For illustrative purposes only.
Being a flight attendant, I saw every kind of passenger, from every kind of weird line, there was.
There is one passenger, however, that I will never forget. In fact, two years later she changed the course of my own life in ways I never could have imagined.
I would like to paint a picture of my life first. At $600 a month in the city, my basement flat was just what I expected.
At 26, all I could afford. My desk, workspace, dining and kitchen counter at the same time. In one corner was a little twin bed with its frame showing where the linens had come pulled loose.
The stack of unpaid invoices on my fold out table was before me.
Before I remembered I grabbed my phone, there was an awful habit of my fingers reaching for Mom’s number. Six months. Six months had passed since I’d had anyone to call.
The irony was not lost on me. BREATHING. This is how all of this started on that fateful journey.
“Miss, please! Someone help her!” The words shrieked along the aisle.
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I heard a man’s voice filled with panic as I was going through my usual checks in business class. An elderly woman three seats up grasped her throat, her face turning a startling red.
“She is choking!” Another traveler partially got up from his seat and yelled.
“I am here to help, ma’am. Are you able to breathe at all? I questioned the woman.
Her eyes were wild with fear as she shook her head angrily.
I found the spot just above her navel and wrapped my arms around her torso, pushing up as hard as I could. Nothing. Once more. Nothing. I heard a small gasp the third time.
A piece of chicken landed on a man’s newspaper after flying across the aisle.
Her eyes were warm and moist when she eventually raised them to see me. She gave my hand a firm squeeze.
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“Thank you, sweetheart. I’ll never forget this. You just saved my life.” I am now Mrs. Peterson.
You can forget the happy times, but you won’t forget when the terrible times come. Once mom was diagnosed it all seemed to melt away in the background. When I found out I was going to be a dad my first question was simply: I do what?
I sold everything I could: Bundled in my car, my car, Grandpa’s suburban house, Mom’s art collection.
I handed Evie the resignation letter and she read it, Mom argued, You don’t have to do this, Evie. “I can manage.”
“Just like I did when you had pneumonia in third grade?” Or even when I broke my arm in high school? I kissed her forehead. “After I had taken care of you all my life, let me at least take care of you once.”
The last painting it was, the watercolour she did of me sitting at our kitchen window drawing two birds making a nest in the tree.
Soon after, we found success on the internet.
For illustrative purposes only.
We received a fortune from an unnamed bidder, far more than we had anticipated. Mom was shocked by her good fortune.
She vanished three weeks later. Except for the slow beep of the monitors, the hospital room was silent.
Time flew by like sand grains. I was by myself in my basement on Christmas Eve, watching shadows dance on the wall from the headlights of passing cars.
I could not stand the pathetic glances, awkward talks, and well-meaning but hurtful inquiries about how I was “holding up” after Mom d.i.e.d.
But I was surprised by a loud knock on my door.
I cautiously walked up and looked through the peephole to see a man wearing a fine suit with a gift package tied with a pretty bow.
“Miss Evie? I have something to deliver to you.
For illustrative purposes only.
I opened the door with a crack while keeping the chain on. “A gift? For me?”
“There’s an invitation too. I assure you, everything will make sense soon.”
But what was beneath made my heart stop: Mom’s final painting. There I was, caught in time by our old kitchen window, drawing birds on a spring morning.
“Wait!” I called out. “Who are you? Why are you returning this painting?”
The man looked up. “You’ll get your answers, don’t worry. My boss would like to meet you. Do you accept the invitation?”
“Now, if you’re willing. The car is waiting.”
The car pulled up to a house that looked like it was from a holiday film, with wreaths in every window and sparkling lights.
The woman I had saved on that trip two years prior, Mrs. Peterson, emerged from an armchair and came inside.
She said, “I noticed your mother’s artwork in an internet post from a nearby art museum.” “I knew I had to have the artwork of you as soon as I saw it. Something about the manner in which you were photographing the birds. Her gaze grew far away as she drifted off. “It made me think of my kid a lot.”
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“How did you find me?” I whispered.
“I have my ways,” she said with a small smile. “I contacted the hospital and convinced them to share your address, given the circumstances. I wanted to make sure you were taken care of, even if I couldn’t save your mother.”
Last year, I lost my daughter to c.a.n.c.e.r. She was roughly your age. She lightly stroked the painting’s frame. I knew I had to contribute when I came across an online listing for a mother’s final piece of art being auctioned to raise money for her medical care. even if I arrived too late.
At last, she urged, “Come celebrate Christmas with me.” “Christmas should not be spent alone!”
I discovered a family again this Christmas. Nothing could make up for the loss of my mother, but perhaps with Mrs. Peterson’s help, I could create a new home that honored the past while giving me hope for the future.