Chapter 4 - Ground Zero
For sixty seconds, nothing happened.
I sat in seat 18C, watching the flight attendants walk down the aisle, rhythmically checking the overhead bins with a series of sharp, mechanical clicks.
*Snap. Snap. Snap.*
Then, my screen exploded.
It didn't just vibrate; it experienced what felt like a digital seizure. The notifications didn't arrive one by one; they cascaded down the screen in a continuous, frantic blur of text.
**Allison:** *WHAT IS THIS???*
**Allison:** *Jessica what is this picture???*
**Allison:** *Is this a joke???*
**Mark:** *Wait, where are you?*
**Allison:** *JESSICA CALL ME RIGHT NOW.*
**Allison:** *THIS IS NOT FUNNY MY APPOINTMENT IS IN FORTY MINUTES.*
Before I could even read Mark’s second message, the screen went black, replaced by the full-screen photo of Eleanor’s face.
She wasn't calling via cellular. She was calling on FaceTime.
My thumb hesitated for two seconds.
Then, with the cold curiosity of a scientist observing an explosion from behind three inches of reinforced glass, I tapped the green button.
The video feed connected with a sharp chime.
The camera was shaking violently. Eleanor’s face filled the screen, framed at an unflattering, low angle that showed the flared nostrils of her nose and the tightness around her mouth. She was wearing her embroidered holiday fleece—the one with the gold-threaded cardinals—and her hair was still pinned up in three oversized pink velcro rollers.
Behind her, the kitchen of her Elmhurst home looked like an evacuation center.
Allison was visible in the background, pacing back and forth in front of the granite island, wearing a beige puffer coat with a screaming toddler tucked under one arm like a bag of potting soil. Mark was leaning against the refrigerator, holding a travel mug, staring into space with the vacant, stunned look of a man who had just watched his house burn down.
"Jessica!" Eleanor’s voice didn't just come through the speaker; it tore through it, thin, reedy, and vibrating with rage. "What is this nonsense you just put in the group chat? What is that picture?"
I adjusted the phone so the overhead reading light of row 18 illuminated my face. Behind me, the blue upholstery of the airplane seats and the tiny, rounded windows of the cabin were unmistakable.
"It's a boarding pass, Mom," I said, my voice coming out unnervingly steady. "And a beach chair."
"Where are you?" she demanded, her voice climbing an octave. "Why does it look like you're in an airplane? Turn that camera around. Are you at your apartment? Is this a filter?"
"I'm on Aeroméxico Flight 681," I said. "We're currently taxiing out to the de-icing bay."
A sound came out of Eleanor’s throat that was half-gasp, half-strangled whistle.
In the background, Allison whipped around so fast her blonde ponytail struck her own cheek. She lunged toward Eleanor’s phone, her face shoving into the frame beside our mother’s.
"Jessica!" Allison shrieked, her eyes wild, her mascara slightly smudged beneath one lower lid. "Are you out of your mind? I have a blow-out scheduled at Mario Tricoci at eight-fifteen! Derek’s parents are landing at noon! The kids haven't had breakfast yet! Where are you going?"
"I’m going to Quintana Roo, Allison," I said.
"To *where*?"
"Cancún. Then taking a bus down to Playa del Carmen."
"You can't do that!" Allison screamed, her voice cracking with pure, unadulterated entitlement. "You’re supposed to be here! You told Mom 'Understood'!"
"I understood that you expected me to be there," I said smoothly. "I never said I would be."
Behind them, little Leo chose that exact moment to drop a plastic bowl of Cheerios onto the newly cleaned kitchen floor. The dry cereal scattered across the tile with the sound of a rainstorm on tin. Leo began to shriek with the full, unbridled fury of a six-year-old whose morning routine had been disrupted.
Mark didn't move to clean it up. He just looked toward the phone and shouted, "Jess, come on, man! Chloe’s got a migraine! The twins are already tearing the garland off the stair rail! You can't just take off!"
"Jessica Marie Miller," Eleanor interrupted, her voice dropping into that terrible, low register that used to make my knees knock together when I was ten years old. "You tell the flight attendant to turn that plane around right now."
I blinked at the screen. For a second, I thought I had misheard her.
"What?"
"You tell them it's a family emergency and you need to get off," she ordered, her eyes burning through the tiny lens. "You get in a cab, you come straight to this house, and we will deal with this absurd childish stunt after Christmas. Do you hear me? If you stay on that plane, you are ruining this entire holiday for your sister, for your brother, and for Derek’s family."
"Mom," I said, and for the first time, a small, genuine smile touched the corners of my mouth. "It's an airplane. It's not a city bus. They don't pull over because you have guests coming over."
"Don't you take that tone with me!" she hissed. "After everything I’ve done for you? After the way this family has supported you? You live in that city alone because we allow you to have your little independent life, but when your family needs you, you show up! That is what Millers do!"
"No, Mom," I said. "That’s what *I* do. Allison gets her hair done. Mark takes naps. You orchestrate. And I do the work. But I’m not doing it today."
"You selfish, ungrateful little—"
"Ma'am?"
A hand tapped gently on my shoulder.
I looked up. The flight attendant was standing over row 18, pointing politely toward the little yellow indicator light above my head.
"We are preparing for departure. Cellular devices must be switched to airplane mode now, please."
"Of course," I said to her.
I looked back down at the screen. Eleanor was still screaming, her mouth moving in silent, furious contortions because the airplane engine had just roared to life outside my window, drowning out the sound of her suburban breakdown.
Allison was crying in the background, her hands covering her face, while Leo rolled through the crushed Cheerios on the floor.
"Merry Christmas, Mom," I said.
I didn't wait for her to reply.
I tapped the red end-call button.
Then, with a thumb that felt entirely light, I dragged down the control center on my iPhone and tapped the little silhouette of an airplane.
The cellular bars vanished. The Wi-Fi disappeared.
The screen became dark and quiet.
May you like
A second later, the plane lurched forward, turned its nose into the gray Chicago wind, and pressed me back into the rough fabric of seat 18C as the engines opened up into a deafening, beautiful roar.
***
