Page 15 of Here One Moment

She’s thirty-six years old, although she’s told she looks much younger; possibly it’s something to do with the shape of her face (heart-shaped) or maybe it’s her damned hair, which is wispy, flyaway, flummoxes hairdressers, and makes her appear permanently windswept. There is always the fractional lift of an eyebrow when she mentions she’s a lawyer. Now she looks like a hapless stay-at-home mother, which is what she is, rather than the competent, respected, well-paid contract lawyer she previously was, and will be again, very soon, once her children start school, which people assure her will happen in the “blink of an eye.” The days are long but the years are short, her mother says. This will apparently make sense to her one day.

She must have dozed, but she’s not sure for how long. There is something going on. She has missed some kind of important development. But what?

Her baby and toddler are both still asleep, both still breathing. The seat-belt sign has not come on. No turbulence. No oxygen masks have dropped. She shifts carefully, trying not to disturb her children, who are both using her as a pillow. Their small beautiful heads are as heavy and hard as bowling balls. It goes so fast, people tell her. Hilarious. She’s been on this plane for a thousand years. Time has never gone slower.

Timmy’s cheek is sticky with drool against her chest, one dimpled hand gripping the fabric of her shirt, pulling it to one side and exposing the graying lace of her oldest nursing bra. The cold buckle of the seat-belt extender rests against Timmy’s bare skin just above his nappy, but Paula has given up fiddling with the two belts to make him more comfortable. The main thing is he’s secure. Willow’s cheek, also sticky, is pressed against Paula’s arm, her mouth wide open in a perfect oval, a rim of chocolate around her rosebud lips. Paula has bribed her with so many forbidden treats she will probably have an upset stomach soon. It will be the obvious next development in this nightmarish flight.

When they’d been waiting on the tarmac, Willow and Timmy had initially been cheerful, unaware they weren’t getting anywhere, and that time therefore didn’t count. She knew they were using up their precious reserves of good behavior, and had distracted herself by pondering the legal implications of the delay. When would a flight delay be considered a breach of contract? When time is of the essence. It is of the essence. I’m flying to Sydney for my sister’s wedding next Saturday. My daughter is going to be a flower girl and they need time to make any necessary adjustments to her dress. What is the relevant contract anyway? A contract of carriage. Wait, the consumer guarantees would apply. Section 62: In the absence of agreement, the service will be provided within a reasonable time. But what does “reasonable time” mean? That’s always up in the air. Ha ha. Nobody here is up in the air. Nobody ever knows what “reasonable” means or who the reasonable man is. Where is that elusive reasonable man? Am I married to him? Matt likes to think he’s so reasonable.

She’d been looking up a German case where passengers stuck on a plane sued for false imprisonment when Timmy began to scream. No warning. It probably terrified the hugely pregnant passenger seated close to the front of the plane who Paula had observed cradling her bump with the prideful exuberance of a first-time mother-to-be, although the woman probably thought she’d never let her child cry like that. In fact, Paula had never heard Timmy cry so hysterically. She began to worry that he was actually dying, in her arms, from a burst appendix or something. Then Willow began to weep, piteously, as if she were a child on a television commercial appealing for foster carers. Paula heard someone say, without even bothering to lower their voice, “If you can’t control your kids, don’t fly, simple as that.”

She’d never been so stressed and sweaty in her life. A vision of herself screaming in full-throated harmony with the baby appeared in her head and then got stuck, in that familiar well-worn groove, sliding endlessly back and forth like a marble in one of those office novelty toys for executives. She imagined the horrified faces, the flight attendants running to restrain her, police called, a doctor called, a mental health assessment demanded.

She reasoned with herself, one of those exhausting back-and-forth arguments in which she specialized.

You’re not going to do that, you would never do that.

But what if I do?

But you won’t.

But what if I do.

But you won’t.

And she didn’t, because a nice man from a few rows back stood up and handed Timmy his car keys, then said in a deep Chris Hemsworth voice, “Great pair of lungs, little mate,” like it was a compliment, not a complaint. The keys calmed Timmy instantly. Paula suspected it was because a big strong man had given him the keys. Timmy is a man’s man. He never looks more comfortable or smug than when he’s sitting on his daddy’s lap.

Paula is in the middle seat, with Willow in the aisle. “Don’t let her sit next to some predatory stranger,” Matt had said, so she’d dutifully put Willow in the aisle seat, but the man next to Paula is surely too distinguished and well dressed to be a predator. She’d guess he’s in his sixties, his Scottish accent so thick it’s like it’s been squeezed from a tube, and he’s wearing a beautiful blue tie, which he hasn’t loosened even a fraction. He didn’t look judgmental during the Great Crying Debacle, just winced occasionally as he steadily turned the pages of some densely written book. Meanwhile Paula has had to continually drag Willow back into her seat so she’s not swiped by someone’s carelessly swinging bag or elbow or knocked out by the drinks cart. Thanks a lot, Matt.

She thinks of her former job in a Hobart law firm. Right now, the thought of being in her quiet-as-a-library, air-conditioned, plush-carpeted city office, with a takeout coffee on the desk next to her and a tricky clause to unravel, is like remembering a glorious tropical holiday. She sees now that she didn’t just enjoy work, she loved it. She is a person whose brain requires certainty and control, rules and procedures, perhaps more than the average person, but motherhood has none of that and some days she is bored out of her freaking mind.

No, don’t think that, Paula, that’s awful.

(A thought is just a thought.)

Motherhood is fulfilling, important work, and every day she experiences a moment of pure, piercing bliss. That is true. At least most days, anyway. Yes, there’s certainty and control at work, and satisfaction, but no moments of bliss.

Willow whimpers in her sleep, and Paula thinks: sick bag.

She stretches her hand around Timmy toward the seat pocket, but she can’t reach it without waking him.

“This lady coming down the aisle appears to be causing some kind of…kerfuffle,” says her Scottish companion. He has closed his book with one finger keeping his place.

“What lady?” asks Paula after a second, because there is a slight delay while she deciphers his words through the accent. If she doesn’t panic, she can understand perfectly.

“Heading our way.” He indicates with his chin. “She seems to be talking to every passenger, insulting them, perhaps? Oh, I think a flight attendant might be attempting to detain her—no, flight attendant has been waylaid!”

He raises himself in his seat to see, brightly curious.

A voice from in front of them says, “She’s telling people when they’re going to die.”

Paula and the Scottish man exchange wide-eyed looks and raised eyebrows. Suddenly they are audience members enjoying an impromptu performance piece.

They both watch as a gray-haired lady addresses every passenger in the row ahead of them.

“I expect heart failure. Age eighty-two. I expect diabetes. Age seventy-nine. I expect snakebite. Age forty-eight.”

“This is a bit confronting,” says Paula. “Snakebite! How likely is that?”

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