The Window Seat

She couldn’t remember the last time she had showered. Or eaten. Or slept. 36 hours maybe? 40? 46? She couldn’t do math in her head anymore. She had seen the same Thursday dawn three times now. How is that even possible? Yet it was true. It reminded her of the time she had flown over the North Pole and watched the sun set out of one side of the plane, then walked to the other side of the plane to watch the same sun rise just moments later. She felt the disruption of the space time continuum in her mind and her body. It at once weighed her whole being down and rent her in two. But wait, she had been torn in two already. How many days ago was that? She couldn’t remember. Her brain was too tired to do math. And she didn’t want to remember anyway.

She was hanging by a thread, and yet she was the strongest of the three. He had cocooned himself hours—days?—ago. His every effort was turned toward keeping himself breathing. Nothing else existed for him, really. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. His body was racked with coughing and fever. When his eyes had glazed over so long ago on that other airplane, she knew she was alone.

And the child she carried—the child she carried—tiny. Sick. Weak. Frightened. She had her own look in her eyes; like the man’s eyes, her eyes reflected the deep struggle for survival that was going on internally. Unlike the man though, the look in her eyes was not detached; the look in her eyes engaged everything around her with the desperation of a cornered animal. The woman could see the panic flowing out the child’s eyes. So much fear and confusion spinning at high speed inside her—and no place for it to go, except out her eyes.

The flight had been booked for them last minute. How many hours ago was that? Or was it days? The man had gone back through security to get the cell phone and make the call while the woman and the child sat in the small office awaiting yet another packet of papers that had to be guarded. By the time he made it back through the metal detectors and body checks, she had the packet in hand and had begun counting the hours until she would be at the airport. On the first plane. Back in the United States. On the second plane. On the ground. In the airport. In her house. In her shower. In her bed. Not only did she know how many hours until each of those things—she knew how many minutes. Her countdown had begun. And she kept track of all those arrivals simultaneously. Her brain was like one of those walls displaying a dozen clocks showing the times of all the major cities across the world and across the time zones. She knew she could make it if she kept that math in her head—if she fixed her mind on the multiple countdowns.
But now she couldn’t remember any of the math—not backwards or forwards. She felt like shit. She knew she looked like shit. Her mind couldn’t grasp at anything to keep her going. She was dysphoric. Trapped.

She walked down the tight aisle of the plane carrying the child. The man had taken his assigned seat—a middle seat toward the front of the plane—several minutes ago. Her seat—and the child’s—were further back. A middle and an aisle.

She saw the stranger sitting by the window seat. She was dressed to the nines. Her hair and make-up were perfect. How was that even possible at this god forsaken hour? She remembers wondering why the stranger wasn’t in first class. Her jewelry, her carry-on, her demeanor all screamed, “I belong in first class.” The woman had a moment of self consciousness over her bedraggled appearance as she asked the stranger to switch seats with the man.

“Where is he seated?” the stranger asked.

“A few rows up.”

“Window seat?”

“No. Middle.”

The stranger pursed her lips and said that she wouldn’t sit in a middle seat. She wanted a window seat and she was going to keep it.

The woman began her story, telling the stranger why the seat change was so desperately needed.

The stranger shook her head vehemently “I am NOT giving up my window seat.”

Are you fucking kidding me? the woman thought (and now wishes she had said). But she had no energy for this. She needed to sit.

She placed the child in the middle seat, buckled the seatbelt around her and covered her with the green blanket. She then placed herself in that confined little space of an aisle seat and tried desperately to dig deeply enough in herself to find a way to make it through this last stretch. The next—how many hours was it? How many minutes? The numbers spun meaninglessly in her head.

The stranger started rambling about some self-centered nonsense. Fortunately, the woman’s mind was already so unfocused she had no trouble blocking the stranger out. The child, who hadn’t slept since—when was it? Tuesday, maybe? But Tuesday there or here? And what is it now here? There? Nevermind—the child began throwing herself backwards against the seat. She threw the blanket off. Then her shoes. Then her socks. The woman understood the child was releasing her agony the only way she knew how.

“Can’t you make her stop that?” the stranger said accusingly.

“No.”

replied the woman as she placed her hand gently behind the child’s head to protect her from the impact of her own fury. The other hand, she placed on the child’s chest to try to slow the rhythm of the child’s body. The child grabbed the woman’s arm, pinching and scratching.

The stranger looked on in disgust. Then continued her rambling drivel.

The child began screaming.

The stranger’s eyes widened.

The woman asked the stranger if she wanted to trade seats with the man now. The stranger tilted her head back slightly and replied, “I will not give up my window seat. She’ll eventually stop crying and fall asleep.” Then she pulled some stupid fashion magazine out of her carryon and positioned herself facing the window.

“What a selfish bitch” the woman thought. “What a clueless, evil, selfish bitch.”

There was nothing left but to endure.

How far was it from Newark to Salt Lake City? How many hours? How many minutes? She tried to find that graph in her head, but she couldn’t. And then she wondered if she were going to Dallas to spend the night there. Wait. Why did she think she was going to Texas? She wasn’t. Was she? She was pretty sure she wasn’t. But she didn’t really care anymore anyway. All she knew was that when this plane landed she was getting off and sleeping somewhere for a long time. She didn’t care where.

The child continued screaming and throwing her body. The woman silently kept her hands on the child. One behind her head. One on her chest. She didn’t even feel the child’s scratches and pinches anymore. She just let her body move in rhythm to the child’s. To protect her. To bond with her. She smiled as the child screamed and the bitch by the window nervously fidgeted around with her ridiculous fashion magazine.

As the plane started moving, the woman looked out the window. In the line of her sight were her own dirty scratched up arm, the screaming and terrified child, the self centered bitch, the ridiculous fashion magazine, the window pane (which reminded her of another window pane—the one she was looking through the moment she blew apart), the waters of the Atlantic Ocean, and the sun rising…..again.