Holding on to Someday Read online

  I didn’t expect to see anything from Clara. She can’t use her phone on the plane, so it’s doubtful I will hear from her before the plane lands. It’s frustrating, all the same. I get up and walk around, trying to shake the feeling of dread taking over. I find myself standing in front of the screen that displays flight statuses. I dig the piece of paper out of my pocket and check the flight information:

  American Airlines #1109, arrival 3:49 pm

  Looking up at the screen, I begin to browse the listings, but immediately I’m caught by one flight that is flashing red and says “error” beside it.

  Atlanta to Charlotte 3:49P AA#1109 *Error*

  Blink. Blink. Blink.

  What does that mean? I’m curious as to why it’s not saying, “on time,” “delayed” or “canceled” like all the others. What does the flashing mean? What does an error message mean?

  I decide to look for an information desk, so I can ask someone who might know. I finally see a customer service counter, and as I walk toward it, I notice a group of people standing in front of a TV screen mounted on the wall. Inexplicable dread settles in my chest as I approach the employee behind the counter.

  “Excuse me, can you tell me why an ‘error’ message is showing beside flight 1109?”

  Her expression is unreadable as she points toward the TV everyone has gathered around. I turn and make my way over to the group. They are watching a national news station; as I peer around them, I see smoking wreckage on the screen. I push to get a closer look at the words scrolling across the bottom of the screen:

  Breaking News: American Airlines flight crashes just outside of Atlanta.

  I see news reporters talking frantically, but I can’t hear what they are saying. My mind is racing; I’m not sure what to make of this. Bile rises in my throat, and I try to swallow the sense of fear that is taking over. I look again at the flight information Angie had given me:

  #1109

  I look back at the screen to see if they have reported a flight number. My pulse rages in my ears… thump, thump, thump. I nudge my way to the front of the crowd - I couldn’t care less about seeming rude at the moment. I brace myself to read the scrolling marquee at the bottom of the screen:

  American Airlines flight #1109, traveling from Alabama, crashed just outside of Atlanta this afternoon. Emergency crews are on the scene now. We have no word yet on the number of injuries. Stay tuned for further updates.

  Clara was in Alabama. The flight number matches her flight number. The information hits me like a wall. No…no…. no, no, no…it’s a mistake. It must be a mistake. I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience; my limbs feel numb, my heart is pounding in my chest, my ears are ringing. It has to be a mistake.

  This. Can’t. Happen. Again.

  The pain I thought I had finally buried is threatening to resurface again. All-encompassing fear courses through my veins. I lean over and put my hands on my knees, my head low. I feel someone touch my shoulder.

  “Sir?…. Sir… are you okay? Sir…?”

  I don’t move. I can barely breathe. I feel like a wave just crashed over me, and now I’m fighting to fill my lungs with air. I know what happened. I can feel it in my soul.

  The repeated calls.

  The static.

  The background commotion.

  Several more people have gathered around the television. A man is tapping my shoulder, trying to get my attention, and I push his hand away.

  “Please, not now,” I say in a defeated tone.

  “Do you have someone on that flight too?” the voice says.

  I turn to look at the stranger. When I look into his eyes, I see an expression that matches my own. Fear. “Yes,” I simply answer him.

  He points at an airport official approaching our group. The somber look on his face lets us know he’s looking for people like us….family and friends of the passengers on 1109. He looks at us as we walk toward him, “Do you know someone on this flight?”

  Both of us nod our heads in response.

  “Please, come with me,” he says and directs us toward a set of double doors. I can hear men and women wailing as we make our way through the doors. The official opens the doors for us, and we walk into a large conference room. Looking around, I see people holding onto each other, and I know exactly how they feel. A few others, seated at the table, staring silently into space.

  “Have a seat. Someone will be here shortly to talk to everyone as a group,” he says and exits the room.

  I watch him walk away. Those words uttered so matter-of-factly and cold. No emotion on his face at all. I wonder if he’s had to do this before? As I walk over to the long table and take a seat, I listen to the sounds of sobs and cries. I look around the room...some people clustered in small groups; others are alone, like me. No one seems to know what is happening.

  Fifteen minutes later, a middle-aged woman wearing a business suit and holding a clipboard, walks into the room. “Hello, everyone. My name is Patricia Henderson, and I’m with American Airlines. I understand everyone in this room has someone who was supposed to be on flight #1109. I know you want answers, but at the moment we are unsure of what happened. As you know, the flight was scheduled for a layover in Atlanta before proceeding to Charlotte. The only thing we know for certain is that air traffic control received a distress call just before 1 pm and that we lost communication with the flight at 1:14 pm. We have confirmed that the plane went down around 1:15 this afternoon, just outside of Atlanta.”

  I immediately reach into my pocket to check the call time from Clara.

  1:12 pm

  Now I know. Clara tried to call me. Something was happening, she tried to call me, and I didn’t answer my stupid phone! I grip the phone so tight that my knuckles turn white.

  Patricia continues, “As of right now we have no definite numbers to confirm. There are reports of some survivors, but we have no idea how many, nor the number of injuries. The list I have here contains each passenger who boarded the flight in Alabama. I am going to pass it around the room, and you can check the list to confirm whether or not your loved one was on that flight.” She pauses briefly, “We are arranging for a charter flight to Atlanta, for family members. The flight will leave in one hour, at 5 pm - if you would like to make arrangements to be on that flight. We will provide the flight free of charge.”

  I see several people look at each other as whispers fill the room. My mind is racing, and all I can think is why would I want to get on a plane when we are discussing the details of one that just crashed?! She must think we are crazy.

  As if reading our minds, she adds, “I realize you may be hesitant to get on a plane right now, considering the circumstances. However, I assure you this is still a very safe way to travel, and the quickest way to get to your loved ones in Atlanta.”

  She takes a moment to look around the room. “I’m going to give you all a few minutes to check the flight roster and to think about what you would like to do. I will try to find out more details about the situation, and when I return, I will need confirmation of who will be on the charter flight to Atlanta.” She pauses as she turns to leave, “I’m sorry this has happened. I pray each of you in this room will receive some good news very soon,” and then she turns and walks out the door.

  The clipboard makes its way around the table. About 15 other people sit in the room; young, old, a few children, and a baby. As the clipboard reaches me, I scan the list and confirm my worst fear.

  Seat 12A, First Class – Clara M. Willet

  27

  Antiseptic Smells and Gray Walls

  Brady

  I don’t have time to go home and pack for this impromptu trip. I don’t want to anyway. All I can think about is getting to Atlanta and finding Clara. Patricia doesn’t tell us anything new when she comes back in; she confirms who will be flying to Atlanta, and dutifully records our contact information. Most of the crowd agrees to go. I guess we will figure out everything else once we get there.

&nb
sp; The worst part of it all is not knowing. I don’t know anything. No one can give us any details. I’m sure it’s all strictly confidential at this point…and they are only telling us enough to pacify our worries. As I walk down the tarmac to the small charter plane, I can’t help but wonder what Clara was thinking when she knew it was happening. What did she thinking when she called, and I didn’t answer? She was scared and alone, and I wasn’t there for her.

  We file silently into the small plane and take our seats. It’s eerily quiet; even the little kids don’t utter a sound. No one talks to anyone else, out of fear for what they might say. I don’t think any of us are ready to face the fear of the unknown. I, for one, do not even want to entertain the thought that Clara did not survive.

  I can’t.

  I won’t.

  So, I lay my head back on the seat, close my eyes, and pray.

  Please, God, let her be alive.

  The flight is short, and we land in just under 45 minutes. As soon as we exit the plane, another group of people greets us. The group of six men and women lead us down a hallway to an empty conference room. We sit at a long table while the group forms a line across the front of the room.

  An older gentleman speaks first.

  “First, let me say we are so very sorry for what has taken place today. We are still learning details about the crash, and as soon as the FAA releases any information, we will let you know. But for now, I know you are all anxious to find your loved ones.”

  He turns and introduces the others at the front of the room.

  “Each of you will have a representative to take you to the hospital, and remain with you until you receive information about the passengers on the flight. These hosts are here to help you with whatever you need. Survivors have been taken to Atlanta Medical Center. We have already been in touch with them to get a listing of patient names from the flight.”

  I still feel numb, but tears begin to force their way into my eyes. He continues to speak, and it takes every ounce of reserve I have to focus on his words…..and to avoid losing it. He says something about not knowing how many casualties, but I can’t listen.

  “As soon as you arrive, you will be escorted to the patient information center. A team is assembled there to help answer your questions. We will not delay this any longer, so you may reach your loved ones. Listen for your name to be called, and you may leave with your representative.”

  We all still sit at the table waiting. I begin to hear names called out, and then I hear “Brady Reese,” so I stand.

  A man approaches me and extends his hand to me. “Mr. Reese, my name is Mark Jacobs, and I will take you to the hospital now.”

  I shake his hand and nod in response, still unable to find words. I follow him through an exit door to a row of several mini-vans. Mark and I climb into one and another family load in behind us.

  The drive to the hospital is a blur because all I can think about is Clara. I look out the window but focus on nothing. Atlanta traffic is horrible this time of day. It’s just after 6 pm, and we finally arrive at the hospital around 6:30. We enter in through a side door and immediately taken to a large waiting room. No one else is here except a team of medical and business professionals standing in a corner, anticipating our arrival. Once seated, a man in a white coat and tie steps up to speak to us.

  “My name is Dr. Warren Townsend, and I am the Chief Resident physician here at AMC. I know you are all worried and anxious to find out some information about your loved ones, so I am going to ask the staff of counselors to speak with each family. On behalf of AMC, I want you to know how sorry I am that this tragedy has happened. I assure you our facility is one of the best, and we have a highly trained team of medical professionals here who are doing everything they can to help your loved ones.”

  After he finishes, a young woman comes up and introduces herself to me. “My name is Caroline,” she says, reaching out to shake my hand.

  “Brady Reese,” I respond, taking her hand.

  She motions toward the door, and says, “Please follow me this way, Mr. Reese.”

  Mark Jacobs trails behind as I follow her to a small office. Mark tells me he will wait outside while Caroline speaks with me. I give him a slight nod as she closes the door.

  “Please have a seat,” she says, pointing to a small chair beside the desk. She sits down and opens a laptop computer. She has kind eyes and a sad smile on her face as she scans the computer screen.

  “I know this is a difficult situation, and I want to make this as easy as possible for you.”

  I nod my head in acknowledgment.

  “Which passenger are you here for, Mr. Reese?” she asks.

  “Clara Willet,” I respond.

  “May I ask your relation to Miss Willet?”

  “I’m her boyfriend. Can you please tell me if she is alive?”

  I am desperate for information - I want to cut to the chase. Caroline frowns, “Hospital policy states I am only allowed to release information to immediate family members.” She looks quizzically at me, asking. “Is her family here, sir?”

  “No, no… they live in Virginia, and I don’t have their number with me. I doubt they even know about the crash. I was picking her up from the airport. Please. Please…” I beg, “Just tell me if she’s okay. You don’t have to tell me any other details; I only need to know if she’s alive. I can’t lose her. I love her. I love her,” my words trail off into a choked whisper. I drop my head into my hands as the tears finally begin to fall down my face.

  Caroline clicks the mouse a few times and appears to be concentrating on the screen in front of her. Finally, she says, “Okay, since you are her fiancé,” emphasizing the last word, “I can give you that information.”

  I lift my head when I hear her words, and when our eyes meet she gives me a small wink. “Yes, Mr. Reese, she is here at AMC, and she is alive. She was brought in at 3:11 this afternoon with injuries to her legs and internal bleeding. According to the notes on her chart, it looks like she is stable as of now.”

  I can’t even move…. I have to remind myself to breathe as I process this information. To hear that she’s alive is such a relief, but knowing she’s hurt is unbearable.

  Caroline places a hand gently over mine.

  “She was lucky, Mr. Reese… she was seated at the front of the plane. That section of the plane received the least amount of damage - all first-class passengers survived. The notes from the medics who brought her in say her legs were broken because the seat in front of her broke loose, falling back onto her and trapping her in her seat.”

  Once again, I lean over in my chair, gripping my head in my hands. I keep running my fingers through my hair trying to concentrate on the words she is saying.

  “Can I see her?” I ask after taking a deep breath.

  “She is still in surgery, Mr. Reese, but she should be out shortly. Mark will take you to the waiting room in the surgical pavilion in the east wing. The staff there will give you updates on her condition.”

  “Alright… but is she going to be okay?” I ask. “I mean… how bad was she hurt?”

  “The report I have was the initial report submitted by the EMS workers, and only said what I mentioned just now. I’m not sure the extent of her injuries, but you will be able to speak with someone when you arrive upstairs.”

  “Okay.” I feel my heart rate calm a bit. Knowing she’s alive is enough for now.

  “Is there anyone else we can contact for you? I know you said her parents live out of state,” Caroline asks while pulling out a contact information sheet.

  “Yes, you need to contact her parents. But, they live in Virginia, and I don’t know how…” She smiles and places her hand on my arm. “We will find them if you can give me their names.”

  I have to stop and think a minute. Clara has talked about her parents, but I’ve not met them yet, and it’s not like she refers to them by their first name a lot. Carolina is looking at me expectantly with her pen in hand.

>   “Ummm… uhhhh…” it’s so hard to concentrate right now. I finally blurt out, “Jim and Susan Willet. They live in Virginia Beach, Virginia.”

  Then I think about Angie. She’s probably worried sick, and I remember that she asked me to call her when I found out something. I can’t right now… I need to see Clara first. “And please call Angie Johnson too. That’s Clara’s office assistant, and she can probably give you her parents’ number as well.” I write down Angie’s number and then tuck my phone back into my pocket.

  Caroline asks, “Is there anyone else you would like us to contact?”

  “I can’t think of anyone else right now…forgive me, but my thoughts are going in a million different directions. I think her parents will contact who they need to.”

  “Absolutely,” she says. “I will take care of contacting them, and Mark will take you up to the east wing.” We both stand and make our way toward the door.

  She places her hand on my shoulder, leans toward me, and says, “I know this is scary, but I assure you she is being taken care of here. You are lucky to get the news that she survived the crash. Take a deep breath and know that everything is going to work out.”

  I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath while I focus on the fact that Clara is alive. I am so thankful for that, but I can’t help but wonder how many other families won’t be able to say the same. As I exit the room, I look down the hall at a family standing a few doors down. They are hugging each other and crying. It’s obvious, by their expressions, that their news had not been good.

  Mark pushes off the wall and looks at me expectantly. Even though we’ve only exchanged a few words, I can feel his concern for my situation. I nod my head, yes, and immediately I see the relief wash over his face.