“No Wi-Fi.”
“Oh God.”
Quickly, he sends Kerry a voice text. “We’re going radio silent for almost two and a half hours until we hit our layover in Detroit. Get us from O’Hare to Los Angeles. Do anything you have to, Sis. Anything. I know you can do this. And send Steffi a text and let her know that we’re off-line. Stay in touch with her and her nurses, okay, Sis?”
Seconds later, she replies, and it’s already soothing to hear how steady she is. “Got it all. I will get you two a flight. Calling Steffi now. Hold tight. Try to sleep, okay?”
The noise from the plane increases, and we quickly pick up speed. The landing gear lifts, and I know that we are officially airborne, legitimately on our way. I’d celebrate, except that our ultimate destination holds no reason to celebrate. I will have to block that out. But I don’t know how. I’ve got too much time, with nothing to do but sit and think. White noise has always been my friend, so I try to focus on the bland sounds that envelop the cabin.
This scenario though? Steffi in a hospital bed? A hospital bed where—I am barely able to think this—she is dying?
Memories of our early days flood my entire being. From my initial dislike to the time I stopped the attack on her to our subsequent sisterhood. I remember so much.
The fact that every single time that I’ve seen her, she’s always somehow managed to look like a dream. She’d find ways to scrape for clothes and makeup when we were younger, and she never failed to look like a million bucks, no matter the circumstances. Steff had a build-it-and-they-will-come attitude.
When she found out that no one had ever read meGoodnight Moon, she read it to me every night for weeks. It didn’t matter that I was way too old for that book, because Steffi knew that someone should read it to me.
When I changed my clothes in front of her and revealed what she felt was an entirely too lame and boring bra for a fifteen-year-old, she illegally took her foster family’s car, drove me to the mall, and used the money she’d made working at a fast-food place to buy me an unnecessarily sexy push-up bra. “It’s not okay to be wearing that cotton bullshit!” she’d screamed. “You, my friend, deserve some sexiness.”
I still have that bra.
When I woke up with nightmares, Steffi adjusted my pillow and sheets and told me to breathe and to imagine greatness. To envision a glorious and happy future. That’s what was coming, she would assure me. This pain was temporary and would soon be in the past.
I never believed her, but she would still lull me back to sleep with her words.
She taught me that no-pulp orange juice was the only orange juice to drink. That deodorant didn’t always have to smell like alcohol. That it could smell like grapefruit and lavender, if you looked for the right brand. That thin-crust pizza always won out over deep dish. That memorizing seemingly boring math theorems would be worth it, just to prove that I could. That laughing hard enough to make puking a possibility could happen.
That learning to hate myself less was a real thing.
That water is much, much thicker than blood.
Here on the plane, I squirm in my seat. I don’t know whether to lose myself in these memories or shut them out. Maybe I don’t have control in that decision.
I am hit with the impending loss I am about to face, and my breathing gets ragged. This was coming—I’ve known this—but the reality hits me on a new level.
There will never be another Steffi.
The suffering she is dealing with is probably unbearable. It’s unclear to me how much physical pain she is in right now, and I imagine she’s got to be on a host of meds, so she could be okay...
I grip the armrests and make myself take long, deep breaths.
I’m surely tricking myself. Her pain is probably horrific, and that thought is torturous. There is also her emotional anguish, which is surely so much more intense. Her physical pain might outweigh that? I don’t know. I don’t know anything.
There are no tolerable answers right now.
There are no tolerable thoughts right now.
Every thought that runs through my head feels inadequate or selfish or inconsiderate or frail.
I don’t know how to do this.
In a wave of grief, my body involuntarily contracts in a sob, and I begin to cry.
Before even Esben can reach me, the seemingly cold businessman seated to my right sets a hand on my back. This makes me cry harder. “Let it out,” he says without looking at me. “Just let it out. It helps.” With a shaky hand, he turns the page of his book and doesn’t look my way.
So, I let it out, because I can’t do anything else. I sob. The man’s hand never moves from where it is, even when I collapse into Esben’s comforting embrace.
By the time we land in Detroit for our layover, I am drained and covered in snotty tissues. I don’t know how I will make it through these many upcoming and interminable hours, but I have to.