Page 3 of Frost
Her words had cut deep. I left class barely holding back tears. Safe? Dull? That might be who she saw, but that’s not who I am deep down. I just have to figure out how to unlock those deeper parts of myself without letting myself spiral into a black hole of past trauma.
Opening my phone, my hand shakes with nerves. I hover over the Uber app, so tempted to get a ride back to my shithole apartment. But it’ll be empty, cold. I don’t even have enough in my savings to stock the pantry. Once my student loans come in next month, I’ll have more, but these next two weeks will be… tight moneywise. Luckily, the program said my host family would feed me.
“Boarding group two for Flight 219 to Oslo,” the attendant’s voice rings out from the speakers overhead.
Fuck it.What have I got to lose?
Grabbing my bags from the ground, I stand and head towards the boarding line. Most of the people getting on the plane seem like business professionals or locals returning home. No one is even close to my age. I tap my fingers anxiously against the strap of my bag as I wait in line, moving slowly towards the jetway.
“Traveling alone?” A voice asks from behind me.
I turn and am met with a pair of ice blue eyes. A ridiculously old woman stands behind me, her tanned skin wrinkled like ancient leather. Her white hair is wild and unkept. She’s wearing some type of woven shawl with tassels swinging off the edges. She smiles at me, her mouth full of more gums than teeth. I smile politely despite the creepy vibes I’m picking up from this lady.
“Meeting my boyfriend who’s there studying abroad,” I tell her as we take a few more steps forward. I don’t usually lieto random old women but I’ve heard horror stories of women traveling alone and getting taken advantage of.
“And he’s expecting you? Picking you up at the airport?” She asks with a gleam in her eye.
The fuck is up with this old bat?
“Uh, yeah…” I reply, giving her a quizzical look.
She assesses me for a moment as the line moves forward. I take a step away. She takes a step closer.
“Hopefully you brought a warm coat, my dear. Don’t need Jack Frost nipping at you.” Her wrinkled old lips twist into a smirk that leaves me completely confused.
“Like the song?” I ask in confusion. I don’t even know why I’m bothering to talk to this crazy old lady.
She laughs, a deep and dark throaty laugh that seems so unlikely for a tiny old woman. When she finally regains her composure, she manages to say, “No, dear, not like the song. Father Winter sees all, he hears all, he knows all.”
Oh, good lord. This lady is really off her rocker. Hopefully my seat is far, far away from hers.
“Right,” I say slowly, almost at the front of the line now. “Well, thanks for the warning. I’ll make sure to wear my coat.”
“Next,” the attendant calls out, saving me from this very peculiar conversation.
I smile tightly and show the ticket on my phone. The attendant scans it and ushers me into the awaiting jetway. I take a steadying breath. I hate confined spaces. Ever since the accident, I have what my therapist calls a trauma-induced anxiety response to small spaces. Normal humans would call it claustrophobia. I focus on my feet—a trick from my therapist—taking one step in front of the other and looking down only if I can’t see the walls around me, then they can’t close in on me. The plane is going to be worse, though. Just the thought of it has my chest tightening. I put my hand in my bag and let my fingerswrap around the pill bottle safely stored in there. It’s anxiety medication, in case I need it. And I’m definitely going to need it.
There’s a gap between the jetway and the entrance to the plane. It’s tiny, insignificant really, and yet as I stare down at that gap my chest tightens. I can see the sunlight streaming through, the ground below, and the height. The world begins to spin around me and I feel as though I might faint.
“Get on the plane, dear.” A firm but gentle voice says from behind me as fingers squeeze my shoulder almost painfully. “One foot in front of the other.”
Something about the slight pain and the reassuring tone of her voice brings me back to Earth. I take a deep breath, letting my lungs inflate fully. I turn and glance over my shoulder. The old woman from before is behind me, her icy eyes staring intently at me. I nod politely at her and she lets go of my shoulder. I do as she says, looking straight ahead while I put one foot in front of the other and walk onto the plane.
Scanning the numbers and letters, I try to focus on that. I’m in the back, the way back, of course. People in front of me take their sweet fucking time shoving their luggage into the overhead bins. I just want to get to my seat and get settled.
Shove your bag up there and sit the fuck down, it’s not that hard!
I want to yell at the mindless idiot in front of me who keeps twisting his bag back and forth, debating on the right angle to stow it. But I don’t. I sit and wait politely. Once he’s finally content with his bag arrangement, he moves out of the way and I slip into one of the last few rows. I have the middle seat… because of course I do. My claustrophobia would lessen considerably if I could be by the window.
People filter into the plane. I watch as each one passes by, readying to move and allow someone past me into the window seat each time they walk to the back. But seat after seat getsfilled with butt after butt, and still, I’m alone. When the final few people trickle in and find their assigned spots, I’m left alone in my row. I scan the seats across from me, behind and in front of me—everyone’s packed in like sardines. Yet, magically, I have room to breathe.
Maybe this is a good sign for this trip.
“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard flight 219 with direct service to Oslo International. Our approximate flight time is ten hours. Skies are looking mostly clear but we can expect mild turbulence over the oceans tonight…”
Just the mention of turbulence, oceans, being locked in this metal death tube and shot through the sky, has my blood pressure rising and my chest tightening. I reach down into my bag and pull out my medicine bottle. The pills rattle annoyingly as I hold it in my shaking hand. I look up and my gaze locks with the woman across the aisle from me. She’s middle-aged, with brown mousy hair, and lines forming around her eyes and mouth. Next to her is a kid with their eyes glued to a tablet. The mother looks at me sympathetically, as if she can see the panic forming in my chest.
“Everything alright?” she asks sincerely.