The Storyteller's Death by Ann Dávila Cardinal

Author:Ann Dávila Cardinal
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sourcebooks
Published: 2022-08-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Three

Home at Last?

I scanned the waiting, glass-masked faces beyond Newark airport security, the row of eyes searching for their deplaning family, friends, colleagues. But no eyes were searching for me. I chided myself for being surprised, felt my shoulders fall a little under the weight of familiar disappointment. I hadn’t talked to my mother since that last call, hadn’t wanted to hear her voice. I followed the line of passengers flowing out the narrow doorway, and as the crowd of waiting people merged with the arrivals, I glanced again at all the faces around me. Compared to where I had just left, everyone looked so colorless, like the underbelly of a fish.

I stood there as the crowd dispersed, all the people and bags and sound moving away from me, none toward.

A man’s voice spoke behind me. Paul the flight attendant had paid particularly close attention to me when I was on the plane, bringing me extra soda and one of those small blue blankets that barely cover your knees.

“Well, Isla.” With his southern accent, he pronounced the name ee-slaw. “You waitin’ on someone?” His blond hair looked painted on, like the molded hair on my old Ken doll, and his grin reminded me of a ventriloquist’s dummy, to the point that I swore I could see hinges on either side of his wooden jaw.

I decided the less information, the better. “Yes.”

He just smiled as the airport announcements blared overhead and I pretended to adjust the strap of my backpack.

The pilot walked by at that moment, flanked by three of the other flight attendants, all of them pulling their rolling suitcases behind them. Everything about them was crisp and navy blue like a fresh deck of cards. Just as I was about to turn away, I caught Paul exchanging a leering smile with the pilot that I knew was about me. For a moment, I considered kicking Paul in the crotch of his well-creased pants, giving up on my mother, and buying a ticket back to the island.

“Isla!” my mother called breathlessly, her high heels clicking across the vast expanse of floor. I saw her coming in a flurry of silk, her arm waving vigorously as if she were in the middle of a swarm of people. Purse over arm, my mother made a big show of hugging me, of kissing my cheek and wiping the lipstick stain she left there. She aimed a stream of words about working late and horrific traffic at me, but beneath the scent of mints, I caught the sharp edge of gin on her breath.

Then she noticed Paul.

My mother turned her body and all her attention in his direction. “Oh, and who is this handsome young man in uniform? I’m Isla’s mother, Mr…”

“Paul, call me Paul, ma’am.” He held out his slight and pale hand like a limp cod.

The two of them grinned at each other, holding the handshake longer than I cared to watch.

“I was just making sure Isla here met up with you all right.

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