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I put my satellite assistants to work coordinating everything at Sutton Hall, from making sure the pantry and refrigerator are stocked to hiring a cleaning service to knock down the cobwebs. We had boxes of our belongings and loads of Mother’s care needs sent ahead. The vehicle Lulu Inc. leased will be delivered tomorrow morning, and the local cable company should arrive the next day to hook up cable and high-speed internet. I’m sure I’ve forgotten something, but I’m not too worried. Most anything can be replaced.
“I know Earl will come to visit. He’ll take me to dinner.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He gave me a Christmas card with a cactus on it.”
“That’s nice.”
“He loves me.”
“What’s not to love?”
“I have a passionate nature.”
“Mmm.”
“I hope we don’t run out of gas.”
Well, that didn’t last long. “We won’t run out of gas,” I tell her without opening my eyes. “Maybe you should take a little nap. We have a very busy day ahead of us.”
Mom yawns and seems to take my advice. I don’t hear a peep out of her for the next hour. The ice in my bag melts and cold droplets slide down my cheek. I hand it off to the flight attendant and try not to think of hurling through the atmosphere at five hundred miles an hour at thirty-five thousand feet. My mind turns to the perplexing face-plant in the aisle of a 737. Except for my headache and the red mark above my left eyebrow, it doesn’t seem like it really happened. I don’t know if it’s a sign of something serious or just a convergence of stressors. I think it might be the latter.
My MacBook is in the overhead compartment. I should probably use the next hour to get some work done. I need to start a blog post, but I just don’t feel like it. Once we’re all settled and Mom’s new routine is established, I’ll sit down and get into my own.
Shortly after I canceled the rest of my tour, I set up a conference call with my Lulu Inc. management team to discuss the best course for moving forward, and in the end we agreed that hiring bimonthly guest bloggers and inviting smart and savvy women to host the online events should keep the site current and interactive. Fern will post on my Instagram, and I’ll continue to make podcasts and video messages. Those changes cut my workload in half and give me more time with Mother.
A few short pings draw my attention upward as the “fasten seatbelt” light flashes on. My bottle of water tips over and rolls off the tray. It lands by my foot and I leave it there. I know what those pings mean.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are experiencing light turbulence and the captain has turned on the ‘fasten seatbelt’ sign and asks that you remain seated. For those passengers who are not seated, please return to your seat until the captain has determined that it is safe to move about the cabin. Thank you.”
Shit. Turbulence. I hate turbulence. I hate it even more without the calming aid of alcohol. We’re going to be fine, I tell myself as the plane bumps through the rough air. The wings are not going to get ripped off and we’re not going to plummet to the earth and face certain death.
“What’s that?”
Shit. Mom’s awake—just what I need. “Nothing,” I manage. The cabin rattles and dips and I try to swallow my fear.
“Are we falling from the sky?”
I turn my head and look at her wide blue eyes. “No.”
“I think we’re falling from the sky.”
“No, we’re not.” I feel sick. I think I’m going to be sick.
“Yep. We’re falling from the sky, all right.”
“Please stop,” I say, but she’s wringing her hands and I know she’s just getting started.
“Did we run out of gas?”
“No.”
“I think we ran out of gas.”
“Please stop,” I beg once more, even though I know it’s useless.
“Yep, we ran out of gas.”
