The Rom-Commers(89)

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BY THE TIME I made it to the ID check, my diaphragm was absolutely spasming with sobs. Still, I stepped up to the booth at my turn—still barefoot—and slid my ID through the window. A lady agent picked it up and peered at it. Then she peered at me. Then she grabbed her handheld radio, pressed a button, and said into the receiver, “TSA to command. Requesting the supervisor.”

Oh, no. No, no. I didn’t have time for a supervisor. Was my license expired? Had I broken some unknown rule? Was sobbing in the TSA line a security red flag?

“I’m sorry—” I started, but she held up a finger to quiet me.

Was I in trouble?

I didn’t have room for any more trouble today. I was over capacity as it was.

A stocky Black TSA officer with no-nonsense dad energy showed up, and the agent held out my ID for him to inspect.

“Emma Wheeler?” he asked, comparing me to the license photo. “Flight 2401 to Houston?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“I’m the supervisor. Please come with me.”

“Sir, I’m—I’m very late for my flight. They’re taking off any minute—”

But he was already walking away.

I had no choice but to follow, my bare feet slapping along the industrial floor and the squealing wheels of my carry-on bewailing our plight.

We rounded the mosh pit of travelers, and he took me to a room with an AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY sign.

This couldn’t be good.

I’d managed to snuff out my active bawling on the walk over, but now I wondered if I’d have to start up again. Had things just gone from bad to worse?

But once we stepped inside, I saw a bag scanner there, with a female agent standing at attention behind it. Once the supervisor closed the door behind me, he put my carry-on on the conveyor belt. Then he ushered me to stand on a spot marked with two footprints, requested I hold my arms out, and while he checked me with the wand, said, “We got a call from Southwest. The pilot’s holding your plane.”

Did I just hear that? “He’s—what?”

The supervisor did not choose to help me with my verbal double take. He went on, “But he can’t hold it long. No longer than time he can make up in-flight.”

I was still back at: “The pilot is holding the plane?”

“So once you’re clear,” he went on, “I’m going to need you to run to the gate.”

Run to the gate? My brain tried to catch up.

“Got it?” he asked, standing straight to meet my eyes. “When I say run, I mean ‘sprint.’”

I wasn’t sure. But I said, “Sprint. Got it.”

“It’s Gate 30, at the farthest end of the concourse,” he said. “So I hope you’re in shape.”

“I hope I am, too,” I said.

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 word DEPARTED.

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 the DEPARTED sign, 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’T die.

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.