Thirty-Two
Thirty-Two
I already checked us both in.”
Ellie, who returns from a newsstand with a bottle of water, finds Jonah standing beside one of the airline’s many stand-alone kiosks, his sleek, hard-shell carry-on positioned at his side.
“Your boarding pass should have gotten sent to your phone,” he continues.
Oh God.
“What?” Jonah notes the expression of worry—confusion?—on Ellie’s face. “What is it?”
“My phone,” Ellie says, not knowing how to explain things. “I—um—I think I forgot it.”
Jonah blows a heavy breath through his lips. He quickly glances up at the departures board. “I—I don’t think you have time to go home and get it.”
“It’s fine,” Ellie decides, because what else is she supposed to do? She can’t travel back through time—or forward, even—to find it. “I’ll ask for a paper boarding pass. I’ll make do.”
Jonah nods firmly and offers Ellie a smile— You okay? She nods back— I’m fine —before they turn and glide past the other travelers—families with small children strapped into strollers, their tiny bodies still half-asleep, the business travelers, all sharply dressed, who’ve been forced to jet off to places they don’t want to be—and then approach the airline counter. Brenda still stands behind it in her two-piece navy-blue skirt-suit, a pair of wings pinned to her chest.
“IDs?” she says, already hoisting Ellie’s suitcase onto her giant scale.
Jonah slides his leather wallet from his pants pocket, hands Brenda his driver’s license. Beside him, Ellie pulls her book bag from her back and digs out her own wallet, already knowing what she’ll find inside it. She doesn’t even look, just hands the ID over. It’s too much to even try to comprehend.
Brenda stabs her fingers across her computer keyboard, hands them each a printed-out boarding pass. “Enjoy your flight, Mr. and Mrs. Baker,” she says.
Ellie and Jonah sit side by side at their gate. Despite their early-morning departure time, their flight, she can already see, will be packed. Everyone wants to get away ahead of the weekend, to land at their chosen destination early enough for them to actually take full advantage of the day. Beside her, Jonah reads some news articles on his phone, checks a few sports scores, and skims his email. Ellie, on the other hand, doesn’t know what to do. Should she ask him if he remembers? If he recalls what happened last night or in the nights that have led them here?
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen on flight 1251, with direct service from Newark to Orlando,” a voice announces overhead. Nearby, other travelers—all of them anxious to find their seats and get settled—start to stand and collect their things. “It is my pleasure, on behalf of our whole flight crew, to welcome you. In a moment, we’ll begin our boarding process, starting with group one passengers, active military members, and any families traveling with small children.”
Opposite the wall of glass that separates the gate area from the tarmac, Ellie sees their plane and the clear blue sky in the backdrop beyond it. She rubs her thumb over her ring—the metal cool and smooth and familiar. Airports, she privately acknowledges, are unique places. Here, every minute matters. If you make a choice and turn up one moment later than intended, the door closes, the path you believed you were about to travel nixed, just like that.
“I’m going to use the bathroom before we board,” Ellie announces. Jonah, who’s still seated, nods. She gestures to her chair with her chin. “Do you mind watching my bag?”
Ellie moves past the snack kiosks and joins the winding line of other women. They inch forward—why does this always take so long?—and eventually arrive at the crowded room of stalls. Behind Ellie, a young mother and her daughter wait, too. The little girl, whom Ellie suspects is of preschool age, bounces up and down like her feet are made of trampolines.
“I’m going to burst, Mama!” the child exclaims. She and her mother wear matching T-shirts. Vacation Mode!
Ellie, who is next in line, turns to face them. She sees the look of panic on the mother’s face. Oh God, please hold it in, baby. I don’t remember if I packed your backup pants or if I left them home on the bed. I’m always forgetting something lately. Please hold it. Please, someone, help me. Please, please, please .
“You two go first,” Ellie tells them and points to the end of the line of identical stalls. “There. One just opened.”
“Are you sure?” the mother asks, already pushing her daughter forward through the crowd. “I’m so sorry.” Potty training isn’t working. I’ve given her a thousand M&M’S, and still, nothing. What am I doing wrong? Is she okay? Am I doing all this okay?
“Absolutely,” Ellie assures her, nudging them on their way.
A minute later, Ellie locks herself into the stall next to them. She uses the restroom and laughs to herself, watching the little girl’s feet dancing and wiggling and spinning in circles on the floor next to her while her poor mother simply tries to pee. You’ll miss those little feet one day, Ellie thinks to herself as she exits. You’ll hate all that privacy.
Up ahead, a bank of communal sinks. Ellie washes her hands beneath the too-hot water and takes a peek at herself in the mirror. She looks the same, like regular old Ellie. A few simple sweeps of makeup. Her professionally dyed honey hair hanging in two straight curtains around her face. And yet, here in this reflection, there are so many versions of herself she sees. The recent college graduate, so unsure of everything and just hoping to eventually find her way. The blushing bride, her heart pumping to the rhythm of her own love song. The new mother, with the bags beneath her eyes and the smile as bright as neon.
“Thanks again,” a voice says.
Ellie turns and sees the other mother beside her, her daughter humming the ABC’s as she washes her hands. “No problem.” Ellie’s heart warms for this woman who reminds her so much of another version of herself, one who exists in a different time. “I remember those days.” Ellie turns away from them, reaches for some paper towels, and dries her hands.
“Here,” the woman says from behind her. “I think you forgot this. It was up on the ledge.”
When she turns back around, the woman holds Ellie’s phone in her hand, the one she herself was apparently too distracted to notice as she studied her reflection. Ellie takes it, noting that it’s not only somehow still here, but still turned on. A photo—an old favorite—of her, Jonah, and Maggie stares back at her from the screen.
Once outside the bathroom, Ellie swipes the device open, unsure what else she’ll find on it. The airport Wi-Fi is terrible—only a single bar—but it’s enough. She taps open her message history with Maggie, and then her history with Bunny, curious to see if their last correspondences—the ones Ellie sent to them when she landed here on Sunday night—are somehow there. But they’re not. Of course they’re not. Those conversations, Ellie understands, have not happened yet.
“You found it?” Jonah asks when Ellie reappears beside him and gestures at her hand.
“Oh—oh yeah,” she stammers, still fruitlessly trying to wrap her head around it. “I, uh—I forgot to tell you before that I found it earlier at the bottom of my bag.”
Jonah nods. There’s no reason for him to question this response.
All around them, the seats have emptied. The majority of other travelers heading to their destination have gone ahead.
“At this time, we invite all remaining passengers on flight 1251, with direct service from Newark to Orlando, to begin the boarding process,” a member of the flight crew announces through the overhead speakers.
Jonah stands and hands Ellie her book bag, which he’s kept guard over during her absence. He snaps up the handle of his wheeled carry-on as she slides it on. Together, they step into line and show their tickets—their proof that they belong here—to the female flight crew member. The woman briefly looks down at the items they’ve provided to her, then back up at their faces, double-checking that it’s really them. She pauses for a second that feels too long. Ellie’s heart thumps in her chest. Oh please, God, she thinks. Not again.
“Here you go.” The woman hands everything back to them—her acknowledgment that they’re who they say, and that they’re in the right place and time.
“Looks like a nice morning for flying,” Jonah—a lover of small talk—says before they disappear into the accordion passenger bridge. He points to the window and the canvas of clear, cornflower-blue sky.
“From what I can tell”—the woman nods and waves another passenger ahead—“it should be a smooth flight.”