PART 2
Why had she stopped flying?
I knew only pieces of the story about my grandfather.
His name was Frank Walsh.
He had worked as an aircraft mechanic at Logan for thirty-four years.
According to Mom, he could listen to an engine and know something was wrong before anyone else found the problem.
He died the week I was born.
I arrived on March thirteenth, 1999.
He died March fourteenth.
Everyone told me it was a heart attack.
That was basically all I knew.
Whenever I asked questions as a child, Grandma became quiet.
Mom usually changed the subject.
There was only one photograph of him in Grandma’s house.
He was young in it, wearing a sailor’s uniform and laughing at something outside the frame.
And then there were the silver wings.
A small tarnished aviation pin had always been attached to Grandma’s purse.
When I was little, I used to run my thumb over it while sitting beside her in church.
One day I asked where it came from.
“Your grandfather gave it to me.”
“Why?”
She thought for a moment.
“Because I was frightened, and he wanted me to remember that I could be brave.”
I was six.
I accepted that answer and forgot about it.
Until Flight 212.
—
About two hours after takeoff, I finally got out of my seat.
I walked through business class and into economy.
It felt like entering a different airplane.
The seats were tighter.
The aisle narrower.
People were sleeping awkwardly, reading, watching movies, or balancing drinks on tiny tray tables.
I went all the way to row 34.
Grandma was by the window.
She stared at the endless blue sky.
Her purse was held tightly against her chest.
Beside her sat a red-haired boy around eight or nine.
He wore an airline badge around his neck.
UNACCOMPANIED MINOR.
His name was Oliver.
He held a coloring book, although he wasn’t coloring.
His knee bounced nervously.
The aisle seat was empty.
I crouched beside them.
“You okay, Grandma?”
She turned toward me.
For one strange second, she looked lost.
Then she smiled.
“I’m fine.”
She wasn’t.
Her hands were trembling.
Her eyes looked damp.
I’m a nurse.
I know what “fine” looks like.
This wasn’t it.
“Are you feeling sick?”
“No.”
“You’re shaking.”
“It’s just nerves.”
The boy beside her looked up.
“I’m nervous too.”
Grandma turned toward him.
Her expression softened immediately.
“Are you flying alone?”
He nodded.
“My mom put me on the plane in Boston. My dad’s meeting me in San Francisco.”
Then he admitted quietly,
“I don’t like when the airplane shakes.”
“Neither do I,” Grandma said.
Oliver looked surprised.
“You don’t?”
“No. But my husband used to repair airplanes. He taught me that turbulence is like driving over bumps in a road. The airplane is built to handle them.”
“Did he fix this airplane?”
Grandma looked out the window.
“Maybe.”
Then she smiled.
“Maybe he did.”
I watched the two of them for another minute.
“I’m okay now,” Grandma told me. “Go enjoy your seat.”
She nodded toward Oliver.
“I have company.”
So I returned to first class.
—
Twenty minutes later, the cockpit door opened.
A younger pilot stepped into the galley.
He spoke quietly to one of the flight attendants.
She looked surprised.
Then she pointed toward the rear cabin.
The pilot started walking backward through the plane.
Slowly.
He wasn’t simply checking the cabin.
He was searching.
I don’t know what made me follow him.
I just did.
He passed row twenty.
Then twenty-five.
Thirty.
At row 34, he stopped.
Grandma was still by the window.
Oliver had finally begun coloring a purple dinosaur.
The pilot stared at my grandmother.
Then at her purse.
Then at the small silver wings attached near the zipper.
His entire expression changed.
He crouched beside her.
“Where did you get those?”
His voice sounded unsteady.
Grandma looked carefully at him.
The pilot swallowed.
“Mrs. Walsh,” he said, “why did you choose seat 34A?”
I froze several rows away.
He knew her name.
Grandma’s chin began trembling.
“Because that’s where he told me to sit.”
There was only one person she could have meant.
My grandfather.
A man who had been gone for twenty-seven years.
The pilot stood abruptly.
“Who told you?”
Grandma opened her purse.
Her hands shook as she reached into the side pocket.
She pulled out the yellowed paper I had noticed at the gate.
An old boarding pass.
The thick cardstock kind airlines used years ago.
The edges were worn soft.
She handed it to him.
He unfolded it.
I could read the faded printing from where I stood.
FLIGHT 212
BOSTON — SAN FRANCISCO
MARCH 14, 1999
SEAT 34A
Passenger:
FRANK WALSH.
The pilot stared at it.
Then he turned it over.
There was faded handwriting in pencil on the back.
He read it.
His face changed.
He turned toward the front of the plane.
“Carol,” he called. “Please get the captain.”
—
The gray-haired flight attendant hurried down the aisle.
“Danny? What happened?”
The pilot held up the old boarding pass.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
“It’s her,” he said. “She’s in 34A.”
Carol stared at Grandma.
Then hurried toward the cockpit.
Danny crouched beside Grandma again.
“I have to go back up front so the captain can come down,” he said. “But before I do, I need to tell you something.”
Grandma studied his face.
“You were the little boy.”
Danny froze.
“The boy who sat beside him.”
His eyes filled.
He nodded.
Then he reached into his shirt pocket.
He opened his palm.
There was another tiny pair of silver wings.
Exactly like Grandma’s.
“He gave these to me,” Danny whispered.
“I’ve carried them on every flight since.”
Grandma touched the pin gently.
“He had two,” she said.
Danny nodded.
“He told me.”
