“I . . . CAN’T . . . FIND IT!” He cried so hard he gurgled between words, and tears fell off of his nose. He tried desperately to fill his chest with air, but couldn’t, and wheezed like a trauma patient whose lungs had collapsed.
So? Patrick’s mind roared, or maybe it was the jet engines. They jostled back and forth in the lavatory, the three of them, protected by the confined space—wedged together, none of them had any room to fall. He wondered momentarily how he and Joe had ever joined the Mile High Club; he couldn’t so much as turn around now. Maybe planes used to be bigger? The three of them stood there, until both kids quieted, until they were comforted by the rocking motion and the ambient hum. The lighting, however, was terrible. He gave Maisie a look, asking for help, then leaned against the sink so he could see both their faces.
“If he can’t find his tooth, the tooth fairy won’t come.”
Patrick was almost relieved. This was a relatively easy one. “Says who?”
“Says everyone.”
“That’s nonsense.”
Grant’s tears slowed; he wiped his eyes with the back of his free hand. “How do you know?”
“Did I ever tell you that when your dad and I were kids we had an old beagle named Phillip? His teeth would fall out all the time. We’d find them just laying on the floor by the wood stove, where he liked to sleep. Your dad and I thought we could make some extra cash by putting Phillip’s teeth under our pillows. We made a big production out of it, boasted about our new moneymaking scheme. You know what happened?”
Grant hesitated, and then asked, “What?”
“We each woke up with a Milk-Bone in our bed.” Patrick elbowed Maisie. See? He could be comforting. “My point is, the tooth fairy knows everything. Okay? She doesn’t miss a trick. When we go back to our row, I’m going to find your tooth. But even if I can’t, she’s definitely going to know that you lost one. Okay? I’ll make sure of it.”
“I want . . . Mommy.”
And there it was. The tough one. Only a few hours in. Patrick wasn’t going to get off with anything as easy as the tooth fairy. “I know, kid.” And then he added, “We’re going to get through this.”
“How do you know?” Maisie was genuinely asking, each word syncopated like discordant jazz. “How do you know we’re going to get through?”
Patrick thought long and hard about how he could make them understand, settling on a quote he had selected for his high school yearbook, one that became eerily prophetic. “‘It’s not the tragedies that kill us; it’s the messes.’ Dorothy Parker.” As soon as this passed his lips he knew it was the wrong fit. Not because they wouldn’t understand it or know who Dorothy Parker was—although they wouldn’t and didn’t—but rather because, what was this if not a mess? Sara’s death was a tragedy, sure. But Greg’s addiction was a mess, his asking Patrick to step in was a mess, his thinking Patrick would know how to handle a situation like this was a huge mess of epic proportions. So, he went straight for the truth. “I know what it’s like to want someone back, too.”
Grant, in a moment of reversion, removed the paper towel from his mouth and sucked on his thumb. His face was tear-streaked and somehow even his hair was wet.
“What if something happens to you?”
A pounding on the door startled them all and Patrick immediately banged three times back. “It’s not going to, Maisie.”
“How do you know?” Her voice had never sounded smaller or more frail.
“Sir?” It was the flight attendant. “Sir, open up!” She was clearly not there to ask if they wanted chateaubriand.
“In a minute!” he yelled angrily.
“GUP?” It was Grant now, needing an answer to his sister’s question.
“Because I do.” And then he added, “Because I’m not famous enough to die young.” How’s that for the unvarnished truth? “Here. Splash some water on your face. You’ll feel better.”
More pounding on the door.
“IN A GODDAMN MINUTE!” He looked Grant in the eye; he was still standing on the toilet. “Yeah, I thwore, tho what.” He winked and Grant smiled.
He helped them wash their faces and dry their tears. Slowly he opened the door and ushered Maisie out before helping Grant jump down from his perch. Patrick looked at the frustrated flight attendant, who clearly did not earn enough to have to deal with the likes of them. She did not look like Dusty Springfield, she did not look like Petula Clark. She looked, in short, annoyed. “Sorry. Tooth emergency. We’re headed back to our seats.” Together, like a family of ducks, they waddled back to their row, Patrick’s blood pressure slowly returning to normal.