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Suddenly alone, with enough distance between my hometown and me, I am free. I feel tears on my face. They freeze on contact inthe frigid cabin, causing my skin to itch, but I don’t care because I’m crying at last! I remember what Dr. Raymond said when I Zoomed with him. “The reason you cannot cry is because you are furious. When you understand the weight of all that you have lost, and that includes your uncle, you will find release.” The doctor was right!

I rub my eyes, but the tears flow. I look around at the rows of passengers through my glassy tears. Is anyone else having a breakdown in economy? A long airplane ride is like church, specifically, being trapped in a pew between people you’ve never met. I’m having a spiritual unraveling in a sea of seat-belted strangers. I have seven hours to examine my conscience inert in this seat; it’s not just an airplane, it’s a confessional flying at the speed of sound.

I search my pockets for a tissue. I can’t find one, so I pull the cloth sleep mask out of the amenity packet and cry into it. Tomorrow is my thirty-fourth birthday. I am so old, if I were a fossil, archeologists would have to carbon-date me. The tears flow as I heave for air at the loss of my youth. I can’t breathe, I am ancient ruins, and what is left of my life is nothing but rubble! I sit rigidly, trying to take up as little space as possible, ceding the armrests, attempting not to be a bother, but instead I hope to disappear in the middle seat. I tap the screen on the seatback to check how much of the trip remains.Hoursto go. I sob over Greenland. I couldn’t find Greenland on a map before I got on this plane. I trace the map on the screen with my finger, tears streaming down my face, when I feel a hand on my arm.

“Come with me,” the flight attendant says.

“Oh no, what did I do?” Can they eject a passenger over the ocean? Do they turn back?

“It’s fine,” he reassures me. “Do you have anything in the overhead?”

I shake my head that I don’t. I’m ashamed that I can’t stop crying.

“Is that your bag?” The flight attendant points to the midnight-blue leather tote I picked up at T.J. Maxx a week ago tucked in the space under the seat in front of me.

I nod.

“Bring it with you,” he says.

I unclasp my seat belt. The shaky passenger in the aisle seat gets up and drops back, making space for me to go. I follow the flight attendant up the aisle to the forward galley. The flight attendants have drawn the curtains; he opens them to let me inside, closing them behind me. Their workspace is brightly lit, stinging my swollen eyes.

He unfolds a cocktail napkin and hands it to me to wipe my tears. His brass name tag shimmers:L. Angelini.One of my tribe, evidently.

“Are you ill?” he asks.

“No. But I’ve lost everything.”

He smiles kindly. “I’m going to have you move your seat. I only have one available; it’s in first class.”

“I can’t afford that.”

He looks to the other flight attendants, who are busy preparing the meal carts. They say nothing, but their expressions show amusement. “You don’t fly much, do you?”

“This is my first trip overseas.”

“Once the plane takes off, we make the decisions.”

“Maybe someone else would like to move?” I cry into the cocktail napkin. He hands me another.

“I’ve never met a passenger less willing to give up a middle seat,” Mr. Angelini says.

“It’s a first.” A blond flight attendant with a warm, bright-white smile winks at me. “Take the seat, honey.”

“But I don’t mind the middle seat. Really.”

“I recommend a come-apart in first class,” she says. “You can weep until you can’t.”

“And there were complaints,” Mr. Angelini whispers. “So you understand why I have to move you. Follow me.”

Mortified, I follow Mr. Angelini through the second set of curtains up the aisle. The front of the plane, in contrast to the back, has the scent of lilies and champagne. He seats me in the front row, in a first-class pod. It’s a space-age seat on an angle. A white down-filled comforter and pillow rest on the plush leather seat. I move them aside and sit down in the high-tech cocoon. I unzip my tote bag and pull out a copy ofA Room with a View. Mr. Angelini takes my bag and places it in a compartment inside the cocoon.

“E. M. Forster? What? No Kristin Hannah?” he jokes.

Mr. Angelini explains the menu. At first glance, there’s a filet, tortellini, caprese salad, and poached pears, among other delectables. He shows me the movie list and how to use the headset. He explains the remote used to recline the soft leather seat into a bed. He rolls the privacy screen into place.

“You can rest now,” he says kindly.

For someone who believes in accidents, this isnotone.Il destino.I lean back in the seat, hit the button to raise my feet. I slide the window shade open and look out into the light. Nothing but an orange sun and pink clouds as far as I can see. It looks like the landscape of a Tiepolo fresco. A sense of calm comes over me. Is it possible that I can fly far enough away from New Jersey that the past can no longer claim me?