Karen’s Bio:

I have been writing since childhood and, in fact, once trapped a group of eleven yr. old girls at my slumber party in a dark room and read my scary stories to them. I knew their mothers wouldn’t be coming until morning and that they had no way to escape. I went on to have three magnificent daughters of my own and now operate a non-denominational wedding chapel and banquet hall with the eldest (www.westminsterhallandchapel.com). I haven’t run into any “bridezillas” yet but, when I do, I will be sure to write a story about her. I’d like to thank my wonderful Upstate New York writers’ group for their ongoing time and encouragement, WOW! and, of course, my family. This is my first published flash fiction story, one of many that have been patiently waiting their turn in the drawer of my desk.

Fly Girl

By Karen Simmonds

The new girl has my hair. Well, more like my hair used to be—a shiny strawberry blonde before it turned lackluster. She is storing the meals all wrong and I step aside to let the captain go by before correcting her. I am too late and she scorches her hand, poor thing. It’s an easy mistake to make. I want to look her in the eye and say something.

Run.

Instead, I smooth my pantyhose and let the chance pass. Soon there is an immense crush of passengers, the air motionless as they become tangled in the aisles. The girl looks ill-prepared to handle them. She smiles and tries to be pleasant, despite her burned hand.

I remember the stewardess who was assigned to train me. Her name was Linda, and her mouth was an angry cartoon strip squiggle. As she aged, her lipstick became increasingly garish. She was caustic, and terribly unfair, chiding me for not talking enough, talking too much. Rumor had it that, at 37, she was the oldest stew in flight but the airline was too worried about the union to get rid of her.

Someone tall like me, with a pretty smile, was just what the industry was looking for, and the call to the air was intoxicating; promises of exotic places, handsome, mysterious travelers. No mention was made of choking on cigarette smoke, weight restrictions, or that marriage for a stewardess was death to her career. A thorough and effective mystique, and the dream of nearly every young girl.

I watch as the new girl readies the drink cart. Apart from the unlikely event that she is charged with saving lives, she’ll feel more like a flying waitress, with an incomplete sense of her abilities. She checks the cabin, bends down to help push an old woman’s bag under her seat. The man across the aisle cranes his neck for a better view of her cleavage.

That's how it is.

I prepare to give a safety demonstration, one that scarcely anyone will watch. I could tell the girl about safety, warn her against invitations to the cockpit from smug, married co-pilots. Of course, I tried to hide my pregnancy for as long as possible, but it was Linda who finally guessed, Linda whose painted mouth savored the words.

Scanning the seating area, I make my usual predictions. The baby in 5A is going to be trouble, already struggling against her mother’s bosom, tired of the toys brought to quell her. I’d never been able to travel with my son, and seeing families with their children had created a constant foreign object in my eye. I have a durable image of him, drowning in his grandmother’s swimming pool, while she’s inside, lighting his number six-shaped birthday candle. I was somewhere over Germany. I returned to the air months later, amputated from the world, withered inside.

Someone taps me on the shoulder. “Excuse me Ma’am, it’s time to take your seat.” A woman’s voice. I turn to face her. It’s Linda, and she has lipstick on her teeth. Not possible, surely not possible.

After all these years?

A boarding pass is clutched in my hand. It has my name on it.

“You’re there, in the exit row,” she says, pointing. “Have a seat. I’ll bring you something cold and refreshing as soon as we’re in the air.” That was my line. Perhaps she’d learned something from me after all. I look again at the boarding pass and my legs feel flimsy, insufficient.

I lower myself into the seat in baffled slow motion. Linda and the new girl are getting ready for take-off and, for a moment, the girl is me and I am her, and my hand throbs from a long-ago burn. Then I’m back in my comfortable seat with the extra legroom; a spectator. I glance at the luminous curls spilling over my shoulder in disbelief. A small hand reaches over and touches my arm. “Where have you been, Mommy? I’ve been waiting for you.”

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