Wrong Molly Giles
She noticed something was wrong right away, not with the plane's engine
as far as she could tell (not that she'd be able to tell), but just after
take-off when the pilot stumbled out of the cockpit with both hands held up
and ran down the aisle making her wonder if they were on autopilot now,
whatever that was. She turned to ask the young woman in the seat beside her
but the young woman had somehow disappeared, so she opened her in-flight
magazine to the crossword, disappointed to see that someone had already
inked in all the squares with tiny eyes and teeth in what looked like blood.
Too bad, she liked doing puzzles; they relaxed her. Something to drink?
the flight attendant looming over her said, or might have said, for he
seemed to have trouble speaking through his gas mask, but what else could he
be saying but something to drink? so she asked for an orange juice,
astonished when the attendant rudely flipped an actual orange onto her lap.
Well. Okay. She liked oranges. She began peeling the rind off only to find
that it was a grapefruit dyed to look like an orange—why would anyone do
that? She did not like grapefruit and dropped it into the vomit bag,
flinching when she heard a splash. Someone began kicking her seat but when
she turned she saw the entire row behind her was empty. And all the rows
stretching to the back of the plane—empty as well? And on both sides? But
wasn't this plane overbooked? Hadn't the clerk at the airport practically
begged her to forfeit her ticket for cash and take a later flight? And she'd
almost done so, too, almost decided to take him up on it, but when he'd
dropped to his knees and pressed his lips to her knuckles, she'd stepped
back and said no, she couldn't change her plans at the last minute, and when
he'd looked up and sneered, What plans? she'd snatched
her hands away and marched into line. Should she have said Yes? Had she made
another mistake? She'd made so many mistakes on this trip already! Her shoes
abandoned in Security, her confusion with the gate numbers, her missing
carry-on. She glanced out the window, crying out as a wedge of swans slammed
past, then dropped her eyes to the aisle which was teeming with kittens in
leather harnesses, pacing back and forth as intently as panthers. She drew
her feet up to avoid getting bitten, then plugged her earphones in, crying
out again as a trumpet blasted into her head. Tearing the plugs out, she
groped through her purse for a tissue, but her purse was gutted, nothing in
it. She snapped it shut and bit back tears. Her fault. It had to be her
fault. She must have left her purse open in a public place (but what public
place?) and someone (who?) had helped himself to everything she owned (what
had she owned?) which meant that a stranger now had her name and her address
and her money and knew all her secrets. What were her secrets? Couldn't she
at least be allowed to keep her own damn secrets?! It wasn't fair. It wasn't
right. She plucked at the seatbelt which had begun to tighten like a boa
constrictor around her, impatient to free herself. Why couldn't she travel
the world the way others did, others who knew how to get from A to B, who
knew how to ask for directions and understand the answers? She swallowed
hard as the plane began to lurch and buck and when the overhead bins burst
open she covered her head with her arms. Bits of detritus banged against
her, filthy dog toys, surgical socks, baby bottles filled with pus. She
batted everything back and sat up straight. She could hear the engine
whining, the wheels beginning to drop, and even though looking down she saw
only a crowded highway with people in cars staring straight up in terror she
knew that once they landed she'd be able to focus, she'd be able to think,
she'd be able to figure everything out. 
A Pushcart, O'Henry and Flannery O'Connor award winner, Molly Giles' most recent collection is
ALL THE WRONG PLACES. She lives in Marin County.
Read more of Molly Giles' work in the archive.
Detail of art on main page courtesy of Philip Bond.
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