Turbulence
We're sitting next to each other on the plane, above the Atlantic, above Iceland, who knows. My mom is listening to music on her sparkling new iPod--a Christmas present that seems out of place in the hands of a fifty-year old woman. My dad is sitting on the other side of my mom, reading a science magazine. This seems more normal, comforting. On my other side, my brother is sleeping.Everyone on the plane is quiet. It is dark over the ocean, the plane is dark, the windows show the northern lights, faint, moving neon ribbons in the black atmosphere. A movie plays on the screens that hang over the aisles, forgotten. Hardly anyone, it seems, is watching. Up and down the rows, the passengers are splayed out in their tiny uncomfortable chairs, heads tipped back, mouths slightly open, eyes covered by sleep masks, blankets, hats. Every few seconds, a red light flashes at the tip of the wing, unnoticed by the sleepy and sleeping travelers.
I am watching my mom and dad and the plane hits an air pocket. Along the length of the plane, seats lurch upwards, drinks hit the overhead compartments. The televisions flicker and bounce. After the initial bump, calm. Many passengers are awake now. A baby starts crying toward the back of the plane. We all smile at each other as if to say, that was quite a jolt, we're all okay, only nine hours to go. I gauge my reaction by the reactions of others.
My mom idly pats my hand and scrolls through the music on her iPod. My dad shakes out the pages of his magazine and adjusts his glasses. My brother swallows in his sleep.
The plane rumbles again, this time for longer. I look at my dad with an expression of frustration that builds to panic as the rumbling intensifies. I become aware that there is no escape from this, it must be ridden out. A few rows ahead of me, an overhead compartment pops open, coats and bags tumble out. The turbulence stretches across minutes, then ten, and the plane bobs and grinds over what must be several hundred feet of altitude every few seconds. My mother is gripping my hand now, and my dad is patting her back. My brother is awake. His eyes are wide and still coated with sleep, and both of his hands are pressed flat against the seat in front of him. Of everyone, he looks the most calm and undisturbed, but that does not signify much: nearly everyone looks horrified. The televisions have been turned off now and the pilot is saying something over the crackling PA but no one understands. Across the aisle from me, a woman is crying.
The plane makes a great leap downward, and several people scream. I am staring hard at my father, a former pilot, and he looks worried. He is saying something to me. I see his lips moving but I cannot hear him over the crunch and drone of the turbulence, the crying babies, the trembling luggage above our heads. In slow motion, he is patting my mother's back. She is still squeezing my hand, hard now, I can feel her wedding ring against the bone of my little finger.
A wing moans: a high, lumbering sound. A man at the end of the row sighs, terror disguised as relief.
The turbulence continues. It seems there will be no end unless it is the splash of the ocean and the crunch of aluminum.
*****
I am in the shower, undergoing the daily feminine ritual of cleansing, hair removal, exfoliation. He is outside the door, in some other room, not thinking about me, or maybe he is. This bathroom is an escape, for now, from the screaming, crying, the quaking earth outside the door.
When we met I felt like some precious thing to him. I was clean and new, sparkling, I was beautiful, I was fascinating. I was kissed on the forehead, on the sidewalk, I was Baby, I was Love, I was Sweetheart.
I shave my legs, first one, then the other, and scrub them smooth with a scratchy red washcloth. I lather my hair with musky vanilla-scented shampoo, the kind he likes. I shower myself with desirability.
My body is the last weapon in my arsenal.
The glinting aluminum blades lurch into my skin at the base of my knee. I moan in pain, a high, slow sound, and I wonder if he can hear. Will he come in to see if I'm hurt? Will he worry if I am bleeding?
I am bleeding. He does not come in. I am terrified, and also relieved.
I remember the basement Italian restaurant on the Upper West Side, the snow, the lazy Saturday mornings, the tea, the clanking radiator, the snow, the music. I used to shine. I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine. Now I am dusty, dull, usual. An obligation. A quotidian reality. Now I am my own name, sometimes nothing at all. Neither of us remember the girl from before, but we both miss her.
I turn off the water and dry myself with a fluffy tan towel--a towel he bought, when the idea of shared towels, shared lives, still excited him. I spread lotion over my legs, my torso, my arms, my chest. I look at myself in the mirror. My eyes are tunnels. Staring back at me are two points of endless dark, a blank sky over some foreign country.
I choose a bottle of perfume, his favorite, and pump a light mist onto my chest. There are still some drops left on the nozzle and with one finger I draw a perfumed horizontal line between each hip bone.
I emerge from the bathroom and the turbulence in the house is still palpable, though silent. I pass the door to his office and he looks at me from across the room. He is undisturbed. He sees me, and turns back to his work, saying something I cannot hear, although I can guess.
In our bedroom, I am stripped and sleepy, sparkling clean but not sparkling, not seen, not interested, not interesting.
This terror is tiring, and it seems there is no end. Mouth slightly open, I fall asleep on the floor, not wanting to rumple the freshly made bed. I dream about airplanes and oceans, crunching metal and spilled baggage everywhere.
posted by Juliet @ 9:16 AM
1 Comments:
look at you miss poet...good stuff.
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