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Birth to death, a moment in time ... but never enough time. My philosophical fret follows an instant of weightlessness and the plane’s chime. The Fasten Seat Belts sign flashes on.
The woman in the seat in front of me distracts me from my fears as I watch her wrestle around her companion and into the aisle. She beelines for the only toilet. The display over the door changes from green, Vacant, to red, Occupied. Another chime and the captain’s announcement. “Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts. We’ll be experiencing heavy turbulence.” Thoughts of dying before my 25th birthday are real enough that I reach into my purse for a Xanax. I worry about everything, but whatever I worry about never happens—that means this plane won’t crash and I won’t die today. Whew. My next and more pragmatic thought: I can’t cross my legs in this tight skirt. Should’ve peed when I had the chance. The distant view of Lake Superior’s blue waters and the snug lap restraint intensify my bladder’s urge. The bumpety-bump sway of the plane has me grabbing for my cup. I look down at the creamy contents trickling over my fingers, then glance out of the crystal-encrusted window at the billowy white. Clouds in my coffee as Carly Simon would sing. Realizing that Bill and I weren’t meant to be, my gaze shifts from the clouds toward the cockpit. The lady is exiting the bathroom. She’s petite and pretty, with features like the woman I saw Bill kissing when he didn’t expect me in town. But what do I know about relationships except loving someone who doesn’t love you is like hoping Prince Bill turns into a frog the next time she kisses him? The woman snakes her way back from the lavatory, balancing herself on every headrest and squinting at the lighted numbers above each seat. When she arrives, I forgive her. She wasn’t the one with Bill. I don’t forgive Bill. She waits in the aisle for her row partner to stand so she can move to her place by the window. Through the crevice between their seats, I see the man grimace. “Sorry, my seatbelt is stuck!!” he says with what sounds like two anxious exclamation points. “Just give me a second to ...”. The plane wobbles. Vibrates. Veers left, veers right. I grab the armrests. The window of the seat in front of me explodes. Oxygen masks tumble from the overhead as my coffee cup skyrockets toward the ceiling. The cup’s contents turn into bulbous globs that disappear into nothingness. The woman waiting to be seated gyrates, then levitates parallel to the floor. The sucking pull of a colossal vacuum draws her into the shattered fissure, once a window securing us from an unwelcome glacial stratosphere. Her shoulders pulsate against the opening. Her seat partner wraps his arms around a pair of spasmodic legs. The plane shudders in a violent plea to stay intact. It nose-dives. Cabin contents defy gravity and collide with flailing arms seeking to protect life’s fragility. Passengers who hadn’t fastened their seatbelts slam against the ceiling and are propelled along with debris toward the woman being pulled into oblivion. The hull next to my shoulder splits, sucking the skin on my arm into the hairline slit. I gasp. My tongue laps at the freezing air. Through my window, I see the woman’s neck inflate as fluidic skin consumes her earlobes. Her head flaps and her face wraps toward me. Her eyes bulge, and purple pustules appear on white lips. I gulp and grab one of the swinging oxygen masks. The passenger next to me helps, and I begin muttering into the silicon cup--Hail Mary full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit …. A cacophony of screams and prayers ricochets around me, and I try to finish my spiritual petition before tumbling into a hazy whiteout. My mind’s murkiness lifts to the ominous left-right wobble of the wings. The blur of green treetops rakes the bottom of the plane. I see the airport’s control tower, but is it too far away? “Brace for impact,” the intercom crackles a menacing promise. The plane whacks the runway. Overhead storage bins burst open, their contents spilling into the aisles. From my window, I watch the spiraling jet blades and feel the reverberation as the engines go into a reverse thrust, an apparent effort to slow our forward momentum. The plane lurches and bounces, begging to stay in one piece. We dip forward, and my seatbelt grips into my waist, and my hands clamp the armrests. My next thought is almost laughable--we just stopped on a dime. Silence. A pause defines a license to cheer. Applause. Words from the captain: “Evacuate. All exits available. Evacuate.” I’m pulled by the man next to me toward the emergency door. Once on the ground, I stumble and run with trembling legs away from the aircraft. Bullhorns warn, “Move away from the plane, move away from the plane.” Fire trucks, ambulances, and police cars surround us. Firemen hose the jet with a white foam. I hear someone say, “Every doctor in Marquette must be here.” The man and I reach the edge of the landing strip. We collapse on the grass and gape at the plane. The woman’s head dangles from the fuselage, sudsy fire repellent bubbling around her. Dazed, I lay shivering in the summer heat, scratching away drying blood from my upper lip. The man next to me stands and waves for help. Two people in blue scrubs sprint to us. The tallest one kneels next to me. “I’m Dr. Falcone.” His hands move with speed and skill over my head, arms, and legs, his eyes watching mine. “Hurt anywhere? What’s your name?” “Sarah, with an h,” I mumble. He wraps a blood pressure cuff around my arm. “Your surname, Sarah?” Surname? I grapple with the word. “My last name is ... is Maybourne.” He places a stethoscope in the crook of my elbow and begins to pump the black bulb. My arm squishes and then relaxes as the air seeps from the cuff. “Pupils dilated. Pulse one-thirty, BP sixty-two over forty,” he says to a man with the letters EMT stitched on his uniform. Then a bunch of medical gibberish that sounds serious: “Cardiogenic hypotension. Alpha-beta saline and dopamine I.V. Category two triage with immediate admission.” The EMT encloses me in a blanket that looks like aluminum foil. Lordy, I think, this should get me an interview for a role in a science fiction movie. He hangs a plastic bottle on a stainless-steel stand with the words Hypovolemic Dextrose 10% Solution—NAD+. The bottle swings as he drapes a red scarf over it. Turning toward the physician, I fix my gaze on his concerned eyes. “You’re gonna feel a sting,” he warns as I watch a steel needle slide into my outstretched arm. The warmth of his hand clashes with the cool fluid seeping toward my neck and chest. I feel myself relax—then moisture between my legs. “Sorry, Doc. I think I just wet my pants.” His brown brows lift, and his lips squeeze out a sympathetic smile. “Good for you. Your body is functioning as it should.” I bite the inside of my cheek while the EMT secures the needle to my arm with gauze and surgical tape. The doctor distracts me with a nod toward an approaching ambulance. “Well, Sarah-with-an-h Maybourne, it looks like you’re about to get a ride.” He brushes the back of my hand as though he’s attempting to soothe my fears. Then, with confidence, he gives a final affirmation: “You’ll be fine.” A wisp of wind tousles his dark brown hair. He adjusts an oxygen mask over my face and thumbs my forehead with an anointing stroke. As I’m lifted to a stretcher, I crane my neck to see my two benefactors move to the next passenger. Sirens led me to my home for the night, Marquette General Hospital. § “Good morning, Sarah. I’m Dr. Huffington. How are you today?” “Foggy as heck. What did you give me?” “A benzodiazepine ... an amnesic. Allowed you to sleep and ease some of your trauma. Your CBC is normal, and your vitals, perfect. X-rays show no broken bones. No soft tissue or organ injuries.” “How are the other passengers?” “Most fared as well as you. Two in serious condition, but their prognosis is good.” “What about the woman in the seat in front of me?” Dr. Huffington glances down. “She’s passed. The Mining Journal tells the story.” He points toward the newspaper on my nightstand. “Sarah, I’ll be discharging you after lunch. You’re young, strong, and healthy, but I’m concerned about stress from the crash. Please see your family physician in a few days.” “I don’t have one. I just moved here two weeks ago. What about the doctor who treated me on the runway? “Ah, yes. Dr. Falcone. He’s a neurosurgeon, not a family practitioner. Call my office. I can follow up with you.” “Thank you, doctor.” “You’re welcome. Oh, your landlady dropped this off at the nurses’ station.” He gestures toward the chair across from my bed. On it, a see-through plastic bag tagged with my name. A doctor delivering a change of clothes. I wonder if every patient gets special treatment, or just those who nearly die in a plane crash. I spend Friday and the entire weekend in my tiny apartment, reflecting on my first job and my new lease on life. On Sunday evening, I call my parents for what seems to be the umpteenth time since the plane crash. “Mom, it was so good to be back on the farm for a few days. I’m glad Grandma is feeling better. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken this job. It’s so far away from you.” My dad replies, “You come home whenever you want.” Can they hear my quiet sobs? “Mom and Dad, it could have been me. The woman in the seat in front of me got to the plane’s bathroom before I could. Then, when the captain told everyone to fasten their seatbelts, I had to stay put.” I know I’m repeating myself. “You’ll be okay. We love you. Why don’t you move back?” my mother pleads. Then, a static silence as though Michigan’s Upper and Lower Peninsulas were on two different continents. “Never. I had to get away from Bill. He said he loves me, but he’s such a control freak.” A mentally abusive asshole and a two-timing jerk. Tears slide down the receiver. “Today we heard Bill took a job with a fancy-dancy advertising firm. He’s moving to New York City,” my dad says. “Good. The farther away from me, the better.” “Sarah, “I don’t think he ever liked our small village. City slickers are all alike.” “If he ever calls, don’t give him my address. I never want to hear from him again,” I murmur, my eyes damp. I contemplate my foolish and irresponsible move to one of the most unpopulated places in Michigan. I could have taken a job in some trendy, cosmopolitan area. Tears collect on the bed’s quilt, and I blubber the reality of my next words. “Guess I should go, or this will be a huge long-distance bill. And I gotta get up early for my new job tomorrow. I love you. Talk to you in a few days.” Their fading bye-bye dissolves as I move the handset toward the pink princess cradle on my nightstand. I push the disconnect button so they’ll only hear a click. Then, to check AT&T’s efficiency, I lift my finger and listen for the familiar buzzzzz. I drop the receiver into place, then collapse face down onto my pillow, the linen’s dampness drawing me into a dreamless sleep. § I sit next to one of the new orientees, Mary. It’s the end of our orientation week, and we’re in the surgical amphitheater of the State Hospital and Training School, the hospital’s morgue. “Ever been to an autopsy, eh?” Mary asks. “Sort of. In graduate school. Worked on cadavers.” A gurney is wheeled into the room. Two men dressed in white lift a hydrocephalic child onto the autopsy table. His skull’s spider-like veins resurrect my horror of a bulging head stuffed through an airplane’s window. Mary nudges me, seesawing me from past to present on the teeter-totter of life and death. “Look at that kid’s head. Did ya hear about the lady from the plane crash last week, eh? Heard her head was like that ... big as a watermelon,” Mary exclaims. A tall man in surgical green enters the lecture room. I reach out to the chair in front of me and steady myself. “Are you alright?” Mary asks. “Thought you said you’d seen cadavers.” “I’m fine.” “Handsome doc, eh?” Mary whispers. I redden. How right she is. Will that stunning man with peppery stubble and sculpted lips also end every sentence with ‘eh,’like everyone in the Upper Peninsula? “You’re blushing, Sarah,” Mary chides almost too loudly. “Look, no band on his third finger. I bet he’s not married, eh?” “Mary!” I plead through clenched teeth. “I wonder how many autopsies he’s performed on dead people?” Mary continues with her hushed blather. “Shush.” I elbow Mary. “They’re all dead. The live ones put up too much of a fuss.” “Ahem,” emanates from Dr. Dreamboat. Our small group comes to attention. “Good morning,” his words greet us like a welcoming breeze through summer leaves. Then a smile that warms the morgue’s stainless steel, antiseptic atmosphere. “I’m Matthew Falcone. This autopsy is an option for your orientation. If you feel woozy, you may leave at any time,” he announces in a voice as gentle and comforting as our parish priest, Father-What-A-Waste. His eyes shift to the lifeless boy. “Jimmy died of complications from hydrocephaly at eight years of age. I’ll answer your questions after the procedure.” From the counter behind him, he retrieves a small handheld device, an electric bone saw. He triggers it. I wince. The whining blade cuts smoothly into the child’s skull. The top of the head tilts over the catch basin. A yellowish substance oozes. The biting edge of the saw reaches the back of the child’s head, and the remaining cerebral fluid spills generously into the catch basin. I hold myself steady and feel Mary’s grip on my arm. “Excuse me, eh.” Mary emphasizes her last word with a retch, stands, and weaves with racing steps toward the morgue’s swinging doors. Her breakfast spews over her pallid knuckles. She bolts into the hallway. The saw stops buzzing. Dr. Falcone faces us. “I know this is tough to watch.” He pivots and gently places the cutting tool next to Jimmy’s ashen hand, seemingly as though he were trying not to wake him—as if sawing Jimmy’s head wouldn’t have. I turn my concentration to the doctor’s face. Brushing his sleeve against his glistening eye, he looks back at our group. I think he feels compassion for this boy. Next, appearing as though he’s done this a dozen times, he pulls off the top of the skull. He reaches for a curvilinear scalpel from the surgical tray and moves it with precision around the inside of the cranium. As though the boy wanted to make a gift of his organ, the brain slides effortlessly into the surgeon’s awaiting grasp. “Notice here the subdural hemorrhaging. It causes tissue swelling, rupturing of the blood vessels. The lymphatic system continues to produce excess cerebral fluid, enlarging the ventricles, expanding the skull.” He sets Jimmy’s brain on a tray on the autopsy table, turns, and takes a large formaldehyde specimen jar from the shelf behind him. “This is a fixed brain of a healthy, eighty-nine-year-old man. At the time of his passing, he was a consulting astrophysicist at NASA. Although eighty years older than Jimmy, his gyri are smooth, not swollen. Notice the furrows and how they are tightly spaced, not wide as in Jimmy’s hydrocephalic brain.” He rests the specimen jar behind him, steps in front of the body, and continues to tell us of the disease progression of hydrocephaly. He peels off a rubber glove. “Ultimately, Jimmy’s organs fail, and life ends.” He looks down. I watch his chest rise slowly as he removes the next rubber glove and drops it onto the table. He glances back at Jimmy, then to us. He exhales and asks, “Any questions?” Dr. Adorable answers all except one, something someone asks about living forever. I wonder about living forever with him, but the real question I want to ask, Doctor, do you believe I’m falling in love with you? First on a runway, now in a morgue, no less.