L Sellers - The Suicide Effect

Sula’s pulse quickened. It was happening so fast. “Soon, I guess.” If she waited, Rudker would have an opportunity to destroy the original files in Puerto Rico. What if he had ordered someone to do it already?

“Wednesday?” Paul was waiting for an answer.

“I don’t have a passport.”

“You don’t need one. It’s a U.S. territory.”

The only thing she had planned for the next few days was more job searching. “Okay.”

Great Gods. Sula could not believe she had just agreed to get on a plane and fly 1,500 miles. She’d never done this before and didn’t know how to prepare. Her pulse escalated.

“When do you want to come back?”

How long would it take? She planned to visit the research center and maybe the families. “Two days,” she finally said. Was that reasonable? She couldn’t afford to be gone longer than that.

“Which airport?”

“I don’t know. The research clinic is in San Juan.”

As Paul talked his way through the ticket purchase, Sula paced the room and tried not to hyperventilate. She could to this. Thousands of people got on planes every day and so could she. She had never left Oregon before. Did they speak English in Puerto Rico? she wondered. She would get online as soon as she got home and find out everything she could.

When Paul got off the phone, he printed out her itinerary while simultaneously reciting it to her. “You’ll catch a flight at 5:45 in the morning and fly to Phoenix. From there, you’ll fly to Orlando, Florida, then on to San Juan, arriving at 9:36 p.m., San Juan time. Three flights and twelve hours of travel. Quite an ordeal for your virgin flight.”

Sula had to sit again.

“Take your cell phone. Call me as often as you like.” Paul hugged her. “You’ll be fine.”

“You should come with me.” She didn’t want to do this alone.

“I wish I could, but it’s too short of notice for me. I have two jobs.”

“I know. I’m being selfish. This terrifies me.”

“What doesn’t kill you will make you stronger.”

“Nietzsche didn’t have to worry about falling from the sky.”

Wednesday, April 21, 5:58 a. m

One Xanax was not enough. Sula began to hyperventilate the moment she felt the air rush under the plane and lift it off the ground. To keep from vocalizing her terror, she put her head on her lap, closed her eyes, and recited an old prayer her mother had taught her as a child. She had no faith the Gods would keep the plane afloat, but forcing herself to remember the strange Indian words helped distract her.

Once the plane leveled out, she was able to breathe somewhat normally. Everyone around her seemed so calm. The young boy next to the window had been reading before the takeoff and was still reading now. The men and women in suits with their laptops all seemed intent on their work. She glanced out the window-from her seat on the aisle-and had to close her eyes again. This was not natural. The physics made no sense. Taking off in a glider plane would have been less frightening.

Sula stopped the flight attendant, a woman who looked old enough to be her grandmother, and asked for a glass of water. When she came back with it, Sula took a second tranquilizer. Two hours and twenty-one minutes, her itinerary said. An eternity. And only one leg of a three-flight journey. What in the hell was she doing? Sula breathed from her stomach and let her mind go blank. After a while she drifted off.

The second take-off out of Phoenix was only slightly better. At least she knew what to expect this time. About the time the plane leveled off, they hit turbulence. The first dip made her physically ill. Her head went back to her lap. She could not even pray. She begged Tate to forgive her for being so selfish. For running off on a wild goose chase to help people she didn’t even know and getting herself killed. Why hadn’t she made out a will?

The shaking and dipping seemed to go on forever. Sula looked up occasionally between spells and noticed other people chatted and read as if they were riding a bus across town. She vomited twice during the descent and vowed that when this trip was over, she would never get on another plane.

The Florida airport was considerably more intimidating than the Phoenix layover had been. The crowds were thicker, the languages more diverse. While in the bathroom brushing her teeth, Sula overheard a conversation that sounded like Swahili. She hadn’t even left the mainland and she was homesick already.

She had to ask directions three times during the long hike from Southwest to American Airlines, but people were friendly and helpful. Sula hoped that would be true in Puerto Rico as well. She’d read on the visitors’ information website that seventy percent of the population spoke English. She was counting on that because she spoke no Spanish. She’d brought a pocket dictionary for emergencies.

Her watch was no longer useful, so she kept checking the time on her cell phone, even though the airport had clocks everywhere. During the two-hour wait to board, her stomach finally settled down so she ate a cheeseburger and watched people come and go.

She could not believe so many of them traveled as part of their job. The whole experience was surreal, like a bizarre dream. Intellectually, she wanted to embrace it, to be adventurous and excited by the unknown. Emotionally, she was on edge and wanted more than anything to be home.

The last leg of the flight was the easiest. She was too tired and too worried about what she would do once she arrived in Puerto Rico to worry about crashing into the ocean. The flight was smooth and her cheeseburger stayed down. She even snoozed for a while.

She arrived at 9:41 local time and reset her watch to match. Her brain felt numb and her body was on auto-pilot, but she was pleasantly surprised by the airport’s small size and American feel. None of the drinking fountains worked though.

Outside, the air hit her with a warm, moist gush. Sula had never experienced anything like it. She peeled off her lightweight jacket and stood for a moment, taking in a sky full of stars. It felt like summer, and she was at ease for the first time in twenty hours. After gulping in a few more deep breaths of warm night air, she approached one of the dark green cabs that seemed to arrive every few minutes.

The driver, a small middle-aged man, jumped out, opened the trunk, and tried to take her overnight bag. She realized he meant to be helpful, but Sula refused to let go. “I want to keep it with me.” He shrugged and made a “whatever” face.

“Where to?” he asked with a soft Hispanic accent.

“The El Canario Inn.” She’d found the hotel online, three miles from the airport, five miles from the Fernandez Juncos Clinica, and only eighty dollars a night. There were cheaper places to stay, but they did not have internet connections. It was cowardly, but she wanted to stay near the airport and the tourists. She didn’t have the time, money, or courage to experience the culture. She was pleased when the cab fare only came to $4.20.

The hotel was old and beautiful. Its high ceiling was inlaid with dark wood and ornate engravings, and the warm peach-colored walls were lined with lush green plants like she’d never seen before. The surprising chill of air conditioning set her teeth on edge. The warm air outside had been so much nicer.

A pretty young woman about her age was behind the desk. She spoke perfect English, with an accent Sula didn’t recognize. After exchanging a credit card number for a plastic card that served as a room key, the woman pointed out some of the hotel’s features. Sula was barely listening. She was so tired, she couldn’t focus and knew she wouldn’t have time to enjoy the pool or the casino.