Missed Connections

1. Isabelle

“Attention all passengers, we regret to inform you that Flight EI692 to New York has been indefinitely delayed due to the approaching storm. Please remain at the gate and we will update you as soon as we have further information.”

No.

No, no, no, no.

This can’t be happening.

Isabelle stares in horror at the big, red ‘Delayed’ sign splashed across the screens on either side of the boarding desk. Jerking her head towards her wrist, she checks the time and bites back a frustrated growl when her Fitbit insists on showing her step count rather than the clock.

After a few too-hard swipes it informs her it’s 7:27.

Okay. Okay, that’s fine; that means it’s only just after lunchtime in New York and she’s fairly sure offices don’t close for lunch in New York. She fishes her phone out of the Ted Baker bag she’d treated herself to just for this trip and goes to her email, searching for the correct phone number.

Pressing the phone to her ear, she listens to the dial tone and chews anxiously at the beginnings of a hangnail on her right thumb.

“Helen Whittaker’s office,” a distinctly bored voice answers on the fourth ring. “Sarah speaking.”

“Hi,” she breathes. “Hi, this is Isabelle Kiely. I’m supposed to have an interview at your offices tomorrow at 4:30?” She says it like a question, squeezing her eyes shut in embarrassment. Get it together, she chastises herself. This is your future we’re talking about.

Sarah hums on the other end of the phone. “What can I do for you Ms Kiely?”

“I just-“ She pauses, clearing her throat in an attempt to sound calmer than she feels. “I’m at the airport right now and I’m afraid my flight’s been delayed. I was just wondering if-“

“Ms Whittaker has a very busy schedule,” the receptionist cuts in. “If you’re not going to be here it’s better to cancel now.”

“No!” Isabelle exclaims, panic cramping her stomach. “No, I’ll be there. I will. I was just…wondering if it could possibly be postponed to a later time in the day? Just in case.”

There’s a huff on the other end of the line, followed by the faint clicking of a keyboard, then finally, “I can postpone until 5:00 but that’s the absolute latest I can go.”

“That’s fine!” she agrees quickly, ignoring the voice in the back of her head telling her this is definitely not fine. “Thank you so much; I really appreciate it.”

“I’ve pencilled you in,” Sarah says, sounding entirely unmoved by her gratitude. “Make sure you’re on time. Ms Whittaker doesn’t need anyone wasting her time.”

“Of course,” she replies weakly. “Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

After a perfunctory farewell, Sarah hangs up the phone and Isabelle sets her own back in her handbag, feeling vaguely like she might be sick.

This is a disaster. She has an interview for the Helen Whittaker’s fashion house – her dream job, in New York – and it all might come crashing down because of a delayed flight.

The voice in her head takes on the grating trill of Sophie from her art class telling her to give up now, that even the universe doesn’t want her to succeed. It’s not fair, she thinks – with a pinch of petulance, she can admit. It’s not fair that she’s worked this hard and put in this much effort only to possibly lose an opportunity over circumstances she can’t control.

This is her chance. To be something, to have the life she’s always dreamed of. To prove something, maybe – to her family, who are supportive but only in that vague sort of way people are when they don’t believe creative career paths are actually career paths. To her friends, to her teachers and her lecturers and people like Sophie; all the ones who told her she was good but not quite good enough.

Craning her neck, she looks over her shoulder out the floor-to-ceiling windows where their plane remains grounded on the tarmac outside. It’s distorted somewhat by the raindrops blurring the windows but even amidst the chatter of the gate she can hear the wind howling outside. She supposes if her life were a movie this would only be the appropriate way to start it.

She slumps in her seat and reaches for her laptop.

It’s going to be a long night.

2. Dee

“Attention all passengers, we regret to inform you that Flight EI692 to New York has been indefinitely delayed due to the approaching storm. Please remain at the gate and we will update you as soon as we have further information.”

No.

No, no, no, no.

This can’t be happening.

Dee watches as the screens on either side of the boarding desk flip to ‘Delayed’ and swallows back the anguish that clogs her throat. As if sensing how truly shit things have just become – or maybe just sensing her mother’s distress – Ellie fusses in her arms, letting out a whimper that Dee has to resist the urge to echo.

She closes her eyes, attempting a steadying breath that does little to calm her nerves as she jostles Ellie in her arms to keep her settled.

Please stay asleep, she begs silently. The last thing she needs is Ellie waking right now. She doesn’t think she could handle that; couldn’t handle the judgemental stares or the underlying throb of a headache that always niggles at the back of her skull reaching full fever pitch with Ellie’s shrill cries.

By some miracle, the baby only lets out a sigh and tucks her face more firmly into Dee’s chest. It’ll make the drool stain on her sweatshirt worse but she’s long past the point of caring about things like that. She slips her phone out of her over-stuffed bag and grits her teeth when she notices the tremor is back in her fingers as she tries to unlock it.

Hold it the fuck together, she chastises herself.

After autocorrect saves her spelling one too many times she finally manages to send a text off to her sister.

Dee: Flight’s delayed. Typical! You’d swear I was flying Ryanair. Will text when I know what’s up.

All complete with a laughing face emoji and a heart. There. Normal.

A perfectly reasonable text for a perfectly reasonable adult who isn’t about to have a breakdown over a delayed flight. That should be enough not to worry Katie.

Even so, her response is almost immediate.

Katie: Aww no, are you serious? D’you know what caused the delay? Hope you’re doing okay x

It’s the last part that makes her chin judder – the gentle but knowing ‘hope you’re doing okay’ that sees right through her and has her fingers clenching around her phone and her eyes filling with traitorous tears. She’s so fucking sick of crying. That was supposed to be the whole point of going to see Katie – so that she’d stop crying.

Or at least have someone to hold Ellie for her when she did.

God, what was she thinking doing this? Travelling across the Atlantic with a seven-month-old and a fresh diagnosis of post-partum depression all to land on her big sister’s doorstep and expect her to fix it.

Because Katie always knew how to fix everything when they were kids so of course it made sense in her sleep-deprived brain that she could somehow fix this too. She wonders idly what Dr Adler would think if she knew Katie lived in New York.

She’d been all for Dee going to stay with her and getting some extra support but Dee’s fairly sure she thinks Katie just lives in another county, not another continent.

Is this even safe?

What if Ellie starts crying and won’t stop? What if she accidentally does something to her? What if one of the other passengers reports her?

It’s a long journey – even longer now, she reminds herself as she looks helplessly back to the desk where one of the flight attendants seems to be trying to placate a middle aged man, gesticulating at the boards. The screen hasn’t changed from its all-caps announcement of, ‘Delayed.’

Dee really hates that word.

“Sometimes the symptoms are delayed,” Dr Adler had told her with a sympathetic tilt to her mouth when Dee had come to her three months after Ellie was born – numb, exhausted, and filled with a weariness that’d sewn itself right into the marrow of her bones.

She’d explained, in that kindly way of hers, that post-partum depression didn’t always develop in the immediate aftermath of a child’s birth. That sometimes it could be triggered later on.

Dee thinks of Katie, married and successful, living it up in New York with her perfect husband and darling children. Then she thinks of herself: thirty-five and single, taking matters into her own hands and having a baby through IVF and a sperm donor, and now failing at the one job she’d always believed she’d be good at.

Yeah. Delayed sounds like a good metaphor for her life.

3. Shane

“Attention all passengers, we regret to inform you that Flight EI692 to New York has been indefinitely delayed due to the approaching storm. Please remain at the gate and we will update you as soon as we have further information.”

No.

No, no, no, no.

This can’t be happening.

“Okay, that’s it. I’m going back to WHSmith to get the big box of Maltesers I saw. The universe has decided for me.” Ethan’s voice snaps Shane out of his panicked buffering and he startles, looking to his left. Ethan’s watching him expectantly.

“Want anything, babe?” he asks in a voice that clearly suggests he’s repeating himself.

“No. Sorry-“ He shakes his head, looking helplessly from the screens next to the boarding desk to his boyfriend. “I’m fine, thanks.”

Ethan eyes him for another beat before seemingly deciding he’s not going to push it. “Back in a few,” he says, heaving himself to his feet and setting off back in the direction of the scant few shops that remain once you get through emigration.

As soon as he’s out of sight Shane dives for his phone, ripping it out of the lone socket they’d manage to claim next to their seats and hastily unlocking it. He calls Andrew, his brother. He’s in Kildare and absolutely not going to be able to help him but he’s panicking.

“The flight’s delayed,” he blurts out before Andrew even has a chance to say hello.

“What?”

“The flight,” he repeats, starting to pace across the two feet of space in front of their bags. “It’s delayed. Indefinitely, Andrew. There’s a storm or something and-“

“Alright, Shane? Breathe,” he instructs, voice brusque in a way that actually makes him listen. “Have you checked the news? Or your weather app?” he adds with that specific older-brother-exasperation he perfected years ago. “It’s a red warning but it’s supposed to end around 2am or something. You might be alright then, with the time difference and all that. Why don’t you just try to change the reservation?”

Shane feels the vein in his forehead bulge – Ethan calls it his bullshit sensor. “All five of them?” he exclaims, a tad too loudly if the way some of the nearby passengers look up is any indication.

“Alright, relax. Do you want me to call for you? Or email?”

“Yeah…yeah, maybe.” He looks back towards the direction of the shops but he still can’t see Ethan. “I’m gonna be stuck with him for god knows how long now; there’s no way I can ring them.”

“Wow,” Andrew snorts. “What a way to describe the love of your life. I’m simply collapsing under the weight of your love. I can feel it through the phone-“

“You know what I mean,” he huffs. “Andrew, I really want to do this right for him.”

“I know,” he says, a sincerity in his voice that is rarely ever shared between them. They’re all Irish awkwardness and taking the piss out of each other all the time. “Shane, it’ll be fine. Just forward me the emails with all of your reservation details and I’ll see how much I can fix on my end. Keep me updated though, alright?”

“Yeah, I will. I should let you go before Ethan gets back.”

“Don’t kill him before you get to New York,” Andrew quips, promptly hanging up before he can offer any kind of retort.

He sighs, pocketing his phone and pacing a couple of more times just to make himself feel better.

What’s he supposed to do now? He’d planned for every possible slip up or mishap that could trip up his surprise but he’d clearly forgotten to factor in the unreliability of Irish weather. He should’ve known better, really. The same thing happened during the County Final when he was in fifth year. A mud-streaked pitch, his foot slipping in the grass, and missing what would’ve been the winning goal of the match.

Not that he’s still bitter.

He drops back into his seat, scrubbing his hands over his face. He’d just wanted to do this right. It’s what Ethan deserves after all this time.

Something hitting the side of his head makes him drop his hands and he finds a packet of Jelly Tots on the chair beside him. Ethan slips back into his vacant seat on his other side, offering him a knowing grin. “Thought they might calm you down.”

Shane feels his shoulders unfurl, letting a reluctant smile curl at the corners of his mouth. “Thanks,” he mutters as he picks up the bag. “I’m not stressed though.”

“Hah!” Ethan scoffs as he rips into the plastic film around his box of Maltesers. “You; not stressed. Sure. That’s a new one.”

Shane watches him struggle with the plastic for a moment before he lets out a triumphant noise and manages to pull the tab up to reveal the chocolate. “These are so much better than Milk Duds,” Ethan sighs happily, grabbing a handful before offering him the box.

And it’s stupid and it makes no sense given the absolute shit-storm this evening has just turned into but all Shane can think is, I can’t wait to ask you to marry me.

4. Pat

“Fecking disgrace,” Pat grumbles under his breath. Well. Almost under his breath. Still loud enough that the woman at the boarding desk definitely heard him.

Good, he thinks mutinously. What were they thinking making an announcement like that when they don’t even have a solution? What- they just expect everyone to patiently sit in those pathetic excuses for chairs in the gate like a bunch of junior infants? Come off it.

“What did they say?” Marian asks when he comes back to her. She says it in that same resigned way she used to ask him about the match after he’d unleash a string of expletives. What did the other team do now, love?

“They’ll update us when they have new information,” he says, parroting the girl’s smarmy customer service voice. He knows she couldn’t give a shit, is probably cursing him out to her co-worker now. Young ones today; no bloody respect.

“It’s not like they planned for the storm,” Marian points out. Her mouth is pinched around the edges. It always seems to look like that now when she talks to him.

“Well, they should’ve!” he bursts out, frustration and maybe something else getting the better of him. “We live in Ireland.”

Marian looks at him then looks at her hands then back up again. “Why don’t I give Eoin a call? Let him know what’s happ-“

“No.” And he doesn’t mean to be harsh, doesn’t mean for the biting tone to creep back into his voice, but just the sheer mention of Eoin’s name is enough to poke at the unspeakable thing buried deep inside him right now. “No. Don’t be bothering him now. We’ll tell him when there’s something to tell.”

Marian squeezes her hands together and Pat gets the distinct impression she’d probably rather be squeezing his neck instead. “I might pop back to the shop then,” she says after a too-long pause. “Buy myself another book for the wait.”

He swallows down his retort of, Sure, don’t you have enough already? Instead he nods and watches her go, ignoring the dull throb in his chest.

As soon as she’s out of sight he scrubs hand through the thinning hair at his temples, lifting his left wrist to check the time.

7:42.

He still has another eighteen hours to go.

He’ll get there in time.

He has to.