reveal more to her than to anyone else.
Outside the door of the nearest women’s restroom, she encountered
Christine Dubrovek, who returned her purse and asked about Steve
Harkman, never realizing that he was the mysterious Jim after whom
everyone else was inquiring.
“He had to be in Chicago this evening, no matter what, so he’s already
rented a car and left,” Holly lied.
“I wanted to thank him again,” Christine said. “But I guess I’ll have
to wait until we’re both back in Los Angeles. He works in the same
company as my husband, you know.”
Casey, close at her mother’s side, had scrubbed the soot off her face
and combed her hair. She was eating a chocolate bar, but she did not
appear to be enjoying it.
As soon as she could, Holly excused herself and returned to the
emergency-assistance center that United had established in a corner of
the VIP lounge. She tried to arrange for a flight that, regardless of
the number of connections, would return her to Los Angeles that night.
But Dubuque was not exactly the hub of the universe, and all seats to
anywhere in southern California were already booked. The best she could
do was a flight to Denver in the morning, followed by a noon flight from
Denver to LAX.
United arranged overnight lodging for her, and at six o’clock, Holly
found herself alone in a clean but cheerless room at the Best Western
Midway Motor Lodge. Maybe it was not really so cheerless; in her
current state of mind, she would not have been capable of appreciating a
suite at the Ritz.
She called her parents in Philadelphia to let them know she was safe, in
case they had seen her on CNN or spotted her name among a list of Flight
246 survivors in tomorrow’s newspaper.
They were happily unaware of her close call, but they insisted on
whipping up a prime case of retrospective fright. She found herself
consoling them, instead of the other way around, which was touching
because it confirmed how much they loved her. “I don’t care how
important this story is you’re working on,” her mother said, “you can
take a bus the rest of the way, and a bus home.”
Knowing she was loved did not improve Holly’s mood.
Though her hair was a tangled mess and she smelled of smoke, she walked
to a nearby shopping center, where she used her Visa card to purchase a
change of clothes: socks, underwear, blue jeans, a white blouse, and a
lightweight denim jacket. She bought new Reeboks, too, because she
could not shake the suspicion that the discolorations on her old pair
were bloodstains.
In her room again, she took the longest shower of her life, lathering
and relathering herself until one entire complimentary motel-size bar of
soap had been reduced to a crumbling sliver. She still did not feel
clean, but she finally turned the water off when she realized that she
was trying to scrub away something that was inside of her.
She ordered a sandwich, salad, and fruit from room service. When it
came, she could not eat it.
She sat for a while, just staring at the wall.
She dared not turn on the television. She didn’t want to risk catching
a news report about the crash of Flight 246.
If she could have called Jim Ironheart, she would have done so at once.
She would have called him every ten minutes, hour after hour, until he
arrived home and answered. But she already knew that his number was not
listed.
Eventually she went down to the cocktail lounge, sat at the bar, and
ordered a beer-a dangerous move for someone with her pathetic tolerance
for alcohol. Without food to accompany it, one bottle of Beck’s would
probably knock her unconscious for the rest of the night.
A traveling salesman from Omaha tried to strike up a conversation with
her. He was in his mid-forties, not unattractive, and seemed nice
enough, but she didn’t want to lead him on. She told him, as nicely as
she could, that she was not looking to get picked up.
“Me neither,” he said, and smiled. “All I want is someone to talk to.”