Tracings. Michael J. Harris
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TRACINGS
By
Michael J. Harris
Copyright 2012, Michael J. Harris
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.
Published by Aventine Press July/05
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
ISBN: 13: 978-1-4566-0852-1
Library of Congress Control Number 2004105069
Introduction and Epilogue revised January, 2012
Dedication
Dedicated to My Wife, Claire,
Our Mothers and Fathers,
Our Children,
Our Extended Family,
And to Blanche.
If we could change
What might be changed,
What would we change?
Perhaps everything...
Perhaps nothing.
Anon.
This story is about my mother, Carole Turner, and my stepfather, Jim. To some extent, it’s also part of my story. My mother told me her version of this story last June, as she was slipping away from internal injuries she received in a collision with a drunken driver. My stepfather gave me his version of the story before he died of a heart attack two months later (some say he died of a broken heart, but the doctors say it was his arteries).
I’ve tried to capture my mother’s and my stepfather’s words and thoughts as accurately as I could, and I’ve added very little – only small bits of conversation here and there for continuity.
The greatest liberties I’ve taken are with the words and thoughts of the third person who figures prominently in the story – Blanche Nelson, Jim’s high school teacher. Blanche gave of herself to help my mother and stepfather in ways that are truly remarkable and touching. Though my mother provided as many details as she could remember, and Jim furnished many more details, in the end I had to guess what Blanche was thinking, and how she interacted with others.
I suspect most of you will find this story difficult to believe. Even I find it hard to believe, and I’m the story’s most tangible evidence.
Our story begins in Philadelphia, on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, 2003…
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Prologue
Carole Turner had no way of knowing that she and her husband Jim wouldn’t reach home that evening. She did expect to arrive a little late, though, because they were a little late leaving Philadelphia. They were on Global 436, the last flight to Chicago, on the last day before Thanksgiving – and the plane was absolutely packed. Everyone had bags and coats and suitcases to stow in the overhead luggage bins, so the plane didn’t take off until fifteen minutes after it was supposed to.
Carole was tired, but she wasn’t able to sleep on a plane as easily as Jim. Maybe it was because he flew so often as a management consultant with a national practice. Maybe it was because she wasn’t that comfortable with the whole idea of flying. Whatever the reason, it was always the same: Jim would hold her hand during the take-off, then he’d nap while she read, and then he’d wake again to hold her hand while they landed.
So there she was in 5B with her paperback, and there he was in 5A with his pillow. Carole looked at her husband with a touch of envy. Look at him, she thought, sleeping like a baby. How does he do that? She shook her head and smiled at the slightly plump, slightly graying man sitting next to her. We’re a pair, we two…
In the twenty years they’d been married, they’d taken many trips like this one. Jim would get a consulting engagement in an interesting city, and if her work allowed it, Carole would join him – for shopping, for dining, for sightseeing. They’d always have a great time – partly because they enjoyed the same things, but mostly because they enjoyed each other.
Carole felt very blessed, and she knew Jim felt that way, too. They had a wonderful marriage – the second for both of them – and they had a wonderful life together. As 64-year-old “empty-nesters”, they enjoyed the best of two different worlds: the romantic whirlwind lifestyle that went with a luxury high-rise on the Magnificent Mile in downtown Chicago, plus the contentment of sharing a large, loving extended family of children and grandchildren in the Milwaukee suburbs, just ninety miles north. And they were both looking forward to their retirement next year so they could spend even more quality time in both of those worlds.
They had much to be thankful for this Thanksgiving.
But they wouldn’t be celebrating Thanksgiving this year. This year – this trip – would be…different.
It started approximately thirty–five minutes into the flight, at 9:30 p.m. The flight’s captain had just announced that he was going to leave the seatbelt sign on, because there were reports of “significant clear air turbulence ahead”.
At first, Carole felt the typical bouncing and shaking that went with such episodes – nothing major, but enough for her to wake Jim, so he could hold her hand. She was still feeling…OK, but not great. She hated these “clear air turbulence” things.
Then it got worse – much worse. The plane dropped a couple hundred feet, paused, then dropped several hundred feet more. Books, cups, blankets, pillows – even one or two passengers – were in the air and in the aisles. Two or three children started crying.
Feeling very afraid, Carole looked over to see if Jim was still calm. If he wasn’t showing any signs of concern, she knew things probably would be all right. He smiled back at her, and squeezed her hand. She relaxed a little. Not a lot, but a little.
Then the plane shuddered violently, and started a slow corkscrew spiral to the right. Passengers everywhere were crying and screaming. Carole heard herself crying out in surprise and panic. Jim’s grip on her hand tightened.
The spiraling increased, faster and faster and faster, and from somewhere – above Carole, around her, beneath her – a shrill, whining noise began, something like a siren, but much louder.
Carole tried to look over at Jim, but her vision was blurring. She couldn’t see him. She couldn’t seem to focus. She was losing consciousness. She couldn’t…she couldn’t…
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