There is so much about flying that she loves. When the turbulence dissolves and the plane is flying smoothly again. She's never taken drugs but tells herself this must be what a high feels like: the abrupt cessation of fear, sudden dropping-off of terror, leaving her in a place of perfect joy, amazement, in love with the world, so full of gratitude for the calm air that she is willing to give up anything, give up everything to stay there.
Over the years, she has bargained with G-d, offering up whatever was of greatest import, whatever was the primary goal, wish, dream of her life at the time. She promised to be nicer to her younger siblings, work harder at school, not complain. She bargained with G-d, saying, You have to let me live until my first kiss, my first job, my first time having sex, my first time having good sex. She remembers wanting to tell a lover afterwards that he'd condemned her to death, he'd taken her last trick, her last bargaining chip, she had nothing left that G-d might want, that G-d might be willing to take in exchange for letting her linger on this earth a little longer.
She asks herself why is she terrified of dying while flying when she is petrified of living? She is so frightened of the future, of the way the world is changing faster than she can stand, how seasons are disappearing, how she no longer recognizes weather patterns, and the creatures of the deep that she has loved forever—sea turtles, dolphins, whales—are being trapped and tangled in plastic, in fishing nets, are being killed by ship strikes, and she is overwhelmed by rage and such sorrow she thinks she can't bear it.
You would think someone like that, like her, would book a flight every week, travel for a living, go out of her way to fly into dangerous situations, would want to become the statistic people speak of in hushed tones. She remembers a short story about a woman who was the sole survivor of a plane crash that took her entire family, and how the woman's single-minded purpose afterwards was to keep flying until she could rejoin them the same way they had left her behind.
She hears on the news about clear air turbulence. In the past, you knew where the turbulence was to be found—in clouds, in storms—and you could try to avoid it, fly around it. But clear air turbulence strikes without warning. There's no getting past it. She tells herself, That's it. I'm never getting on another plane. She tells herself, I have enough emotional turbulence in my day to day life. A former friend once said to her, "I wouldn't want to be in your head." She wanted to say in response, "I don't always want to be in here myself," but held it inside.
There are so many things she resents people saying, doing, thinking. She is a vessel of bitterness, a holder of lifelong grudges. She could bring a plane down with the sheer weight of her withheld animosity. Staying on the ground is an act of altruism. She's keeping everyone else on the plane safe by not getting on it. She is doing the world a service. No one will ever know, she won't be remembered for it, but she'll know the truth. Her fear was actually her greatest gift, the way she served humanity, the one sacrifice she made so that others could fly free.
