Death Flight Page 8

  "Five people. Sorry," said Tucker, with a flash of irritation. He didn't like being wrong. Normally he could laugh it off, but even he was on edge today.

  The mechanic shrugged.

  I did vaguely remember the story. I was studying at the time, so I missed the details, but that was true of 90 percent of my life.

  Tucker continued in my ear, so that the mechanic couldn't overhear. "Even though the post-crash investigation raked Captain Sully through the mud, they concluded that he’d done everything right. Sully ended up retiring afterward. He had PTSD."

  I shuddered. I had PTSD—heck, both of us did—and doctors get investigated all the time. The investigation for our hostage taking was still ongoing. I didn't want to retire at 27, though.

  Tucker wasn't done. "For 42 years, Sully said he'd been making deposits in his bank of experience. Then when the crash came, 'the balance was sufficient so that I could make a very large withdrawal.'"

  Medicine was like that, too. Except it wasn't small deposits. More like a relentless onslaught of disease requiring non-stop deposits. Residents would never leave the ATM machine.

  "Fascinating guy. He had a Mensa-level IQ, but his life wasn't easy. His dad killed himself when Sully was 44, without leaving a note. And Sully and his wife had infertility. But they adopted two daughters. Sully spoke out against suicide. And this is my favourite part: at 'the miracle on the Hudson,' he abandoned a library book underwater in the cockpit. When the library got it back, they waived the late fee. The mayor gave him a new copy of the book, along with the keys to the city."

  I digested this. It seems like we hear about all the broken people with PTSD, but none of the heroes. I wanted to hear more about the heroes. "How do you know all this?"

  "He wrote a memoir. Plus there was a movie about him. Didn't you know that?"

  I shook my head. You want to talk about medicine, or reminisce about children's books, preferably while eating delicious ethnic food, I'm your woman. News, celebrity gossip, and the rest of the world? Not so much. I'd look Sully up when we reached solid ground and free Internet again. I'd research the rest of the crew too. The media like to lock in on one person, but it's almost always a team event.

  The plane sailed smoothly through the sky. The seat belt light was still on, but I leaned on Tucker's shoulder and dared to think, We're going to make it. We really are. We're going to have a future.

  15

  I dozed off with Tucker as my pillow. Because I'm short, I could curl up like a baby with my legs on my seat and my head and arms on his lap. It was the first time we'd slept like that. He stroked my hair, and I thought he fell asleep too.

  I jolted awake when Tucker started to rise.

  "Shh," he said, but I was already placing my feet on the floor. I shook the heavy fog out of my brain.

  "What is it?" I had the feeling it wasn't the bathroom.

  He pointed toward the front of the plane. I stuck my feet in my shoes, loosened my seat belt to the max and crouched, still technically belted but better able to see above the rows of seats between us.

  Alessandro was bent over Gladys, in row 16, trying to talk to her. From the look on his face and his apologetic open palms, he was almost pleading with her.

  Because Gladys was also short, the seat backs blocked my view even after I released the seat belt, but she was shaking her head.

  Tucker stood up.

  "Not our circus," I said, placing a warning hand on his hip (yay, I get to touch his hip now!). Even if he didn't understand the reference to "Not my monkeys, not my circus," meaning none of our business—he could see as well as I could that no one was in medical distress. I placed my fingers just above his bum, in case Tucker would key into my touch and go back to sleep, or initiate some more interesting activity.

  Instead, he gently moved my hand back to my own side. "I'll be a minute."

  "You will not."

  He sprang down the aisle.

  I stalked after him like a tiger.

  " ... hundred dollars. Cash," Alessandro was saying. "That would buy a lot of liver treats."

  The Italian man was good. He'd probably only been talking to her for a few minutes, but he'd already figured out the liver treats.

  "I have liver treats. See?" said Gladys, rooting around in one of her oversized pockets. “Too many things in here. Hang on. That's only crumbs."

  Gideon jumped up on his feet, sensing the crumbs. He dislodged the passenger in 16C, a sixty-ish, balding white man who harrumphed and locked his tray table away before Gideon knocked it over.

  Alessandro stood back involuntarily. "Good dog," he said, but even I could tell that he wasn't comfortable with canines. Maybe handbag-sized ones, but not one that was half his body weight and poorly trained. Alessandro reached into his jacket's breast pocket for his wallet. He counted out ten bills. "Two hundred dollars. How does that sound?"

  Gideon leaned against his owner's legs, yawning. Gladys licked her lips and dropped her hand to rub his head. "You want me to move?"

  "Yes. Trade seats. Get as far to the back as you can."

  Right. Bribery's a classic way that the rich make sure they get what they want.

  Then Tucker grinned in a way that made my stomach plunge.

  Oh, no. This request made us relevant, because our real estate was at the back of the plane. I could no longer tell Tucker to mind his own beeswax.

  Magda made her way from the front of economy class, where she'd been helping the Portuguese boy. "May I help you?"

  Alessandro turned toward her with a practiced smile. "I believe this young lady and her ... companion are interested in seats at the back of the plane."

  "I didn't say that." Gladys rubbed Gideon's neck. He leaned into her, turning away from everyone else.

  "What's the problem?" Magda barely glanced at her, preferring to gaze up at Alessandro.

  "One of the passengers in front is allergic to this young lady's companion," said Alessandro, grimacing when Gideon crouched and barked. "I've asked this young lady to move to help reduce her allergies."

  He kept calling Gladys a young lady, even though she obviously wasn't. It reminded me of a nurse in the ER who often coaxes 90-year-old gentlemen forward by calling them "young man." I think it's a way of flattering old people when you don't know their names. Alessandro certainly knew how to read people and how to whip out his wallet, but judging from Gladys's face, his skills were less effective on someone who had built up a resistance to charming young men.

  Gladys's lower lip jutted forward. "He's tryin'a give me money because he doesn't like us."

  Gideon barked in agreement.

  Alessandro exhaled, but he kept his eyes on Magda. Even under the yellow airplane lights, he was a handsome man. "Surely when a woman's health is being affected, you have to make accommodations?"

  "Let's talk about it," said Magda. "Perhaps we could all go to the galley to discuss this, where it's a bit more private?"

  "Of course," said Alessandro.

  Gladys shook her head fiercely. "I'm not going nowhere. I paid for these seats because they're right near the exit. He's tryin'a kick us out for someone in first class. Well, we're not in first class. She's all the way over there, behind a curtain. Gideon and I are staying right here."

  She flopped back into her seat, nearly hitting the bald passenger in the aisle seat, while Gideon tried to stand up with his tail tucked under. The 16C passenger tilted his body into the aisle, looking pained.

  Tucker raised his voice. "Maybe we could help." He ignored my Wait, what? look. When I reached out for his arm, he caught my hand and pressed it against his midsection. "Dr. Sze and I could check on the patient in first class, to make sure that she's breathing as easily as possible. We also have seats at the back of the plane, if anyone would like to trade."

  "We're not going anywhere. That woman should be the one who moves," said Gladys. "I have anxiety."

  Whew. I was almost glad she'd said it. We'd gone a whole three minutes without her dia
gnosis.

  Magda blinked and manufactured a smile. "Yes, I understand that anxiety is very difficult, so it's wonderful that Dr. Tucker has offered to help." She turned to Tucker. "Please, if you and Doctor, ah, Zee could assist us, we would be so grateful. Why don't you take a look at the passenger who's feeling under the weather, and we'll advise you if we require your seats?" Although she sounded calm as she stepped in front of 16D to get out of our way, her neck flushed under her carefully-tied scarf. She was not enjoying this.

  I raised an eyebrow at Tucker, who sauntered toward the blue curtain separating us from business class. "Of course! This will give us a chance to check on our other patient, too." He ripped open the curtain and gestured me ahead of him.

  I couldn't say why, but dread made me linger on our side of the curtain until I felt Tucker advance, trying to nudge me through. At last, I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and searched for our patients.

  The first one didn't take much sleuthing.

  The leggy, busty blonde sneezed vigorously. Her eyeliner was smeared around her now-puffy eyes. She looked less like the cartoon Stripperella, more like Ursula, the sea witch from the Little Mermaid.

  Pascale, the flight attendant, offered her a white plastic bag for her used tissue. The blonde shook her head and sneezed into it again before she lobbed the tissue at the bag and snatched another one out of the packet in her lap. "I can't—stand it," she said to her man, sounding a little nasal.

  Her airway and breathing were congested but intact. Phew. No Epi and no intubation needed. I admit it, I felt a flash of schadenfreude at her transition from femme fatale to Snuffleupagus before I pushed the thought away. She was my patient now. We had the same goal: survival and symptom improvement.

  Her man craned his neck. "Can't send a boy to do a man's job. Where the hell is Alessandro? What's taking him so long?" He shook his head at us. His sunglasses didn't stir off his nose. Maybe they were custom made, although if he really cared about his wife, he would have taken them off so he could see her better. He scowled at us. "What the hell? Aren't you in cattle class?"

  "I'm Dr. Tucker, and this is Dr. Sze," said Tucker. "We're here to help your, ah, friend."

  "My wife, Staci Kelly. Don't you know anything? Christ. Her face alone is insured for a million dollars, and it's blowing up because you people are too stupid to get rid of a dog that she's allergic to."

  Tucker's torso jolted in recognition of the name. It didn't mean anything to me, so I said, "They're trying to move the dog. Why don't we see if we can help Ms. Kelly?"

  He eyeballed me. "How old are you, twelve?"

  I wanted to hit him. Instead, I ignored him. His aisle seat meant he was in my way, so I tried to make eye contact over his head and her tissue. "Hi, Ms. Kelly. I'm Dr. Sze and this is Dr. Tucker. We're resident doctors from Montreal."

  "Resident doctors? What does that mean. Like, are you real doctors, or are you naturopaths or something?"

  I kept talking over Mr. Money. "We're medical doctors doing post-graduate training in family medicine. I understand you're allergic to dogs. What's bothering you the most today?" It wasn't my smoothest segue, but Mr. Money's glare seared its way up my nostrils.

  "Are you having trouble breathing?" Tucker put in. "Are you wheezing, or having trouble swallowing?"

  Yes. Good. Zero in on the anaphylactic symptoms. I shot Tucker a grateful smile. Pascale had reopened the medical kit, and he grabbed the cheap, red stethoscope from its depths. He held up its diaphragm, ready to examine her.

  She nodded yes, but it wasn't clear which symptom she was answering.

  "Short of breath?" said Tucker.

  She nodded, and now I could hear her wheezing, a high pitched noise coming out of her throat.

  Honestly, I've never seen anyone anaphylactic to dogs before. Patients sneeze, and their asthma worsens, but I've never seen anyone lose their airway.

  I glanced at the medical kit. I knew they had one adult and one pediatric endotracheal tube. Before we resorted to that, we only had a few medications for allergies, which made our decision-making so much easier. I grabbed them.

  "I'd like to examine her now," said Tucker.

  "Christ," said Mr. Money, but he stood up.

  Tucker and I both migrated toward the seat. Good thing we were both skinny. He ended up kneeling on the seat, facing her, and I placed my right knee on the cushion and kept my left on the floor.

  Tucker eyeballed her airway and started listening to her lungs. "Are you on any medication?"

  She shook her head.

  That was weird. If she was so allergic, why didn't she carry her own puffer? Maybe she'd packed it in her checked luggage, or relied on Alessandro to cart it around for her. On the other hand, a lot of people say they had asthma as a kid, they outgrew it, and never carry meds anymore.

  Good thing the airplane supplied one. Americans might call it Albuterol instead of Salbutamol, but it was the same medication. I shook the blue puffer and handed it to Tucker.

  "You know how to use this?" he asked her. "It opens up your airways. You're going to feel a lot better in a minute."

  She shook her head, and he coached her on how to inhale the medication into her lungs while I drew up the Epi. This was our big gun, and I had to be ready to use it. It will bring down airway inflammation like nobody's business, but it won't last forever. And we only had two doses.

  If it got to that point, we'd have to land the airplane.

  Right now, she wasn't so bad. She was taking lungfuls of Ventolin, and I thought she was breathing a little better. Although no one wants to admit it, anxiety makes asthma and allergies worse. You have to treat the head as well as the lungs. Actually, you should always treat the head. As Sir William Osler pointed out, "Ask not what disease the person has, but rather what person the disease has."

  "You're doing great," said Tucker. "You're a superstar."

  She gave him a tremulous smile behind her puffer.

  Then we heard shouting from economy class.

  16

  "—OFF the plane!" Mr. Money roared from behind the curtain.

  We all froze in place.

  Staci Kelly stilled mid-inhalation, her cartoonish breasts arched forward and the puffer resting in her mouth, like Jessica Rabbit with the world's worst carrot.

  We could hear the flight attendants trying to placate Mr. Money. He must've charged into the cheap seats and commandeered the "man's job" of forcing Gideon and Gladys to the back of the plane.

  Tucker jumped to his feet. "I'll take him."

  "Tucker, no!"

  He looked at me, and he didn't have to say a word. I knew what he was thinking. Mr. Money was one sexist SOB. He'd listen to a white, male doctor before a supposed twelve-year-old girl.

  He had a point, but he was post op. I wasn't.

  "Stay with the patient!" I snapped, edging ahead of him.

  "You do it. You already have the Epi." He strode to the curtain and yanked it closed behind him.

  I placed the Epi back in the medical kit, needle capped, careful not to depress the plunger. The Epi could stay with our allergic patient. Then I shoved the flimsy curtain aside.

  Mr. Money grandstanded in the aisle of row 16. Magda was closest to me, but she, Tucker, and then Linda all clustered behind his back, trying to get his attention as he pontificated. Alessandro faced him from row 17, nodding painfully along.

  "Two hundred is nothing. Chump change. You need a little more than that, am I right? Especially when you're on vacation." Mr. Money nodded in agreement with himself. He placed his fingers in his belt loops and patted his own stomach. "You and I understand each other. We're both used to getting what we want. I like that in a woman. So we got a deal? Three hundred bucks. Cash."

  Gideon barked throughout his entire speech, unimpressed.

  Gladys gaped at him, looking more gormless than ever. "I booked this seat six months ago. I need room for Gideon. I have to be near the exit. I have anxiety—"

  "My
assistant booked our seats a year ago. Let's not quibble." Mr. Money reached into his pocket and slowly revealed a fat roll of cash. I've never seen so much moolah at once in my life. It looked very impressive as he peeled off bill after bill after bill. "Look. That's 360 bucks. I need the rest for my wife. You got me over a barrel. You're a good negotiator. Now can Alessandro escort you to your new seats?"

  Gideon tucked his tail under his bum, but he never missed a beat in his barking. In dog, he was saying, Hell, no.

  Gladys bent her head and crooned, "You're a good dog, Giddy. Yes, you're such a good dog. I love you, good dog."

  "Right. He's a good dog. So couldja move it?" Mr. Money's neck flushed under the spray tan, visible to me even with Tucker and the gang interspersed between us.

  The "good dog" barked for the 360th time, never taking his eyes off Mr. Money. Danger! Danger!

  Gladys shook her head and said to Gideon, "Do you want a liver treat? Huh? Oh, yes, you do. Hang on, baby. I got lotsa stuff in here." She fumbled with her pockets.

  "Lady, you do not know who you're messing with." Mr. Money snapped his fingers. "Alex, get her out of here."

  Alessandro sneaked another scared look at the dog as he inched toward row 16. He didn't want to touch Gideon or Gladys, but he had to obey his Massa, which meant he gazed from his boss to the dog, searching for a clue.

  I kept my mouth shut. For once, Tucker wasn't running interference, and I wanted it to stay that way.

  The passenger in 16C, who had endured the three of them arguing over his bald head with Gideon planted at his feet, quietly slipped to the back of the plane, past Alessandro, removing himself from the equation.

  Alessandro reached for the sleeve of Gladys's cardigan.

  Gideon's ears twitched backwards, and he flattened more toward the ground.

  "Please," Alessandro whispered, trying not to look at Mr. Money. This was his job, and he hated it. Poor guy.

  Gladys shooed his hand away. "If you touch me, Gideon will bite your balls off."

  Gideon growled.

  Alessandro hopped away from him. "Call off your dog!"