Chapter 26: Jack of All Trades, Master of None
Chapter 27: Same Old Song and Dance, My Friend
Chapter 32: The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere
Ow! My head smacks hard against the cold window, jarring me back to the present. The one in which our plane is wobbling? Yes, that present. My eyes, which are rarest glasz, according to my once-upon-a-not-boyfriend, pop open and I take it all in. The sky is grey, and Virgin Airlines flight 169 is no longer just a big bird soaring above the clouds. We are in the thick of something dreadful. It so makes sense that, when I finally almost escape from Dorian Holder’s enormous, far-reaching grasp, my plane’s going to crash.
Yikes.
Hey, what happened to Mr and Mrs Green, the lovey-dovey newlyweds who were annoying me so much with their joy and fondling when I first boarded? I would appreciate any company right now. They must’ve gotten bumped up to first class while I was busy ruminating. How’d I miss that? Hope their complimentary champagne just spilled all over their laps on this last lurch. Holy hell.
‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ The pilot’s voice is supposed to reassure us, I know, but there’s enough of a quaver in his tone to make me even more concerned, especially now that the plane has started to quake in earnest.
Also, the intercom is crackling more than it ought to be.
Like I know, though. This is, after all, my first flight.
Why am I so calm, then? Obviously, if we’re going down, I’m not going to heaven. Which would make Dorian right, as usual.
You can’t get away, Lily.
Also, I wasn’t paying close attention when those two bookend attendants went over the emergency procedures. Would they go through them again? Please say yes. That interpretive dance with the entrances, exits, et al? What if I couldn’t figure out how to put on my oxygen mask, or if I got the only flotation device that wouldn’t expand?
Que sera, sera.
Perhaps ‘disappearing’ would be a relief, a blessing in disguise. Everything comes to an end.
Oh, well. It was a good run. Things got interesting in my final month of life. That’s what they’ll say at my eulogy. She was generally a mousy little thing, never known to rock the boat. But things got interesting in Lily Dewitt’s final month of life …
Our plane bucks in agreement with my grim fantasies. Rather than screams and panic, there is a stillness among us humble passengers as we await our collective fate.
You don’t fuck with the gods, and you sure as hell don’t distract the Virgin 169 flight staff when they’re trying to keep you mellow.
‘We’re experiencing some turbulence,’ Captain Peterson explains, stating the obvious. ‘Please do not panic. You’re in good hands, people.’
How comforting.
Never heard that one before.
My stomach drops, and I suck in my breath as we start losing altitude. No, I’m not trained in the comings-and-goings of all things airplane, but I’ve seen enough movies.
Time freezes when you look death in the eye.
Time also froze if you stared long enough into Dorian Holder’s dangerous eyes. Dorian, like the jaws of death – or the gods with whom we should never argue – is also capable of freezing time.
How a night could last for days, how days could last for minutes, how waiting on him could last for years is still a concept I will never grasp. That first night with him lasted for ever. Like a spider wrapping a fly, Dorian Holder was all winding circle after winding circle, his grip, his invisible thread wrapping, cocooning, squeezing the very life out of me. I squirmed and buzzed in his web, praying that he would not suck me dry.
How can one pray when one is the prey?
All I wanted was to fly away, I swear.
But I am still trapped.
The plane steadies itself, and once again my stomach drops while our altitude rises.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience,’ says Captain Peterson, sounding more relieved than I feel. ‘We’re back on track. Please relax and enjoy the rest of your trip. Our attendants are coming around with complimentary beverages and snacks.’
I lean back, awaiting sustenance.
By the time we returned to Agassiz Street, Dorian’s eyes were glittering with excitement. The entire cab ride over, between talking about how great my mother was and stroking my thigh, he kept repeating something about another surprise waiting for me. At this point in our not-relationship, I’d already had enough surprises, but when I mentioned this to him he insisted that this one was extra special.
‘Is it the library?’ I asked, referring to his promise to turn the empty efficiency next door into a conservatory of sorts. ‘Because most