ELEVEN
When a plane crashes, a rehearsed procedure goes into effect. It is planned for and in a sense, it is expected.
In the Elhalia operations room, a nervous hand reached up for the manual that all operations staff hope they never have to use. The hundred or so pages hold the collective wisdom, born of a century of air crashes. The appropriate response for an airline to the crash of one its aircraft has been formulated into a step by step guide; an ‘Idiot’s guide to air crash responsibility.’ This preparation seems to say, “Safety is our number one priority, but… we’re not promising anything.” It is a simple reality of flying; promises are meant to be broken. Executives and financial advisers are woken up. Board members’ phones went wild and the operations centre goes went lockdown. As part of the process, generic emails were immediately sent to everyone on the payroll: speak to media at your peril.
My first knowledge of the loss of Elhalia 474 came in a confusing text message that woke me in the dead of night. As usual, the rude awakening disoriented me and it took a moment to comprehend the words of the message. My first instinct was to panic at the thought of showing up late to work. Perhaps crewing was trying to contact me to find out where I was. No, its okay, I have the day off, I remembered. The message was blunt, yet vague: “Due recent incident, decline any approach from media.” The sender had a local area code, so I assumed it was related to the airline. What incident?, I wondered. I rubbed my eyes, gritty with the need to get back to sleep. Perhaps I misread it, or missed a vital word. It was meaningless. I put down the phone and fell asleep again.
In the previous few hours, high above the Pacific Ocean, 474 was flying through a thunderstorm en-route from Honolulu to Los Angeles. On that night-time flight, the cabin often shook most of the way, like a horse and cart down a cobblestone road–a constant bumping rhythm that rarely required the use of the seat belt sign. This time, the aircraft was sending automated messages to the operations centre as multiple systems failed on the aircraft. It was the first knowledge anyone had outside that pressurised tube that they were in trouble. Twenty-four minutes after the first messages were received at the operations base, the messages ceased. The airline went on alert. Contact could not be made with the aircraft. When it should have been within Los Angeles radar reach, there was no sign of 474. By the time calculations showed that the aircraft would have ran out of fuel, the pages of the ‘crash manual’ were put to use.
I awoke to the sound of another text message and I groaned from another irritating disruption.
“Hope u r alright. Call me please. Love you.”
It was another vague message.
It was followed by another: “Call me ASAP. Xoxo”
And another: “I hope u r okay over there. Hugz.”
Something was very wrong, and I had no idea what it was. The room was hot. My mind raced through the possibilities. A bombing? A terrorist attack? A flu outbreak? A coup?
The phone rang, in my hand, with the familiar home phone number lighting up the screen.
“Hello.”
“Liz, its your mother. Thank God. Thank God. Do you know what happened?” Her voice was tense with a seriousness that made her speak slightly faster than usual.
“Ah, hi.” I tried to clear my throat, still croaky from the sudden wake up.
“Happened? Are you asking me or telling me? I’m not sure what’s happening.”
“Oh, put on the news, darling. I think one of your planes has crashed.”
“What?” I knew the words, but they made no sense.
“Yes, it was going from Hawaii to the mainland. Did you know anyone on that flight? I hope not.”
I was annoyed by the question. Of course I didn’t know the crew details of a random flight in the network. And there were thousands working for the company. I knew only a handful beyond their names.
“I have no idea. I’ll ah.. I’ll call you later on.”
“Okay Liz. I’m glad you’re okay. I’ll let the rest of the family know.”
“Thanks.”
“Okay, now make sure you call me. I mean it.”
“Yep, yep.”
“Okay bye.
“Bye.”
I dropped back on the bed and my head hit the pillow. I closed my eyes. Despite the unfolding tragedy, my first thoughts were of the disruption to my one chance in a week to catch up on sleep. After all, I was fatigued, to the point that it was affecting my behaviour and even my thoughts.
A minute later, with images of a smoke pouring from a plane and the sound of muffled screams running through my head, I bolted upright in the bed. My heart thumped loudly, and I breathed faster. I leapt up to hit the light switch. The light stung my eyes, but I fought through it and punched aggressively at the keys on my laptop. It seemed to take forever for it to awaken itself from sleep mode and come to life. The CNN website would definitely have the most up to date news. Across the homepage were sketchy details of the “missing jet.” A large media release picture of the sleek and modern Elhalia aircraft took half the page. I needed the flight details.
Elhalia 474 HNL-LAX. I looked at the date and tried quickly to trace back the last few days, where I had been and when. The realization hit me like a bucket of icy water thrown through my insides. I turned cold, a river of icy blood flowed through me. I shivered. My hands shook. The cold was so powerful I could barely manipulate the keys or the mouse.
No no no no no no
I pulled up a new page. The airline intranet loaded at a frustrating pace.
Come on you bastard!
I hoped I could still access the information I wanted. I hoped nobody had yet put a freeze on the particular functions I needed. The page loaded and I went straight to crew briefing report page. I entered the details of 474. I pressed ENTER and waited. Maybe there was a chance a one percent chance that it would be okay. A tiny chance that I was wrong.
Please no please no. Don’t say it don’t say it don’t say it don’t say it.
The list appeared. Access had not yet been blocked. I scrolled down the list of crew on 474. One name after another did not grab my attention. I stopped at the second last name down the list and closed my eyes. I saw Mags’s name and knew I what I had suspected. The room turned freezing. I nodded my head up and down, as if trying to accept it. I couldn’t stop it. My head kept nodding. Maybe it was a coping mechanism or a symptom of shock. It was uncontrollable. Like a trance, I nodded and uttered the words, to nobody but myself. “Yep, yep, yep.”
The room felt smaller. I felt weak. I wanted a cigarette with an intensity I had never felt. I hadn’t smoked since high school, but I could have broken down the walls of my shrinking room to get one. I paced around the room. I was trapped within the walls of my little cell. I pushed aside the blinds and looked out across the night cityscape of the dessert metropolis. The isolation of the job had never felt so severe. Although full of people, the building held not a single other soul whom I could talk to, or would want to hear from me in the middle of the night. Never had I wanted to be home so badly. I walked back to the computer with an overpowering urge to log on to any of the social media sites. I wanted to be home with family and friends. But pictures and cyberspace would have to substitute. I typed in the address bar and pressed ENTER. No response.
Fuck! Just work!
It wouldn’t. I tried again. Nothing. The connection had dropped out as it was prone to do and could stay that way for as long as a day.
Fuck it! Fuck this place! Fuck this fucking job! Fuck this country! Fuck!
The time that I most needed to be connected to loved ones, the connection wouldn’t work. The straw had broken the camel’s back. I gasped uncontrollably. I ran to the bathroom breathing faster and faster. Tears were coming now. I hated everything about the place. Trapped in the cell with no contact to the outside world. I seemed to be leaving a trail of death. I wanted my parents, my friends, even my bastard ex-boyfriend. I wanted someone to hold me and say it would be alright. But I was shafted int
o the white walled cell in the fucking dessert town. I became hysterical. I gasped for air and pushed my face close against the mirror. I looked back at two red eyes. I didn’t recognise the face of the madwoman looking back. Everything was out of control. Just like after Bobby, I felt as if I was watching from afar. The girl was dying alone in her private little world. I gasped. No amount of air would satisfy my craving for oxygen. I breathed faster and faster, deeper and deeper. It wasn’t helping. I was suffocating on air. My legs felt weak, but I had strength left in my arms, fuelled by rage. I reached up for a towel looped over the door. I clung on as I felt my legs giving way. My head was getting dizzy. The air kept on suffocating, as I gasped ever deeper and faster. Hyperventilation, I would recognise in hindsight. I slid down the door, my hands lowering me slowly as I lost strength. I closed my eyes, and felt numb all over. I wanted to sleep. I lay there curled up on the hard tile floor, for probably over an hour.
The next night, the clock told me that I was waking up every twenty to thirty minutes. Every time I relearnt that Mags was dead. I would forget momentarily as it slipped from my awareness while falling into sleep, then slam back into my mind when regaining consciousness. Every time I woke up, a voice said ‘don’t forget she’s dead.’ I imagined it must have been like this, but worse, when a parent loses a child. Every wake up that follows must start with the thought: don’t bother getting up, your child is dead.
The disembodied voice of my mother on the phone did little to console me. It only reminded me that I was far away, and completely alone. I felt anger that I had never experienced. It manifested itself physically, in clenched fists, grinding teeth, and the slamming of anything that got in my way. I punched holes in the walls in anger and broke the shower screen, bringing little satisfaction. I cursed the God I never believed was there. I wished terrible things on the airline managers, and wished a painful death to them and anyone they cared about. The people who built the plane could all die in fiery car crashes, for all I cared. I wanted them to hurt for what they had done. Even though at this point nobody even knew the true cause of the crash, I wanted those responsible to suffer.
A few days later–like a zombie, or a robot, just as the company liked–I put on my uniform, made my self look pretty, and headed to work. On the elevator ride up to the crew room, I hadn’t the patience to feign a smile at the strangers sharing the ride. They looked at me as usual. I turned around and faced the wall.
The crew room was quitter than usual. No loud laughter, but no tears either. Nobody appeared particularly devastated. Robots moved around operating as per requirement. The gears of Elhalia were turning as usual. One robot offered a fake smile as she walked past. I appreciated her effort. A crew manager stood by the common area sink with another crew manager. They were whispering, but were perfectly audible as I stood a few paces back, waiting for access to the sink, fists clenched with anger and impatience, wanting to refill my water bottle.
“We had another crier this morning. I sent her home. Enough is enough.”
“Yes exactly! They have to get over it.”
I had time before the briefing, to check emails and the news. I scanned over the emails, not registering a word of latest procedure updates. The messages regarding the crash were generic in nature and the predictable duty of care email offered the number of a company counsellor. Fucking useless. It ain’t gonna bring back all those dead people. I looked over the latest news online. The crash was still front page. A grid of faces of the victims framed a picture of the lost aircraft. They were smiling faces. Young couples. Fit looking. Tanned faces. Old faces, and so many young faces, pretty faces, handsome faces. They were all happy faces, like a showcase of humanity’s best. There were no crew faces though. No Mags. Perhaps they were an afterthought. After all, “crew” seems to have a dutiful ring to it. Perhaps they were expected to die in their job at some point. Dead crew don’t sell news as well as dead honeymooners or dead award winning disease researchers.