Page 148 of The Rom-Commers

The female agent handed me my bag, and the supervisor opened a far door on the concourse side, and as I passed through it, I met his eyes and said, “Thank you, sir”—hoping he could see how very much I meant it.

“You’re welcome,” the supervisor said, with a voice so gruff it verged on tender. Then he said, “Now get moving.”

So I did. I clutched my shoes to my chest, clamped a death grip onto my banshee of a carry-on, and sprinted.

Barefoot.

Past the Brookstone and the Dunkin’ Donuts and the Starbucks. Past burger joints and taquerias, bookstores and duty free, fast food and hipster bars—dodging my way around strolling passengers and moms with toddlers and grandparents in wheelchairs. My legs pumping, the soles of my feet slapping, my breath tearing in and out of my lungs—and my screeching wheel turning every head I passed.

The first thing I saw as I approached the gate, gasping like a person who’d forgotten how breathing worked—was the digital sign with my flight number and the wordDEPARTED.

I slowed.

Did I miss it?

Did I run this far this hard—and miss it?

But that’s when I saw a pilot—straight out of Central Casting, with a salt-and-pepper mustache, a crisp white shirt with epaulets, and a captain’s hat—round the gate kiosk and take an at-ease position to wait for me.

I picked my speed back up, and as I got closer, he said, “Emma Wheeler?”

There was nowhere near enough air in my lungs for talking, but I forced out, “That’s me.”

The captain nodded and said, “Let’s get you on board.”

“Thank you so much, sir. I thought for sure I was too late.”

He looked up at theDEPARTEDsign, and then glanced out at the waiting plane on the runway. Then he passed my scourge of a carry-on bag to a waiting gate agent, gave me a nod, and said, “They weren’t taking off without me. And I wasn’t taking off without you.”

Twenty-Eight

MY FATHER DIDN’Tdie.

Maybe that’s a spoiler—but we’ve all been through a lot so far. If you were anywhere near as worried as I was, I thought you might need some good news as soon as possible.

The surgery was successful, and once the pressure in his skull was relieved, he made a brisk recovery—all things considered. All signs indicated he’d be back to his old self in fairly good time. Or as much of his old self as he could be with a hole in his head.

We owed it all to Mrs. Otsuka’s grandson’s quick thinking and calm presence of mind.

What a blessing of a next-door neighbor.

If they hadn’t shown up when they did—if we’d lost any more time than we had—I might be telling a very different story.

I said this to my dad over Jell-O in his room that evening, when he’d been out of recovery several hours. Sylvie was in the room, too, and I averted my eyes from her presence so relentlessly that she finally excused herself to go look for a cup of coffee.

My dad’s sweet face was bruised and swollen and cut, and his headwas bandaged and partially shaved, and it was hard to look him in the face. Instead I just kept squeezing his hand and thinking about how I’d know it anywhere.

He had a fuzzy blue blanket Salvador had brought from home on his lap, and he said, “I’m so sorry I scared you, sweetheart.”

“Thank god Mrs. Otsuka found you.”

“Mrs. Otsuka didn’t find me, she waswithme.”

“I thought she discovered you just after you fell.”

My dad shook his head. “She was beside me when I fell. We were taking the stairs together.”

This seemed like a pretty fine point, but okay.

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