Genesis. Volume 2

October 28, 1986. Flight New York – London. Morning. Max hated flying. Not that he was afraid—he just couldn't stand that feeling when his stomach stayed somewhere below while his body was already up in the air. And the smell. Planes always smelled of plastic, overcooked food, and other people's sweat. And that stupid turbine hum that got into your head and didn't leave even after landing, buzzing somewhere in the back of your skull for hours. He sat by the window, his forehead pressed to the porthole. Outside—clouds. White, fluffy as cotton. Beneath them—the ocean. Gray, cold, endless. Max stared at it and felt nausea rising in his throat. "You look pale," Emma said from across the aisle. "I'm always pale." "You're paler than usual." Max pulled away from the window. Emma was looking at him—not mockingly, more tiredly. Dark circles under her eyes, and she looked like she hadn't slept in several nights straight. Her hair was tied back, and she kept adjusting the elastic band that kept slipping. "Nauseous?" she asked. "A little." "Here." She handed him a bag. Paper, with the airline's logo—"Pan Am," blue letters on a white background. "Where'd you get that?" "I asked the stewardess. Said a friend was afraid of flying." "I'm not afraid. I'm nauseous." "It's the same thing." Max took the bag, turned it over in his hands. It smelled of paper and printing ink—sharp, chemical. "Thanks," he said. "Don't mention it." She turned to the window. On her lap lay Liam's dog tag—the same one he'd given her in New York. Emma twirled it in her fingers, the metal glinting in the cabin's dim light. "Thinking about him?" Max asked. "And you—about who?" "Rachel." Emma winced. "Rachel's in prison. They've been interrogating her for three weeks now. Tucker said she gave up Kane. All his addresses, contacts, names." "You believe it?" "No," Emma said. "But that's not my problem. My problem is London." She clenched the dog tag in her fist. The metal had warmed from her palm. "Is Liam meeting us?" Max asked. "He should be." She paused. "Said he would." "You believe him?" "Yes." "That's not an answer." "There's no other." Max wanted to say something more, but didn't get the chance. The plane shook—hard, making the glasses clink on the stewardess's tray. Someone in the front of the cabin yelped. The lamp overhead flickered, then steadied. "Turbulence," Emma said. "The pilot mentioned it." "I wasn't listening." "Always listen. They might say something important." "Like what?" "Like we're going down." Max looked at her. Emma wasn't smiling. She was serious, as if discussing the weather outside. "Are you always this cynical?" he asked. "No. Sometimes I'm even more cynical." The plane shook again—this time harder. Max gripped the armrests. The bag fell from his hands and rolled under the seat. He didn't bother retrieving it. "Breathe," Emma said. "Steady. Not deep." "I am breathing." "Not like that." He tried to breathe steadily. It didn't work. His chest tightened, and the air ran out, as if someone had cut off the oxygen with a single motion. "Listen," Emma said. "Look at me." He looked. Her face was pale, but calm. "Pretend you're on the bus. The one that took us to Detroit. Remember?" "I remember." "What was the weather like?" "Rain." "And the smell?" "Gasoline. And other people's seats." "There. Breathe like you're there." Max closed his eyes. Imagined the bus. The jolting, the smell, the driver's voice on the radio. Rain outside. Emma, smoking in the back row, staring at the ceiling. His breathing evened out. "Thanks," he said, opening his eyes. "Don't mention it," Emma replied. She was still twirling the dog tag, not looking at him, by feel. Behind them, two rows back, sat Arthur, Lisa, and Jenny. Lisa by the window, sketchbook on her lap. She was drawing with her left hand—slowly, tracing circles. Her right arm, in its cast, lay motionless on the armrest like a stranger's. Jenny sat beside her, her head on Arthur's shoulder. He wasn't asleep—just staring at the back of the seat in front of him, fixed on one spot. "Arthur," Max called. He turned. "How are you?" "Fine." "Can't sleep?" "Don't feel like it." "Scared?" "Of what?" "London. Kane." Arthur paused. Then shook his head. "I'm not afraid of Kane. I'm afraid I won't recognize my father when I get back." "You will," Jenny said without opening her eyes. "You always will." "How do you know?" "Because he's your father. That doesn't get forgotten." Arthur wanted to argue, but didn't. He looked out the window. Clouds drifted past, and in the rare breaks, water was visible below. "Lisa," he called. "Aren't you tired of drawing?" "Tired," she answered without looking up. "But if I stop, I'll start thinking." "About what?" "That my arm will never be the same." "It will," Max said. "The doctors said so." "The doctors said I'd be able to move it. But drawing—that's not guaranteed." "You'll use your left." "The left isn't mine." "It will be." Lisa looked up. She gave him a long look. "Are you an optimist, Max?" "No," he said. "I just know how to lie." She smirked—weakly, at the corner of her mouth. "That's honest." The stewardess came down the aisle with a cart. Offered drinks—coffee, tea, juice. Max took apple juice. Emma—black coffee. Arthur—nothing. "Drink," Emma said, nodding at his glass. "Don't want to." "You need to." He took the glass. The juice was cold, with pulp. He took a sip. Tasted nothing—like drinking water. "How much longer?" Lisa asked. "About four hours," Emma replied. "If we don't land earlier." "We will," Max said. "I can't take any more." "You'll take it," Emma said. "You always do." "That's not an answer." "There's no other." The plane shook again—one last time, Max thought. Then it smoothed out, calmer, as if someone had finally released the invisible hand gripping the wing. "We've passed the turbulence," the pilot announced. "We'll be landing at Heathrow in four hours. London weather—cloudy, temperature ten degrees Celsius." "Ten degrees," Max repeated. "Warm." "For October," Emma said. "Normal." She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. Liam's dog tag lay on her chest—she hadn't put it in her pocket, as if afraid to lose the connection by hiding it away. Max looked at her. At her pale face, the shadows under her eyes, her hands that still trembled faintly. "Are you scared?" he asked. "Of what?" "London." "No," she said without opening her eyes. "I'm scared Liam won't be there." "He will." "How do you know?" "Because he loves you." Emma opened her eyes. She looked at him. There was something in her gaze—not pain, not fear. Surprise. "Do you believe in love, Max?" "I don't know," he said. "But I believe he'll show up." "Why?" "Because if he doesn't, you'll break." "I won't break." "You will," he repeated. "We all break. Just in different ways." Emma wanted to answer, but didn't get the chance. Lisa, sitting behind them, exhaled loudly. "I did it," she said. Everyone turned. Lisa held her sketchbook in her left hand—open, on a blank page, where a circle was drawn. Not crooked like before, but almost even. A horseshoe. Intersecting arcs. "It's protection," she said. "Drew it without mistakes. First time." "Good job," Arthur said. "Not good job," Lisa replied. "I'm just tired of making mistakes." She closed the sketchbook, set it on her lap. Looked out the window. The clouds parted, and below, land appeared. Green fields, scattered houses, roads leading nowhere. "England," Max said. "Not yet," Emma replied. "In an hour." She closed her eyes again. Max turned back to the window. Below, towns, rivers, forests drifted past. Everything foreign, unfamiliar. "London," he thought. "We're coming to you." He gripped the knife in his pocket. The metal was cold, reassuring. An hour later, the plane began its descent. Outside, it grew dark—the sky was overcast, and lights flickered below. Thousands of lights—yellow, white, red. A city that never slept. Max stared at it and felt something rise inside him—not fear, not hope. Just emptiness, waiting to be filled. "We're landing," Emma said. She opened her eyes. Liam's dog tag was clenched in her fist, her knuckles white. The plane touched down. The wheels screeched, engines roared. Max gripped the armrests and closed his eyes. When he opened them, the plane was taxiing down the runway. Airport buildings, people in orange vests, buses slid past the window. "We're here," Arthur said. "Here," Lisa repeated. She gripped her sketchbook with her left hand.