“There was a truck,” I say, straining to remember. “I think the back was filled with . . . Christmas trees.”
“Probably just a weird dream,” Dad says to Miles, like I’m not sitting right here, and returns to his seat.
• • •
A dream. I nod, like that makes sense, even though it doesn’t. It does not. I did not dream an entire vacation. But Miles isn’t going to be a font of information even under normal circumstances, and Dad has gone back to his crossword puzzle. Mom is asleep in the aisle seat in front of Dad, and from where I’m sitting I can see that her mouth is softly open, her neck at an odd angle.
What had I been thinking about just before the crash? It was about Christmas, I think. Or my job? I was looking out the car window.
The car.
Which we apparently aren’t in anymore.
Or weren’t in ever, maybe?
I dig in my bag under the seat in front of me, pulling out my phone and waking up the screen.
The display says that today is December 20. But this morning was December 26.
“Wow.” I lean back, looking around. Panic presses in at the edges of my vision, turning the world black and fuzzy.
Breathe, Mae.
You have a level head. You’ve dealt with crises before. You manage the finances for a struggling nonprofit, for crying out loud. Crisis IS your job. THINK. What are some possible explanations for this?
One: I died, and this is purgatory. A possibility lights up in my mind: Maybe we’re all like the characters on Lost, a show Dad and Benny drunkenly complained about for at least two hours a few years ago. If this plane never lands, then I guess I’ll know why. Or if it lands on an island, I guess that’s also an answer. Or if it explodes midair . . .
Not helping calm me down. Next theory.
Two, Dad is right, and I’ve had some monster nap and somehow dreamed up everything that happened last week at the cabin. Upside: I never kissed Theo. Downside: . . . Is there a downside? Not having to return to work on Monday, getting to repeat my favorite week of vacation, minus the mistakes? And maybe the Hollises aren’t selling the cabin! But the thing is, it doesn’t feel like a dream. Dreams are fuzzy and oblong, and the faces aren’t quite right, or the details don’t track in any linear way. This feels like six days of actual memories, crammed with complete clarity into my head. And besides, if I were going to dream-make-out with anyone, wouldn’t it be Andrew? I guess not even Dream Mae is that lucky.
Miles looks over when I snort out a laugh, and his frown deepens. “What’s with you?”
“I have no idea how to answer that.”
He looks back at his phone, already over it.
“Just to confirm,” I say, “we’re headed to Salt Lake, right?”
My brother offers up a skeptical smile. “You are so weird.”
“I’m serious. We’re headed to Salt Lake City?”
He frowns. “Yeah.”
“And then to Park City?”
“Yes.”
“For Christmas?”
He nods slowly, as if interacting with a very impaired creature. “Yes. For Christmas. Was there something in that cup besides ginger ale?”
“Wow,” I say again, and laugh. “Maybe?”
chapter five
Ilag behind my family from the Jetway to baggage claim. It earns me more than one impatient look, but everything seems to grab my attention. A crying baby at the adjacent gate. A middle-aged businessman speaking too loudly on his phone. A couple bickering in line for coffee. A young boy wrestling to get out of his heavy blue coat.
I can’t shake the feeling of déjà vu, like I’ve been here before. Not just here in the airport, but here—in this exact same moment. At the base of the escalator to baggage claim, a man drops his soda in front of me, and I stop just in time, almost like I knew it was going to happen. A family with a WELCOME HOME banner passes by, and I turn to watch them for several paces.
“I swear I’ve seen that before,” I say to Miles. “The family back there with the sign?”
His attention moves past me briefly and disinterestedly back ahead. “This is Utah. Every family down here has a ‘Welcome Home’ sign. Missionaries, remember?”
“Right,” I say to his retreating form. Right.
Because I’ve been so slow on our trek from the arrival gate to baggage claim, our suitcases are the only ones left, patiently circling around and around the carousel. Dad collects them, stacking them onto a cart while Mom cups my face.
Her dark hair is curled into waves and pulled back on one side. Her eyes are tight with worry. “What’s with you, honey?”
“I don’t know.”
“You hungry?” She searches my eyes. “Need an Advil?”
I don’t know what to tell her. I’m not hungry. I’m not anything. I half feel like I’m floating through the terminal, staring at things I swear are already memories inside my head.