RED HOOD

Two

The turbulence shook me awake. I was so exhausted I didn't even realize I'd fallen asleep. Looking around the plane, I found the other passengers were consumed with distractions. The plane could crash at any moment—their lives suddenly over—and the last thing they'd be doing was the crossword or reading a gossip magazine.

Do they ever realize how quickly it's all over?

My mind couldn't help but wander into dark territory. I quieted my mind, taking a deep breath, my lungs quivering. Lately, I kept forgetting to breath. It's instinctive, but when life begins to challenge you, sometimes you stop without even knowing.

My fingers hurt. Unconsciously, I had been gripping the small, metal urn hard against my stomach and chest. It was all that was left of my mother.

Just memories and ash.

Only a few days before, my life was what people would call "normal." I lived in New York City with my mom. We shared a small but cozy apartment, big enough for the two of us. I went to school, rode the subway, had friends, crushes, even a job at a bookstore on the weekends.

Then I found my mom on the bathroom floor.

Blinking away the red memory, I focused my attention on the tightening cramp in my fingers. It ached, but it felt nice to feel some prick of sensation, some emotion. Since finding her, everything felt far away, underwater. I felt numb. I'd lost another part of me.

I had lost my dad. My sister. And now my mom. Like losing one limb after another. I had nothing left. I felt empty. Alone. I wanted to be angry, to hate her for leaving me, for abandoning me the way she had—for leaving me alone. But there was nothing. No pang of emotion.

I hadn't cried. Not when I found her. Not when the medics came. Not when the police questioned me. Not even when I was left all alone in the apartment after. There was just the sound of my heart, beating loud against my chest—though it felt as if it had been ripped out.

I arranged everything on my own. The bills. Notifying people. The cremation. People called, asking what they could do to help, asking to come over, asking what I needed. I lied, saying so and so was coming over and that I would be fine.

When the lawyer came I wasn't prepared for what the will had to say: My mom wanted me to go live with my father's parents—Beth and Thurston Dupre. I hadn't seen them since I was five. The next morning I was at the airport, headed to a small town in Texas. To the place where I was born.

If I could feel anything at that moment, it would have been that my life was over. I had just turned seventeen. If it'd happened just a year later, I could have stayed. But I couldn't live in New York on my own. Not as a minor.

The plane shook again.

Ding! The seat belt light flashed overhead.

A relaxed voice came over the intercom. "We ask that anyone standing in the cabin please return to their seats and fasten their seatbelts. We're experiencing mild turbulence, but should be out of it shortly."

Mild turbulence. I guess that's what you could call the hiccups in life. A dry chuckle escaped my lips.

Peeling my fingers off the urn, I squeezed them into a fist, then relaxed them. Life flooded back into them in tiny pinches. I stared at my hand. It looked alien with the detailed etchings of the urn imprinted into my palm. Intricate and well conceived, the texture of spiraling vines and serpents etched into my flesh.

I looked down the aisle past the flight attendant toward the rear of the plane. Finally, there was no line for the bathroom. Unfastening my seatbelt, I stood, dizzy. I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten. My legs wobbled the first few steps, but with each step I found new confidence, clinging to the urn like a child. Scanning the people as I took each careful step, a single passenger caught my eye. She was striking, beyond beautiful, almost exotic. She sat against the window, no newspaper in her lap, no crossword, not even an iPod. She looked straight ahead as if in a trance.

The first thing I noticed were her eyes, the irises so light the soft purple in them seemed to shimmer. Her hair was black and perfect, falling in straight waves onto her dark skin and the hood of a red cloak. There was something ­antiquated about her state of dress, but the garment was beautiful. My own red hooded sweatshirt suddenly felt very cheap. She must be a model or an actress, I thought. She sat so amazingly still, and was so stunningly beautiful. ...definitely a model.

The girl next to her—younger than me, pale but with striking pink hair—had headphones on and was completely enthralled by her handheld videogame. The beautiful woman didn't seem to notice her, as her gaze turned to me. Her lips pulled into a warm smile, warmer than any stranger warranted. I felt as if I knew her, or she knew me.

A chill ran up my spine. Realizing I had stopped to stare at her, I dipped my head in a small bow, and smiled awkwardly. Her head nodded, acknowledging.

"Excuse me," the flight attendant hissed, giving me a look up and down, "I need you to return to your seat."

The fresh wrinkles around her eyes reminded me of my mother. They would be the same age—if my mother were still alive. I couldn't stop the harsh glare I shot her for doing her job. This week, more than any other, I could get away with anything. The world had taken my mother, and it owed me.

"Miss? You need to—"

I interrupted her. "I need to go to the bathroom."

"You can go to the lavatory after—"

"I'm holding the ashes of my dead mother in an urn," I asserted. "Do you mind?"

The flight attendant took a step back, squeezing against the seats to let me pass by. Shocked, her lips shut tight, before opening again. "I'm so sorry—" she started, but I moved past her without listening to the rest.

I wanted to smile at the small victory, butit didn't feel good. It didn'tfeel like anything at all. All Iwanted was to see my mother. Toask her why she had left me. Toask why she had to go and leave me all alone in this world. All I wanted to know was why she'dtaken her own life.