The fourth and final message trying to prevent my imminent demise happened an hour later.
“Flight FJ811 to Nadi is now boarding all remaining passengers.”
I’d patiently waited for most people to board. I didn’t do well standing in the air-bridge, squashed like hamsters in a toilet roll, waiting to enter an overcrowded airplane. I preferred to get on last, regardless if I didn’t get convenient overhead storage.
Ever since I’d said goodbye to Madeline, I’d been tired. But it was nothing compared to the sudden lethargy as I handed over my boarding pass.
The air-bridge beckoned, and beyond that, the airplane that would take me home.
Home.
Yes, please.
“Afternoon.” The lady took my pass, inserting it into the reader.
Instantly a siren sounded; red codes popped up on the screen.
Oh, my God. Now what?
“Is everything okay?” My tiredness evaporated, drowned out by escalating unease.
I’m not meant to get on this plane.
The lady frowned. “It says you’re not permitted to board. There’s an issue with your visa.”
My heart stopped beating.
Why is this happening?
Anxiousness lodged in my throat. I wanted to grab my carry-on and back away from the boarding gate. I wanted to listen. To finally give into premonition and paranoia and stay in America until fate stopped playing roulette with my life.
“Look, I don’t know what’s going on but I’ve changed my mind—”
“Wait.” The woman silenced the blinking lights and alarm. “You don’t need a visa. You’re flying to Australia and have an Australian passport. Stupid machine. You’re returning to your own country.”
I swallowed hard. “It’s okay. If you could just offload my luggage—”
She waved away my concerns. “Don’t be absurd, dear. Just a glitch. We’ll get it sorted in a sec.”
“What seems to be the problem?” A supervisor came over, wiping his hands importantly on black slacks.
The blonde haired woman shrugged. “I’m not sure. The machine has gone crazy.”
I’m not meant to get on the plane.
Do. Not. Get. On. That. Plane.
Goosebumps darted down my arms, my eyes dancing between the two agents. “I’m okay to wait. If it says I don’t have a visa, I’ll stay here until it’s sorted out.” My feet itched to bolt. My eyes landed on the plane, the air-bridge linking to its fuselage like an artery to a heart. “If someone could help with my belongings, I’ll happily wait for the next service.”
“No, don’t be silly.” The supervisor pulled wire-rimmed glasses from his pocket and took over from the blonde agent. “It’s just a malfunction. That’s all.” His fingers flew over the keyboard, inputting code and hitting commands.
The same message popped up. DO NOT BOARD. NO VISA.
“If you could stand to the side, ma’am.” The supervisor waved to the glass windows away from foot traffic. “Once the final stragglers are on board, I’ll be sure to fix it.”
I didn’t move. I couldn’t move.
My heart flew, pounding against rib after rib. My body turned into stone.
Stop being ridiculous, Stel.
Overtiredness had finally caught up with me and I was reading into things. There was no earthly reason why I shouldn’t get on the plane.
I’d always loved flying. In fact, when I left school, I’d been an air-hostess for two years before I realised dealing with humans in a claustrophobic tube wasn’t the best condition for my personality.
However, the travel had been incredible. The aeronautical calling breathed in my blood. I knew how airports ran. I knew the codes. I knew the lingo. I knew what pilots and air-hostesses got up to on overnight flights away.
What I didn’t know was why—when I’d spent the past seven weeks flying every other day with no problems—every issue appeared all at once.
Another warning went off. I wrenched my head up.
The supervisor glanced at a new crowd. “Ah, Mr and Mrs Evermore. Are you related to Ms. Estelle Evermore by any chance?”
A family I’d never seen before with two children looked at me. Their plaid jumpers and matching backpacks would’ve been comical if they didn’t share my last name. What were the odds? Were we related and I never knew?
Mr. Evermore shook his head. “Not that I’m aware.”
We made eye contact. Mr. Evermore was the postcard-perfect American with a bushy beard, floppy hair, and kind eyes. His wife smiled, hugging the child closest to her. The boy couldn’t have been older than thirteen, but he took after his father. The youngest, a rosy-cheeked girl, yawned, holding the arm of a stuffed kitten.
Shovel-Face.
An image of my ugly but gorgeously affectionate cat hit me hard.
A lick of terror erupted down my spine.
I couldn’t explain it. I had no words to describe it.
But I’d never been so afraid of something I couldn’t see, hear, or touch.
I had the strangest sensation that I’d never see my favourite companion again.
Don’t be so stupid, Stel!