l a p s e

the wait

My mother was always a very tired person. It was expected that one hour into the plane journey she would fall asleep on my shoulder, and indeed, she did. The coffee sat, sulking, on the tray in front of her. I gently extracted a small pillow from her luggage and set her head onto it.

Silence, for a while. I cracked my knuckles, finger-combed my hair, which fell in unruly spiraling curls down my back. After a quarter of an hour I had nothing to do. The botanist did not, either, because he turned to me.

"Where are you going?" His voice was polite, but quiet in a distracted way, like he was talking but thinking of a million other things at the same time. He gave me a gentle smile. My eyes flicked to the small leather-bound travel journal on his desk, flipped open to a crude sketch of some plant.

I thought a moment before answering. What if he had some kind of story for me, too? Telling him who I was would ruin it. I wondered if I should lie, say I was a foreign secret agent on a mission, but then decided against it. "I'm a dancer," I said quietly. "I perform in Vancouver tonight."

He smiled and nodded, but didn't ask me to elaborate. I deliberated asking him where he was going, flashed over the story I had for him again. "What about you?"

"Oh, I'm a botanist," he said brightly. "I have a lecture to attend." He turned back to his journal, scribbled something quickly, didn't look up again.

I nodded carefully, then looked away. When I looked back up again, the botanist was asleep too, his head rolling back and his mouth slightly open. The journal was closed; the pen had rolled into his lap. He snored lightly.

Closing my eyes, I tried to sleep too. But I was too awake – whether because of the nerves or something else altogether, I didn't know. With nothing to do, I cracked my knuckles again. Stared at my legs. Picked lint off my skirt. Then leaned forward to rummage in my handbag for my phone.

My father was notorious for not picking up calls, but I thought I would call him anyway. The phone rang once, twice, then beeped out an error. No reception. I tried again, but it was stubborn. Out of the corner of my eye, I vaguely saw a flash of lightning. I did not give it much thought. Instead I checked that my bags were secure, then adjusted my position so I could lean my head comfortably on the seat.

Next to me was my mother's sleeping face, and I smiled fondly at her before giving her a small kiss on the cheek. Her eyelid twitched. I turned to face the window. Then I closed my eyes.

The plane wobbled.

I opened them again. The seatbelt lights near the front of the cabin flashed on in reply. In the aisle, you were standing to pull his duffel down from the rack. There were very few seatbelt noises.

Someone sneezed. A child began a stuttering wail. This time, I was turned toward the window, and I saw the lightning draw a smile on the wing. The plane whined. Next to me, both my mother and the botanist continued to snore. I heard the mother hushing the child, who cried louder. Another sneeze.

There was a bit of silence, then, like the air had been sucked out of the cabin. Every noise was abruptly cut off. Then, thunder.