Felix would freak out if she got sick. He couldn’t cope with anything that wobbled the building blocks of family life. Crap, what if he had to take Harry to the UNC Asheville open house? No way was she letting that happen.
She shifted, pushing down on her seat. The plastic had become hot and sticky; she peeled her palms free. Even though it was January, surely this dilapidated plane had air conditioning. And the oxygen, was it thinning? Ella sat still as everything around her slipped into slow motion. The hum of engines faded. The flight attendant, who had remained seated through the turbulence, glided backward down the aisle, holding up a white trash bag, claiming refuse. Her bangles jingled, chiming a death knell.
Judgment Day.
Sounds receded as Ella slipped into a dream, holding the armrests with weak arms, heavy arms that refused to move. A body no longer controlled. Pressure built between her breasts, an imaginary parasite swelling as it drained her oxygen, as it crushed down, as it suffocated her.
A fire-burst of pain shot through her jaw. Her eyes popped open; her breath came in short, sharp jabs. Her chest was being squeezed in a vise. Tight, tight, tighter.
Her heart began pumping adrenaline, pumping pain, pumping death.
“No,” she whispered. No.
A deep voice, a stranger’s voice from another time. Felix? “What’s wrong?”
She had to stand, had to get air, had to get out. Couldn’t free herself. Why was she wearing a seat belt? Why was she burning up? Who was the man clutching her arm too tightly?
Dying, she was dying. Was it too late to join the other passengers in the Lord’s Prayer? No, no. History was not repeating itself. “You’re so like your mom,” her dad had said that morning. No, she had tried so hard to not be like her mom. Her heart was not meant to fail after forty-seven years. She was not her mom; she would not die and leave her child. She couldn’t. No one loved Harry the way she did; no one knew how. Who would keep Harry safe, protect him from people who were stupid or cruel or both? Who would protect him from his own father?
“Can’t . . . breathe.”
A guy, fuzzy at the edges, faded in and out. He yanked her up; they were in the aisle, moving forward into first class. Felix would never make such a bold move . . .
“Miss!” the man shouted. “We need help!”
Someone reached for her. Women’s voices—two of them. Good, that’s good. Women will understand: we aren’t our mothers. History doesn’t have to repeat itself. Mothers and daughters can share shoes. They don’t have to share defective genes; they don’t have to both die of heart attacks before their fiftieth birthdays.
A narrow, metal space—everything stored away, everything secured. Except for her. Was she floating? No, someone was holding her by the waist, keeping her upright.
“Ma’am? Are you okay? Can you tell me what’s happening?”
Burned coffee, she could smell burned coffee. Tried to cover her mouth; tried not to gag. The baby cried again. Harry; was Harry okay?
“Dizzy. Very dizzy. Short”—she sucked in air—“of breath. Pressure in chest. Pain in jaw.”
“I don’t think she’s been feeling well since we took off,” the good father said. Now she remembered him.
“How long have you had these symptoms, ma’am?”
“An hour? Maybe longer. Suddenly got worse.”
“Do you have any current medical conditions? Are you on any medications?”
“No.” Ella’s legs buckled.
“Let’s get her out of the galley—move her to the door where there’s more room. Are you traveling alone?”
“Yes,” the good father answered. “I think her son’s meeting her at the airport.”
Arms eased her to the floor.
Someone called for a doctor over the intercom. Three times.
“Ma’am? Can you hear me? Have you consumed any alcohol?”
Her head lolled to the side. “No.”
“Get the oxygen and the AED. Call the cockpit, tell them we have a medical emergency.” The voice softened, became angel-like. “Ma’am, I’m going to put an oxygen mask on you.”
A plastic mask covered her face. It smelled funny.