One afternoon, during another infusion, a Make-A-Wish volunteer named Claire sat beside his hospital bed. She wore green sneakers and held a folder decorated with stars.
“If you could go anywhere,” she asked my son, “where would you go?”
Mike answered immediately.
“Disneyland!”
“Why Disneyland?”
He looked at the clear medicine dripping into his arm.
“Because nobody is allowed to be sick there. Only happy.”
Claire managed to keep smiling.
I could not.
A month later, she called.
His wish had been approved.
We did not tell Mike until the tickets arrived because Stella and I had learned to handle hope carefully. We had watched too many plans vanish after a bad scan.
When we finally showed him the tickets, he read the destination twice.
Then he whispered, “All three of us?”
“All three,” Stella said.
He pressed the tickets against his chest.
That was how we ended up in seat 12A.
—
Mike sat by the window. Stella took the middle seat, and I sat on the aisle, pretending not to notice how often she checked the color of his face.
A flight attendant named Dana brought him apple juice in a plastic cup.
“Do pilots really say ‘roger’?” Mike asked.
“Sometimes.”
“Do they have keys?”
“I’ll ask,” she said.
“Can airplanes get tired?”
Dana glanced toward me before answering. “Not when they know where they’re going.”
Mike smiled.
Then the captain’s voice came through the speakers.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Harris. We are cruising at thirty-five thousand feet and expect a smooth flight into Los Angeles.”
Mike looked disappointed.
“He didn’t say ‘roger.’”
The captain continued.
“We also have a special guest with us today. Mike, in seat 12A, I hope you’re enjoying your trip so far.”
My son froze with the straw still between his lips.
Passengers began turning toward us.
Mike lowered the cup.
“He knows my seat.”
Dana stood near the front galley, smiling.
Captain Harris continued.
“Mike, before we land, there is one thing about this trip that you and your parents know nothing about.”
Stella’s fingers tightened around mine.
I looked toward Dana, but her expression revealed nothing.
The seat belt sign was off, yet the entire cabin became still.
“Passengers, please reach beneath your seat. You will find a small folded paper tucked into the life vest pocket.”
People leaned forward.
The sound of rustling paper moved through the plane.
I reached beneath my seat and found a square piece of white cardstock.
Someone had drawn a blue crayon airplane across the front. One wing was larger than the other, and three round windows floated above the body.
Across the top were the words:
