Short Stories

What If

Cara fiddles nervously with the boarding pass in her hand. So many possibilities- however unlikely- that could occur. What if she can't find her passport? What if the ticket declines? What if, what if, what if, what if. She didn't bother mentioning any of these fears to her mother or sister. It was burdening and unnecessary. They didn't need to hear what they heard thousands of times over the years. What if I don't have enough money for the ice cream?  You have enough if you get exactly what you're supposed to.  What if I bleed through my pants when I have my period? If you're worried about it, wear black pants and keep extra pads in your pockets. Her mom was good at reassuring her. Unless she asked a question when she was already overwhelmed. But what if- I'm busy right now Cara. I know but what if-  I don't have time for your what ifs! 

" Next!" The security guard says, unknowingly sending Cara into another spiral as she stepped up to the scanner.
Her mom had nudged her forward, which did and did not help. Cara slid her passport face down across the glowing glass of the scan. She clenched her free fist as the green line slowly moved across the page, holding her breath as it paused. Only letting the air leave her lungs again when the small gate shutters open, allowing her to glide in between the stations.

Only when her carry- on is safely packed away above does she let herself relax into the cushioned seat, clicking her seat belt into place. She's next to the right aisle, a perfect view of other passengers settling into their seats, rearranging the luggage in compartments and fussing about small children. An elderly lady wrapped in patterned scarves and a knitted cardigan staggers closer. Wispy white hair peaks out from the wrapped bonnet on her head as she shuffles down the aisle with her wooden cane. She eases herself gently into her seat, also right across from Cara's.

The woman is silent as the plane starts down the runway, only a small whisper as she pulls out her earbuds to plug into the small tv embedded into the seat in front of her. Cara closes her eyes while the plane rumbles off the ground. Her mom squeezes her hand in support, comforting enough for Cara to give her a small smile. It isn't that Cara disliked planes. She remembers being quite excited when she was younger, happily scrolling through the new movies on her screen, unable to will her smile away at the sighting of a movie still only showing in the theatre. The flight attendants were nice, they gave her small candies, and then she got to fall asleep nestled in a chair too big for her small body against the window, clutching her fluffy purple rabbit. 

But now her purple rabbit was too fragile to take, not to mention she was too old to need one. No window seat because she can't sleep on planes anymore, and they're all too small for her lean legs, often having to stretch them down the side of the aisle to keep them from cramping.

Squirming in her seat, Cara sighs as she lets her head fall back against the headrest. Barely an hour in and she didn't know what to do except wiggle into different positions every few minutes, and observe her surroundings. What always came in favour was Cara's ability to will her mind to wander- unfortunately the only time she couldn't was with her what ifs- letting the slow stream of thoughts fall into line. She looked at the long line of people waiting to the side for the bathrooms to be free, even timing how long each person was in. At some point, Cara lost track of if someone was even in the stall, because somehow, sometime, the bathroom to the left was locked, not in use but still 'occupied.' People came and went, until Cara timed it just right so that when she stood up, there was no line and one free bathroom. 

Inside, the light was surprisingly illuminating. Lighting up her pale face and almond brown eyes. Annoyance sparked as Cara ran her eyes over the frizzy ends of her hair, although it quickly passed from the reassurance of darkness in the rest of the plane. Looking at the sickly tainted walls and crumpled paper on the ground, Cara ponders the idea of air plane bathroom sex. Many movies with steamy scenes of scandalous intercourse gossiped over, igniting fantasies. It didn't make sense. The stall barely fit a singular person comfortably, let alone two people hitched against the wall. Even if there was one big enough, how subtly could two people enter a bathroom at the same time? Or even one after the other, first it's occupied and then it's open for someone to go in while others wait? Cara supposed if they were unbothered by people's assumptions it would be fine, but there was still no sound barrier between the door and the rest of the plane. She couldn't see an outcome where their noises weren't heard by at least someone. Taken aback by this steep slope of a subject, Cara hastily rubs the soap in between her fingers.

With the conclusion that air plane sex is not popular, Cara finishes up and heads back to her seat. She watches more shyly this time as the trolley rolls closer and closer to her row of seats, flight attendants passing the trays of food around. " Chicken or pasta?" An attendant asks.
" Pasta, please." Cara responds politely, popping out her earbud to better hear the woman over the audio of the movie playing.
She passes Cara the rectangular plastic plate of food, putting it on her unfolded tray from the back of the seat in front of her. It's warm from the heated container of pasta that steams as she rips off the foil. Long pieces melted together with tomato sauce and cheese neatly filling the holder. A cup of a strange dill salad, big chunks of onion and sauce covered  cucumbers next to the pasta. A small piece of bread accompanied with a slice of cheese and butter. For what Cara assumes is dessert is a small square of lemon loaf, which she doesn't approve of as a dessert worthy item. She remembers fondly of the ice cream bars and cups of pudding when she was younger. That was dessert. No point in complaining out loud though, so Cara slips it into her pocket for a snack later on and proceeds with the pasta.

She eats it in large chunks, larger than what should fit on her thin wooden fork but manages anyway. The bitter flavour and unpleasant crunch of the unfairly sizeable onions from the salad immediately pushes Cara to banish it to the corner of her plate. She takes a long sip of water from the miniature bottle given to her before continuing. If the pieces of onion were diced and not chopped like tomatoes, it would be a good salad. It wasn't the fact it included onions, Cara had developed a preference for them sprinkled in tacos and thin curls in her burgers. It was the proportions of it, uneven and distasteful compared to the cucumber- despite also being disconcertingly rubbery- which although is better cut, Cara  decides is also not worth filling her hunger with.

It's easier to let herself sit in silence once the demands of her stomach are met. Words and ideas badger her as the movie further pushes Cara into unrest. Flashes her sister a glance as she draws in her small notepad, she itches to lift her pencil to paper. Admittedly when the opportunity arose to take out her pencil case and notebook from her bag, she passed it up, minimising the space of her feet filled with her stuff. Thinking about her options to either stand up and open the carriers overhead to find the notebook by pulling out her backpack or letting herself sit with boredom, Cara prefers to leave the suitcase compartments alone. She didn't know how to explain the irrational fear of people's attention on her to anyone. Every time people asked or demanded the reason for her avoidance of restaurants or mall trips, she opened her mouth to describe the gut-wrenching anxiety that pulled on her heart but the words died and all she could muster was a shrug of her shoulders. It was in conflict with her fomo that on a daily, ruined the confidence she had within her friend circle. What if she wasn't fun enough? What if she was being excluded from movies and sleepovers? What if they were waiting until the end of the year to ghost her? 

Cara huffs with annoyance at the return of her what ifs. Clawing at her brain like a parasite. She resented these anxieties, these fears that held her back. What life would she lead if the thought of an embarrassing trip of her feet deterred her from marriage? Not one that was wanted. Exhaling, she jiggles her leg up and down with impatience. Envying a carefree and laid back approach to something as simple as trying on clothes at a store. A few more hours. Just a few more hours.

Eventually after the struggle of ripping herself from the suffocating what ifs, Cara switches from the movie credits to her phone, cranking the volume and playing her favourite music album. It calms the stir of chaos in her head, even allowing the loosening of her tense shoulders. Caught off guard when the pilot clears his voice over the speaker. " Well folks, as you may have already discovered, we have reached our destination. Please remain seated until the seat belt sign is turned off for you to collect your things. Thank you for flying with us today and have a safe stay."
Quickly, Cara collects her things, shoving anything loose into her pockets. She had been trained from a young age that if she were to be tall- taking after her father's impressive height of 6ft 5- she would be responsible for standing up as fast as possible to get their carry-on bags before anyone else. Cara follows her instructions, leaping to her feet and yanking the luggage compartment open and  sliding their backpacks safely onto the ground.

Despite the quick thinking and smooth sailing exit from the plane, Cara's nerves prickle the ends of her fingers and toes. Agitated and impatient, she dances on the spot whenever the traffic of travel slows the descent towards outside. Cara's mother ushers them safely and confidently through customs and security.

The sickening worry finally leaves as her face is pressed against the cold glass of the taxi window. Cara made it. She made it through another flight. The what ifs would quiet until the next time they would be forcibly summoned.