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Knock, knock.
I jump, causing Thomas’s seal around my nipple to break with a painful pull and my head to bang into the bulkhead while the stewardess lectures through the door about turbulence and the fasten seat belt sign.
Seeing stars, my leg around Thomas’s waist drops as I slump forward, my other slippered foot sliding off the seat.
With my vision blinking in and out I’m only aware of the sounds – a loud woosh from the toilet flushing, a crash followed by various voices shouting, nausea, held successfully at bay all day, surfacing.
When my vision clears, I’m sprawled out on top of Thomas in the small landing in between the cockpit and first class, his head still under my shirt and my knee wedged hard between his legs.
I blink up into the sour-faced expression of the stewardess. ‘Feeling better?’
‘No.’ And then I throw up.
* * *
There is something wrong with you.
My reflection in JFK’s baggage claim bathroom doesn’t argue. My hair, once perfectly quaffed in an elegant chignon, is now half porcupine, half dreadlocked. In addition, I have wet splotches on my jeans from my attempt to clean them of vomit splatter.
Fortunately, I was able to change my shirt. Unfortunately, George’s belief that I hadn’t packed enough was proven correct when Thomas had to offer me an extra T-shirt of his to change into, seeing as I had nothing clean in my small duffle.
Thomas. My nipples, bare and overly sensitive under the white cotton fabric, perk up. After vomiting, I’d changed and pretended to sleep the rest of the flight. As soon as we landed, I moved as if in a sleep-deprived trance, when really, I was immobilized by acute embarrassment and confusion.
With an exasperated huff, I push one of the still-crunchy-from-hairspray tendrils out of my face and front tuck Thomas’s T-shirt into my jeans’ waistband. A woman next to me on her phone reminds me that I haven’t turned mine back on since landing.
I may have told Thomas I’d drive directly with him to the lawyer’s office, but if I can call Kayla and arrange to meet her afterwards, I can cross two things off my WWLD checklist in one day.
Except as soon as I turn on my phone, it lights up like the Fourth of July. Text messages, missed calls and voicemail.
The texts are from Kayla.
need u
M is hurt
call
@ hospital
My hand is shaking by the time I bring up voicemail. But it isn’t from Kayla.
‘This is child advocate Lorain Hendrix calling from Allenton Hospital. I’m calling to inform you that earlier today a Ms Kayla Rogers admitted her daughter, Mary Rogers, for a laceration to her temple. Since Mary’s admission late last night, we’ve been unable to locate or contact Ms. Rogers. As you are listed as Mary’s emergency contact, if you would call us back…’
Mary.
Grabbing my duffle, I sling it over my shoulders and race out the door. Frantic, I swivel one way, then the other, panic keeping me from remembering which way I need to run to get a taxi.
‘Alice?’ Thomas calls out from across the way, standing next to his roller bag.
I wonder if he’s been there the whole time, instead of in baggage claim where he said his driver would meet us, but I don’t have time to ask.
‘I’m sorry, I need to go.’
He closes the distance between us and rests his hands on my shoulders, as if knowing I’m about to bolt. ‘Where?’
‘The hospital. I need to get there now.’
13
