Our Sadie

ONE Panic

SADIE: DECEMBER—FIVEYEARS AGO

When I catch sight of the big red Cadillac Escalade pulled up in my dorm’s parking area, I inwardly cringe. Not that there aren’t plenty of rich kids who attend Harvard—it is goddamn Harvard—but the giant news station emblem plastered everywhere strikes me as ostentatious.

Dad works at the ABC affiliate here in Boston as one of the main primetime anchors. So I do understand why he requested one of the drivers take him from the station to the airport, with a brief stop at the university to pick me up. But I’m not a fan of everyone’s stares.

Guess I’m just lucky he didn’t choose one with his picture affixed to the side. Or the one with him and Mom together.

Speaking of Mom, she’s the one who pokes her head out the passenger side window. “Come on, Sadie. We need to get to the airport.”

I wave to let her know I’ve heard her, but I don’t verbally respond. Hers is another familiar face nationwide since she’s the chief meteorologist for the same station. Bridget Keaton-Vincent and Craig Vincent, power couple of the local weather and journalism scene. Then, there’s me, their introverted daughter who’d rather be in front of a computer keyboard than a television screen.

Sometimes I wonder if I was switched as a newborn with their real child at the hospital.

Yet physically, there’s no denying that I’m theirs. I have Dad’s hair and eyes and Mom’s everything else. Personality-wise, I’m not much like either of them, though. Except for my penchant for overachieving.

Like each of them, I graduated high school a year early with a perfect GPA. But the choice to attend this prestigious university on an accelerated five-year plan to achieve a simultaneous bachelor’s and master’s degree is all me. I’ve finished my first semester with flying colors. It makes them proud, I think.

That’s what they keep telling everyone, anyway.

Once I reach that monstrosity of an SUV, Mom snaps, “You’re too young to move this slow. Throw your suitcase in the back so we can go.”

She never has been the patient type, so I do as she says. Dad ignores her, as he often does. Their marriage has been more for the sake of public appearances than affection. It’s been like that for years.

Besides, we’ll make our flight regardless since we have our own private jet. What’s Jasper—our pilot—going to do? Take off without us?

I keep this snide remark to myself. It’ll only make my mother snippier than she already is. It’s an irony that has always confounded me, but something about going on vacation puts her in the nastiest of moods. You’d think traveling to some novel or exotic locale for a week or two of R R would chill her out, but no.

She’s been like this for as long as I can remember.

Truth be told, I’m not overly excited for this getaway to Aspen, either. Unlike my parents, I’m not much of a skier, and while I do snowboard, I’m not as in love with careening down snowy mountains as they are.

But if I don’t go on this trip with them, they might just kill each other. I’ve been their buffer for a long time, and without me stepping in to play peacemaker, their arguments could switch over to wounding blows.

Okay, okay. I’m exaggerating a little. They probably wouldn’t do anything legitimately violent. They’ve never gotten rough with each other beyond the viciousness of their tones. They could very easily divorce, though. And how would that look for their power couple optics?

Not good.

So, I’ll be their net as they send volley after volley back and forth.

Happy eighteenth birthday to me.

Guess I shouldn’t complain. I do have more than most.

Finances have never been a struggle for my family. Maxine, our house manager, is already waiting for us in Colorado, so I’ll have her to talk to. My BFF is there for me no matter what, even if Winter Corsair lives in Iceland. And thanks to my ex-boyfriend Wood—his full name is Woodruff Franklin Astor, yikes—I’m no longer a virgin. Even if the sex with him was... meh.

You’d think with a name like Wood, he’d do a better job at maintaining his erection.

Maybe once I graduate and have my career in place, all the other adult stuff will come together like I want it to. A romantic relationship that’s nothing like my mom and dad’s or like the dull one I had with my ex.

One where my man will greet me when I stroll through the door—or I greet him—with a kiss rather than barbed insults. Because I’m hoping for that. I’m hoping for everything. Love, fulfillment, and happiness.

Doesn’t everyone?

Once we’re aboard, Natalie, our flight attendant, brings me a cupcake with lavender whipped frosting. My dad grins at me, his gray eyes crinkling along the corners as he squeezes my shoulder.

“Thought I... we...” He flicks a glance at Mom. “Forgot, didn’t you?”

The back of my eyes and nose are stinging, but I sniffle and hold it back. “Maybe.”

“Never, kiddo. Not ever.”

We can’t light a candle for obvious reasons, but I’m moved by this little production, nonetheless. I even catch a whiff of citrus along with the buttercream.

“It’s made with oranges?” I ask, and Dad nods, his features bright, eyes sparkling. Now I’m all sorts of choked up. The fruit has been my favorite since my toddler days according to Max. “Thank you.”

“We’ll have a proper party once we’re there at the resort,” Mom informs me. “Maxine is setting it all up as we speak.”

My mother’s idea of a party is as an opportunity to hobnob and network with important people in their industry. I’ll have to don some formal gown and hoist one of those cheesy and absolutely fake expressions of joy to my face.

Blech.

I’ll just text Win later tonight and have a bitch session until I feel better. I should feel grateful that they remembered at all, I suppose. Or that Max planted a reminder in each of their phone calendars.

Wonder what over-the-top assortment of extravagance they purchased for this go-round.

Last year, the decorations included an ice sculpture large enough to serve as a full-sized igloo as a centerpiece. And my gifts included a set of dangly diamond drop earrings, a matching pendant necklace, and a tennis bracelet set that would probably send another freshman to the Ivy League and cover their expenses all the way to a PhD.

But big-ticket items are my parents’ favorite display of love, even if Dad does offer me frequent hugs. Most embraces from my mother come when there are others watching. But who knows. Maybe since it’s a special day, I’ll get some form of affection from her that she actually means.

Maybe.

We’ve been cruising along for about a half-hour when the plane shudders, dropping several feet in the air. The turbulence is so bad that Natalie lurches abruptly forward, spilling my dad’s gin and tonic and nearly stumbling to her knees. She half lands in my mother’s lap, and Mom helps the flight attendant stand upright again as Jasper’s disembodied voice comes over the PA.

“Fasten your seatbelts. Having an issue up here.”

Thanking Mom, Natalie grabs her tray and hurries to the back to buckle up. Dad and I are quick to follow the pilot’s instructions, too. Yet Mom pops out of her seat and weaves her way toward the cockpit like some tipsy kid on spring break.

The second she shoves his door open, she yells, “Jasper, what the hell is going—”

“Bridget,” he cuts her off, and I whip my head up even though I can’t see him from my vantage point. As our regular pilot, he’s never once spoken to any of us like that, least of all her. “Sit down and buckle up. Right the fuck now.”

He’s never dropped an f-bomb in front of us, either. Not in front of me, anyway. His voice is brusque, maybe even a little alarmed.

What’s going on up there?

Several possibilities zing through my head all at once, but my knowledge of aircraft is limited. That’s when movement out of my peripheral vision has me twisting my head. What I see out my window is part of the wing on the left side coming apart. The flap on the underside is only hanging on in pieces and the wing itself looks bent. Maybe even broken.

Did we hit something? Did the turbulence damage the connection where the wing attaches to the fuselage?

I stare at those pieces that seem within seconds of peeling away, my heart jackhammering in my chest. Flames erupt from out of nowhere to spread along that same wing. It makes those loose sheets of aluminum alloy crease and shrivel.

“Jasper,” I yell, since Mom’s still stubbornly holding the cockpit door open. “The plane’s on fire!”

I can’t tell if one event happens before the other or if they both transpire at the same time, but the jet bucks wildly as this horrible metal screech echoes throughout the passenger cabin. And the wing shears off.

Just shears right off like a layer of wool from a sheep.

The next thing I’m aware of is a wicked shimmy, a rattling shake that terrifies me. Smoke saturates the recycled air in here, and there’s another steep drop in altitude. Mom screams and falls into the aisle, gripping onto the armrest of Dad’s seat one row ahead of mine. Her complexion is so chalky that it’s as if all her blood has left her body.

All I can make out of my dad is his arm and the back of his head as he pitches sideways to grasp onto Mom. There’s noise, so much noise. Shrieking, shouting, mechanical explosions, and the roaring of the fiery blaze as it encases the outside of my window, then bursts through it.

Panic saturates my mind as everything points to one irrevocable conclusion.

I’m about to die.

We’re all about to die.

And there’s nothing any of us can do about it.