Rafael Yglesias - Fearless

“Same thing happened to me,” someone said.

“Stand up,” Perlman said. One after another six people got up to tell stories of following the Good Samaritan out. Carla didn’t pay attention to them. She leaned forward to see past the heads at Jackie. She wanted to ask her something. Had Jackie searched for her sister and her niece and nephew? Jackie had returned to her seat. Carla moved back and forth to keep watch, in order to see past the shifting heads of the people seated between them. Jackie looked flushed, listening with interest to the other stories of escape. Why didn’t it bother Jackie that she had run away from the plane? She had left her sister and those two children to burn alive. If they were alive. Carla still didn’t know whether Bubble had died from the crash or the fire. She had asked Manny to find out; he came back with the answer that they didn’t know exactly how Bubble had died but they were sure he didn’t suffer. Carla knew that made no sense: how could they know whether he suffered if they didn’t know how he had been killed?

The woman sitting on Carla’s right stood up. “I’m not one of you,” she said.

“What?” said a voice.

“I don’t belong here,” she said. Carla stared up at her. She was a broad-shouldered woman with completely silver-gray hair, although she didn’t look any older than fifty. Her left hand dangled inches from Carla’s face, the fingers clenching and unclenching. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t on the plane. My son died in the crash.” She raised her hands toward Perlman, almost a pleading gesture. “I sneaked in — I don’t belong here.”

“Why did you come?” Perlman asked.

The silver-haired woman moved between the folding chairs to get out of the circle. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

“Wait,” Perlman stood up and pleaded. “I wish you had asked me but it’s okay that you’re here. What did you want from them?” He gestured to the curious faces of the survivors.

The gray-haired woman noticed the stares of the group. She was pushed back as if the looks were a strong wind. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I just wanted to know if anyone had talked to him or knew how it was…” She wound down like a toy with a dying battery and mumbled, “I’m sorry,” and moved back, bumping into the wall.

“Who was your son?” a man called out.

“Where was he sitting?” a woman asked.

The silver-headed woman paused in her retreat along the wall toward the exit. “They said he was in twenty-one C.”

“That was right behind me.” An elderly man stood up. “Did he have red hair?”

“No,” the dead man’s mother answered. “Brown.”

“Kind of a reddish brown?” the old man asked.

“I don’t know,” she stammered. “It might have looked that way. But it was brown.”

“Tall?” the man asked.

“He was six feet tall,” she said with a hint of pride.

“And he was wearing glasses?”

A young man fitting that description stood up. “You mean me,” he said. For a moment the trio stood at different corners of the room and looked from one to another in a triangle of disappointment. The gray-haired woman sagged. The old man blinked. The young man shrugged apologetically. “We were on the other side of the plane,” he said to the mother. “I think you’re talking about me,” he said to the old man. “Remember? We met at the hospital.”

The old man’s head bowed. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled and sat down.

Perlman moved toward the gray-headed mother. She continued to leave slowly; she took small despairing steps.

“Anyone else remember that row?” Perlman asked. “What was it? Twenty-one?” He had reached the woman and stopped her progress.

In front and four seats to the left of Carla a young woman turned to her companion and whispered: “Twenty-one C was three rows ahead of me. They were smashed flat.”

Carla’s heart raced. With it pounding so fast, she couldn’t sit and breathe comfortably.

“Does anyone else have any information?” Perlman said.

Carla leaned forward to better eavesdrop on the young woman who knew what had happened to the silver-haired lady’s son. Her neighbor, the man she had spoken to, bumped her shoulder: “Go ahead. Speak up.”

“Stop it!” Carla was on her feet shouting at Perlman. “Let her go!”

The silver-haired mother was frightened by Carla. She slunk away from Perlman, heading for the exit.

“Why?” Perlman asked Carla.

“This isn’t gonna do any good,” Carla said.

Perlman stepped toward Carla, arguing. “What harm can it do? She just wants to know what happened to her son.”

“My son died,” Carla said in a clear voice.

“But you know how he died,” Perlman said. “You were with him.” He turned back to the embarrassed woman leaning against the wall. Her hand searched its surface as if hoping to find a secret exit. “When was the last time you saw your son?” Perlman asked the grieving mother.

“His birthday. About a month before. I don’t remember kissing him goodbye.” She lowered her head and mumbled. “I know I did. Just can’t remember.” She raised her eyes and seemed to notice Carla. “You’re very young,” she said.

Carla knew what that meant. Her aunts said it often enough: You’re young — you can have another. As if Bubble were something on sale that had been thrown out by accident and Carla still had time to rush to the store for another just as good. “I’m not young,” Carla said.

“How old was your son?” the silver-haired woman asked gently.

“He was gonna be two,” Carla said. She felt ashamed. She wanted to cry, of course, but that was nothing new. The shame was. She had to look away from the older grieving mother. She stared at the blue carpet.

“I’m sorry,” the silver-haired woman said. “He wasn’t with you for very long.”

“Jesus Christ!” a man shouted. “This is sadistic! We’re not accomplishing anything.”

“Who says we’re here to accomplish something?” Perlman answered. “We’re here to talk.”

The silver-haired woman talked; Perlman answered; there was shouting between some men. Carla couldn’t follow their conversations anymore. She didn’t know, for a moment, where she was or who these people were. They seemed to be memories or nightmares. She knew the facts: she was in a room of survivors and she was one of them; but that was nothing compared to the shriveling feeling that the faces of these people came from a dream or a television show, that none of it was real. I’m going crazy, she thought, and felt the room spin.

“Manny,” she said in a weak voice, hoping to summon him. He was real and if he appeared, then she was too.

“Hello,” a woman in front of her said. “Remember me?”

It was Lisa the flight attendant. She stood right in front of Carla. The rest of the group was silent. What had happened to their conversations? Why was everyone looking at her and Lisa?

“Sure,” Carla said. She stared at Lisa, registering the changes in her. Without makeup and with her long hair cut as short as a schoolboy’s she looked different. No, not just her face; it was the weight. Lisa had gained a lot, maybe as much as thirty pounds. But she still had her friendly smile, her happy smile of helpfulness.

“I really wanted to see you. I came mostly to see you.” Lisa put her hands together and seemed to pray for an answer.

Carla remembered the streak of her smeared lipstick and her gaunt cheekbone as she bent over Bubble. He had kicked out his chubby legs and slid down. The belt tightened on his neck. “ Hold him in your lap,” Lisa had said. “He’ll be okay .”

“I think about you and your baby a lot,” Lisa said. She was smiling. Why was she so cruel? Her smile was mean and got bigger as she came even closer, only inches from Carla. “Remember I tried to help you with the seat belt?”