Anne marvelled at the cyclonic rainbow blustering into her gallery. Since their school days, she had been intrigued by the pandemonium that waltzed Lucy through life. And yet she wondered if the “order” Lucy strived for would come at the cost of her gift.
Anne had always known her friend was a creative. But twenty-two years ago Lucy had been encouraged to pour her emotions onto canvass as a form of grief counselling. The young mother had lost her husband in a tragic accident and had not only found a healing outlet, but a voice for her artistic genius. It’d been Lucy’s art that had launched Anne’s career as an agent, and kept Lucy and her daughter, Tilda, housed and fed.
“Darling, so good to see you. Come through and I’ll pop a cork.” Anne released her friend from a hug and retreated to her office.
“Only a quick one. I don’t want to be late to the airport. It’s the international, it’ll take ages. But still….” Lucy stopped and the light beaming from her eyes warmed her whole face. “Tilda and Matt have news.” She stopped and tilted her head. “I mean, I know they have news, but they don’t know I know. But surely, they must suspect.” She dropped into the armchair, her dress puffing like a chiffon parachute. Lucy looked to Anne. “What if they’re pregnant.” Her eyes grew. “None of us are quite ready for that.”
“Hold on. One assumption at a time. You think he proposed?”
“Oh, yes. He asked for my blessing beforehand. Such a sweet boy. I mean, neither of them need my blessing for anything. But he asked.” Lucy’s face froze. “What if he asked because he’s going to take her away. What if they’re moving”—she gasped—“what if they’re leaving the country?”
“Breathe, Luce.” Anne thrust a tall, chilled glass in Lucy’s hand and commanded, “drink.” Perched on the edge of her desk, Anne assumed her role of “voice of reason”. “Let them tell you their news. Don’t steal their thunder by double guessing. That’s not fair.”
Lucy handed her empty glass back to her friend. “Yes, of course. Yes. It could be just the engagement.” Bliss flooded Lucy’s body as the fear ebbed. She looked to her watch again adamant to fulfill her vow not to be late. But confusion caught her off guard when she saw a notification. Needing both her glasses and phone to read the damned thing, she looked around frantically. “Did I bring my bag in?”
After retrieving and unlocking her phone, Lucy read multiple messages:
Flight delayed.
Flight trauma.
Flight terminated.
And a missed call.
White faced, the women stared at the television in Anne’s office. Footage of helicopters flying over a tumultuous ocean. Spotlights picking up flashes of flotsam and jetsam. Rescue boats. People in wetsuits and diving gear. Emergency services on standby. News reporters. And all the while, the wretched tape scrolling across the bottom of the screen: Flight QF149 from Bali crashed into the ocean on its way to Brisbane. No known survivors.
Lucy bolted from Anne’s office and just made it to the bathroom before she vomited. Her friend followed and helped her back. “Do you want me to turn it off?”
“No! We have to see. They’ll tell us. They’ll keep us updated. There has to be survivors. It’s night for crying out loud. They can’t see a damned thing. With all those helicopters, they can’t hear for God’s sake. How can they hear anyone call for help.” Lucy’s yell broke into wracking sobs.
Anne embraced her friend, willing comfort, strength and hope into Lucy’s shaking body. “Do you want to listen to the message?” Anne nodded to the phone clenched in Lucy’s white knuckles.
The message had come through moments before the plane went down. “I can’t. I mean, I will. But not now. I can’t listen to her saying goodbye when she could still be out there. Waiting. Struggling…” once again sobbing stole Lucy’s words as her mind was sucked into the vacuum of “what if’s”. Was Tilda suffering? Was she scared? Was Matt with her? Her hope was as tattered as the tissue in her lap.
Unable to face the barrage of phone calls from everyone wanting information she didn’t have Lucy turned her phone off. But she couldn’t put it down. It held her baby girl’s final message. Twenty-two years ago the only thing that had kept her going was Tilda. She had to live… to survive for her daughter. But if Tilda was gone…
Anne blinked rapidly when she saw the incoming call. Releasing her friend, she put her phone on speaker.
“Hello, Anne? Is that you? I can’t reach Mum. We missed the plane—” Tilda’s voice was drowned by wails of relief.
