Page 81 of Call You Mine
“And I thought we would have to pick straws or something for who ended up in the middle seat,” Rumi laughs, buckling her seat belt.
“Well, pray for Jack,” Emerson says, sliding up the window just enough to see the sun beginning to rise. “I don’t know how he’s going to go almost four hours without Rumi right next to him.”
“I can hear you.” Jack’s gruff voice cuts through Rumi’s laugh. She turns around in her seat, finding her boyfriend just one row behind and across the aisle from us.
The flight attendants begin closing the overhead bins, and my jaw cracks when a big yawn escapes my mouth.
I slept right up until my alarm this morning—something I haven’t done my entire life—and I feel like I’ve beenoperating on autopilot since dropping a half-asleep Georgie off at Jack and Rumi’s and the five of us piling in a car to get to the airport by five in the morning.
As the flight attendants go through their safety presentation, the plane slowly moves down the runway, preparing for takeoff. I try to focus on the nice woman’s voice, reciting the words she’s probably said a million times, but instead, my mind begins to replay the last few hours in my head.
Did I lock the front door? I remember the sound of the lock turning, the weight of the handle in my palm when I checked and rechecked as Anderson loaded our suitcases into the car—but the memory feels thin, like it belongs to someone else.
I count it again in my mind, once, twice, three times, but the numbers won’t land the way they’re supposed to. Did I get to seventeen? I had to.
Right?
In my last session with Dr. Abbie, we talked about ways I can “bargain” with myself. I remember trying to do it when I was packing, checking, and rechecking that I had everything. The number of times I zipped and unzipped my packing cubes, my tote bag, and my toiletry bag.
I told myself, I can break up the number. Checking the zipper on my packing cubes four times. Checking the one on my tote bag six times. Checking the one in my toiletry bag seven times—because that one is the most important.
My mind darts to my suitcase, checked and stowed away beneath the plane.
Did I zip it all the way shut? Did I check the zipper? What about the lock? Did I put my toiletry bag in there?
I can’t picture closing it with the toiletry bag inside.
I can’t remember if I double-checked that I had tampons packed, since I’m due for my period either today or tomorrow.
Did I grab an extra birth control pill pack to start on Sunday?
Did I put my toiletry bag in my carry-on bag?
I’m tempted to bend down and check, not even concerned with how embarrassing it would be to pull out my tote bag from underneath the seat in front of me and open it up in the middle of the aisle. There’s a feeling buzzing inside me telling me I have to, but my body feels like it weighs a thousand pounds.
The thought of getting up feels impossible with how tired I am.
Usually, the fear would spike sharp and electric, sending me spiraling until I found a way to fix it. But right now it’s muffled under this thick, dragging fatigue.
I press my head back against the seat and tell myself I locked the door, I packed what I needed, and the plane is about to take off—there’s nothing left to adjust, no matter how badly my mind wants one more try.
But did I put my toiletry bag in my tote bag?
Before I can convince myself it’s probably in there—I wouldn’t have forgotten it. Not with the note I left myself on my dresser or the alarm I set on my phone—I reach down between my legs, needing to make sure it’s there.
I unzip the bag just as the flight attendants show everyone how to put the yellow plastic breathing thing over their faces.
It’s there. I see the white pouch with the faded yellow sunflowers.
I exhale, closing my eyes. The relief is instant.
Zipping it shut, the relief fades.
Turning into something much more urgent.
Will the zipper stay shut?
I unzip and re-zip the bag.One.
