holds up his hand and waves. He knows that it’s too far for the pilot to see him, but still, he likes to do it.
The sun’s so strong – the sky so blue – he has to close his eyes.
Behind his eyelids, there’s darkness and then stars. And when he blinks them away and tries to adjust again to the brightness, he thinks the plane will be gone – far off on its journey through the sky. A few moments peace until the next one.
But the plane hasn’t gone: it’s still there.
He’s familiar with this trick of time and distance, how it seems as though the planes are not moving at all, when really, they’re tearing through the sky faster than anything on land or sea.
He keeps staring at the plane, a straight, white arrow piercing the blue sky.
But then the plane seems to change direction. Its angle shifts. Its wings tilt to one side.
Maybe it’s steading itself, he thinks, having reached altitude. But usually the planes climb higher, especially the big airliners.
He blinks again.
Strangely, now, it looks like the plane is slowing down.
The fisherman rubs his eyes. I’m getting old, he tells himself. And I’m tired. I was up early; I’ve been staring at the sea for too long.
He thinks of going home. Of taking off his wet clothes. Of washing the salt from his skin and then climbing into bed for a few hours’ rest.
His eyes adjust.
He can see clearly now.
And then something makes him stand up in his boat and tilt his head up to the sky and wave frantically, even though he knows that no one can see him.
He’s not just tired. And his eyes are fine.
Something’s wrong.
The plane is no longer ascending. And it’s not adjusting its position. Its tail is too high in relation to its body; its nose is dipping. And though the force of the engines keep propelling the plane forward, there’s a strange stalling sound, a grinding through the air that echoes across the sea.
He watches and watches as the plane tilts and dips and slows.
And starts to fall.
12.25 EST Dulles International Airport, Washington DC
Even before I step into the arrivals lounge I see the chaos.
People push in and out of the sliding doors, their cells clamped to their ears.
Cars crowd the pick-up zone.
Everyone’s walking too fast.
I knew it would be busy: it’s the end of the summer and people are flying in for the solar eclipse. But this is insane.
As we get closer to the airport building, Leda lets out a long whine like someone’s stepped on her tail. Ever since we turned off the highway, she hasn’t let up: barking and yelping and doing that high-pitched whimpering thing.
Leda’s my brother’s dog. A small, scrappy, caramel-coloured mongrel with shiny black eyes and stiff, worn fur. She looks more like an old-fashioned teddy bear than a dog.
She’s cowering in the footwell like something’s spooked her.
And I can’t shake the feeling either: something’s wrong.
But I push the feeling down to the pit of my stomach. I can’t go there, not now. I have to focus.
Leda whines again.
‘Pipe down,’ I call back to her. ‘You’ll see him in a second.’
Leda’s been missing Blake all summer. I told Blake he should take her with him to London but he said Leda would be better off with me. Which is probably true. Just because Blake loves her, it doesn’t mean he remembers to feed her or walk her or let her out to pee.
I park the car a bit too close to the main walkway but it’s so busy it’s the only space I can find. And who’s going to moan about stumbling over a 1973 mustard yellow Buick convertible, right? I should charge a viewing fee.
Leda jumps up and down on the back seat, her ears flapping.
‘Okay, okay.’
I lift her out and then throw my telescope over my shoulder – it’s the only thing I’d mind being stolen from the car. In fact, I’d be delighted if someone stole the two dresses spread out across the back bench. One’s for the rehearsal dinner (yellow), one’s for the wedding (sky blue): both sewn by Mom. They’re the kind of dresses I wouldn’t be caught dead in, not in real life, but my big sister, Jude, is getting married, and that’s a big deal, so I gave in.
For the past year and a half, everything’s been about my sister, Jude’s, wedding. At least all this will be over soon and we’ll be able to go back to our normal lives.
As I walk to the terminal entrance I get out my cell and text Blake:
Hurry. You can smoke in the car.
I hate it when Blake smokes when he’s driving, but if we wait for him to have a smoke outside he’ll end up talking to someone and then he’ll want to take down their cell number (Blake’s got more friends than any sane person can remember), and then he’ll notice the colour of the sky or a sad-looking piece of trash on the sidewalk and feel inspired to write down some lyrics. And then he’ll find a reason to have a second cigarette and he’ll suggest we take a detour somewhere, for the hell of it, and before we know it, we’ll have missed the whole wedding.
And, besides Jude and Stephen, the bride and groom, if there’s one person this wedding can’t go ahead without, it’s Blake. He’s singing the song. The song.
When I step into the arrivals lounge, things look even worse.
The people clutching the flowers and Welcome Home banners don’t look like they’re meant to look: bouncy with excitement about seeing whoever it is they came to collect. They look stressed out.
A red-faced man has one of the airport staff by his shirt collar and is yelling into his face.
The something’s wrong feeling pushes back up my oesophagus and I get that biley taste at the back of my throat.
It has nothing to do with you, I tell myself. Just focus on finding Blake.
I breathe slowly in and out until I feel better.
I check my phone again and read Blake’s last message:
ETA: 10.15am.
Followed by another message a few minutes later:
