags. We each have our own pod, straight across the row. I put the kids in the middle two pods and drop my bag in the seat on the portside window. I get them settled with books and cards and their drawing notebooks, and unpackage the airline-supplied blankets, pillows, and socks. They get a special child-appropriate amenities kit, which impresses them to no end. The flight attendants offer the kids orange juice, and I accept a glass of champagne. With the first sip, my shoulders drop even more. It’s all going to be okay.

It takes quite some time to board a maxed-out 777. I keep waiting for Trey to appear in the aisle. I’m definitely going to be asking about his high school antics now. He got so flustered by that woman; there’s a story there. Not necessarily about her—though clearly he looked like someone she knew twenty years ago. Everyone has a doppelgänger.

I finish the champagne. Text him again.

Where are you?

Nothing. Another fifteen minutes pass, and now the crew is preparing to shut the cabin doors. The first edges of panic start. I flag a flight attendant with a slick ballerina bun.

“We’re still waiting for my husband. He went to the bathroom in the terminal. I think he was feeling ill. There was a lot of turbulence on the inbound flight.”

The woman answers in a lilting Italian accent. “He must hurry. The doors will close in two minutes.”

I text, then call. Voicemail. Voicemail again. Voicemail again.

The flight attendant returns. “Madam, I am sorry. We are leaving now. I must ask you to take your seat.”

This is ridiculous. “I can’t leave without my husband.”

Neve picks up on the note of fear in my voice. “Is Daddy okay?” Four immediately echoes with “I want Daddy!”

That’s it. I stand up. “Seriously, you have to let me off the plane. I have to see if he’s all right. Something must have happened. He could have passed out in the bathroom. He’s not answering my calls or texts.”

“I am afraid that is impossible. I will tell the pilot and have the gate agent alerted.”

Neve starts to cry, and Four joins her. I dial again. Voicemail again. I grab my bag, pull down the overhead bin, and hand the kids their backpacks.

“Come on, babies. We have to go find Daddy.”

The people around me are reacting now, some cursing silently, giving openly hostile looks, a few others looking appropriately concerned. But this isn’t their problem. They are flying to Italy, all of their people are present and accounted for, and they just want to be on their way.

The flight attendant is getting upset now, too, but I shake my head. “Listen, I’m really sorry, but you can’t possibly expect me to fly my children overnight to another country without their father. Now let us off.”

Divine Intervention

If getting on a plane is a hassle, getting off takes divine intervention. After arguing with the flight attendants, the pilots, then the gate agents, we are finally allowed to disembark. We make our way up the long jet-bridge tunnel to the gate, and the terminal door shuts behind us with finality. Airport police, two TSA agents, and a representative of the airline wait for us, all five of them looking stern.

“Mrs. Locke?” the youngest of the group asks. He is a uniformed cop, with weapons at every conceivable angle, including a terrifying assault rifle he cradles like a baby across his chest. Oh great, now there are two of them, mirror images, both bristling with importance.

This isn’t good.

“Yes, I’m Brooklyn Locke. Do you mind if I get the kids situated?”

The younger cop nods curtly, and I take them to the closest seats and wipe Neve’s nose.

“It’s okay. Everything is going to be okay. I’m going to talk to these people for a minute. Hang out here, sweeties. I’ll be right back. Four, you’re in charge. Hold on to your sister for me.”

I glance at my phone again. Nothing. You’re okay. He’s okay. It’s going to be okay.

The gate agent sits by the kids. “I’ll keep an eye on them, ma’am. You talk to the folks there.”