Premonition

By Michelle Baron

Something wasn’t right. I was always nervous when James had to fly but today I knew -- I just knew --
that he shouldn’t get on the plane. I begged him not to go, but he wouldn’t listen.

“I’ll be fine. I do this every week. There’s no reason to think this time will be any different.” He zipped up the suitcase and in the sound I heard my heart tear.

Every Sunday my husband, a consultant, takes an 8:50 p.m. flight from Newark to Indianapolis to help a
Fortune 500 company with its corporate restructuring. Then on Thursday his plane touches down in Newark at 7:38 p.m. and around 8:30 he throws open the door to our home. James enters the house like a Las Vegas headliner takes the stage, confident, commanding and with the knowledge that the mere fact of his appearance will set his audience on fire. And we, his loyal groupies, never disappoint, half-crazed by the sight of him and the excitement of the moment. It’s my favorite part of the week. But today something was off. Today I was dead certain that if he got on that plane I would never again see him throw open that door.

“Dammit, James, listen to me.” I took a moment to collect myself. “I don’t expect you to understand but
you need to trust me. If you get on that plane something is going to happen.” He shook his head, annoyed. “Even if you don’t believe me, why take the chance? Fly out tomorrow instead.”

“I can’t, I have an important meeting.” He put up his hands when I started to argue. “I’m sorry, but I need to go.” He left me with a kiss on my lips, lead in my stomach and the certainty he shouldn’t board the plane.

The clock looked me straight in the eye and said it was 2:04 a.m. It waited a beat then clicked to 2:05 as if daring me to say otherwise. Blue light flickered off the pale walls transforming my family room into a low-budget disco. I clicked off the TV and hauled myself off the sofa, trying to ignore the pops that crackled down my spine. I must have fallen asleep while I waited for James to call.

But wait, James hadn’t called. James always called when he landed. I dashed to the phone. No messages
and he wasn’t on the caller ID. Was I right? Had something happened? Please, please, please be okay, I
prayed. I turned on CNN, certain I’d see the smoking remains of Flight 2510. Instead I saw the horrific
aftermath of another suicide bombing in the Middle East. Come on, I thought, willing the station to move
to the next story. I felt a twinge of guilt, like I should take a moment to feel something for those victims and their families, but I shrugged it away. I had my own tragedy to contend with.

The station turned to the latest Washington scandal, another politician with a vote for sale and I collapsed in relief. A plane crash would have gotten higher billing. It would have followed the bombing story. Unless it had run before I had turned on the set.

I tore down the hall to our office and paced off a couple hundred calories or so while I waited for the computer to boot up. Then I leaned over the desk and scanned the headlines. AP, Reuters, New York Times. Nothing about a plane crash. I refreshed the screen to make sure the news was up to date. Still nothing. I put my head down on the desk, closed my eyes and breathed deeply. Everything was okay. I still had my James.

So why hadn’t he called? I jerked up and looked at the screen. Could there have been an accident on the
way to the hotel? What about a health scare that sent him to the emergency room? It didn’t have to be a
plane crash that took him away. There were hundreds of everyday disasters waiting to claim him.

“I did call,” he said, sounding annoyed to be woken up. “I left a message on your cell and I sent you an
email.”

“Why didn’t you call here?”

“The plane was late. I didn’t want the phone to wake everyone,” he said sardonically. “What time is it
anyway?”

“Around 2:30.”

“Christ. I’m going back to sleep. I have a big meeting this morning.”

“Wait. I’m sorry, it’s just… I was so worried. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you. I don’t even know what kind of funeral you want. Do you even want a funeral? Maybe you want your ashes
scattered at sea or something. Do you?”

“It’s late. I’m exhausted. We can talk about this when I get home.”

“James.”

“What?”

“I love you.”

“Then let me sleep.” He hung up and for a moment I just stood there cradling the receiver. I was so
lucky to have him, the kids, this house. My life. I went upstairs and put on one of his shirts. I could
just make out his scent under the detergent’s perfume. Then I crawled into bed and when I fell asleep I
didn’t dream.

The week passed as it usually did, a flurry of pickups and drop offs, soccer games, gymnastics, meals made, laundry folded, the kids’ lives unfolding, mine in stasis while I waited for my husband to come back to me. Then it was Thursday.

I had just stopped at the store to pick up a nice bottle of wine—I had a special celebration planned for
tonight in honor of James’ safe return—and was on my way to pick up the kids from school when James called.

“I’m going to be home late tonight.”

“What do you mean by late?”

“We got a key portion of the plan approved so we’re going out to celebrate. I’m taking a late flight. Don’t wait up.“

Realization hit like a shot in the heart. My premonition hadn’t been about James’ last flight. It had been about this one.

Don’t change your flight, I screamed silently. Don’t mess with…what? Fate? Destiny? There would be
consequences. You always hear the stories about the guy who survived a crash because he changed his window seat for an aisle. Meanwhile the guy he changed with was sucked out the back of the plane. Or the man who’s furious when he misses his flight due to traffic and is slamming down drinks in the executive lounge when his plane goes down. The guy who had gotten the seat on standby, who had called his girlfriend to tell her how lucky he was, died realizing he wasn’t lucky at all. There was no way to know which side of the equation you’d be on.

I tried to explain that to James, to impress upon him the importance of sticking to the routine, but he
wouldn’t listen. “It’s important for me to be there tonight,” he said.

“It’s important for you to keep yourself safe for your family.”

“Changing my flight isn’t going to cause my plane to crash. You’re not even close to being rational.” He
muttered something under his breath.

“What? Did you say something about Prozac? I’m scared—no, I’m terrified—that I’m about to lose you
and you’re making jokes?”

He sighed. “Sorry. It’s been a long week and I’m under a lot of pressure. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” His voice was calming. “I’ll be home soon. Try not to worry.”

A few minutes before James’ usual flight was scheduled to take off I turned on CNN, squeezed my eyes shut and prayed like I had never prayed before that if a flight was going down it would be this one, not the later one that James had switched to. I tried to tell myself that I wasn’t praying for disaster to strike others so much as I was praying to avoid disaster myself.

While the TV played in the background, I started thinking about what I’d do if I lost James. The thought was so unimaginable but my sense of impending tragedy was so strong…

How would I tell the kids? It wouldn’t be fair to wake them; I’d wait until morning. Who would I call
first? What about his mother? She was across the country. Would it be better for her to hear the news
from me by phone or directly from one of the aides in her nursing home? I’d probably need to get a job, not right away because he had a good insurance policy, but eventually. Maybe I could sell the house and move us to something smaller. That would give us more of a cushion. But the kids would have gone through so much, maybe it was best to stay put, keep things stable. Stable like my marriage had been. I started to sniff. I wasn’t ready to lose my best friend. My life partner. I began to shake.

“Mom! Is it time for dinner?” came the shout from upstairs. I had forgotten all about dinner. I looked
in the refrigerator and stared at the food without seeing it. The refrigerator alarm started beeping and
when I closed it I had no idea why I had opened it in the first place.

“Mom! I’m starving. When’s dinner?” It was Dane, my fourteen-year-old son and for just a second I resented that he had nothing more to worry about than his stomach.

“I’m ordering a pizza. Half hour or so.” There were approving sounds from upstairs. I picked up the phone to order a pizza and must have called James’ cell phone by mistake.

“Why are you calling? Is everything okay?” he said.

“I was just thinking about you.” I was flustered, not expecting his voice. He sounded so normal.

“You too, Honey. They’re about to seat us. I’ve got to go.”

“Enjoy your dinner. I love—“

“Hold on.” His voice grew soft and I could picture him turning his head away and putting his hand over
the receiver. Then he was back at full volume. “Sorry, Hon, what were you saying?”

“Sounds like you’re busy over there.”

“Our table’s ready. They’re waiting for me.”

“James, come back…” A voice in the background broke into our conversation. Again, James said something I couldn’t make out before he addressed me.

“Tell the kids I love them. I’ll see you soon.”

I got the feeling again. “Honey, just…”

“What?”

What could I say? James’ regular flight had already taken off. Events were in motion. There was nothing
to do now but wait. “Never mind. Enjoy your dinner. And have a good, safe flight.”

“I will. Don’t wait up.”

I hung up the phone, brushed a tear away, and ordered the pizza. I glanced at CNN—still no signs of a plane crash—and thought about my conversation with James. Would it be the last time I heard his voice? Maybe I’d call him back before his flight and ask him to leave a message for us on the machine. Just in case. I thought about how he had told me not to wait up, worrying about me, and got teary again.

“James, please come back to me,” I yelled, then stood perfectly still as the realization hit. I had sounded
just like the voice on the phone. Only she had said, “James, come back. To bed.” She had said, “James,
come back to bed.” Hadn’t she?

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Michelle Baron is a former marketing executive. Her flash fiction is forthcoming in The Spillway Review. She currently lives in New Jersey with her husband, three children and a cat. She has an MBA from The Wharton School and a BA from UCLA.


	Premonition By Michelle Baron Something wasn’t right. I was always nervous when James had to fly but today I knew -- I just knew -- that he shouldn’t get on the plane. I begged him not to go, but he wouldn’t listen. “I’ll be fine. I do this every week. There’s no reason to think this time will be any different.” He zipped up the suitcase and in the sound I heard my heart tear. Every Sunday my husband, a consultant, takes an 8:50 p.m. flight from Newark to Indianapolis to help a Fortune 500 company with its corporate restructuring. Then on Thursday his plane touches down in Newark at 7:38 p.m. and around 8:30 he throws open the door to our home. James enters the house like a Las Vegas headliner takes the stage, confident, commanding and with the knowledge that the mere fact of his appearance will set his audience on fire. And we, his loyal groupies, never disappoint, half-crazed by the sight of him and the excitement of the moment. It’s my favorite part of the week. But today something was off. Today I was dead certain that if he got on that plane I would never again see him throw open that door. “Dammit, James, listen to me.” I took a moment to collect myself. “I don’t expect you to understand but you need to trust me. If you get on that plane something is going to happen.” He shook his head, annoyed. “Even if you don’t believe me, why take the chance? Fly out tomorrow instead.” “I can’t, I have an important meeting.” He put up his hands when I started to argue. “I’m sorry, but I need to go.” He left me with a kiss on my lips, lead in my stomach and the certainty he shouldn’t board the plane. # The clock looked me straight in the eye and said it was 2:04 a.m. It waited a beat then clicked to 2:05 as if daring me to say otherwise. Blue light flickered off the pale walls transforming my family room into a low-budget disco. I clicked off the TV and hauled myself off the sofa, trying to ignore the pops that crackled down my spine. I must have fallen asleep while I waited for James to call. But wait, James hadn’t called. James always called when he landed. I dashed to the phone. No messages and he wasn’t on the caller ID. Was I right? Had something happened? Please, please, please be okay, I prayed. I turned on CNN, certain I’d see the smoking remains of Flight 2510. Instead I saw the horrific aftermath of another suicide bombing in the Middle East. Come on, I thought, willing the station to move to the next story. I felt a twinge of guilt, like I should take a moment to feel something for those victims and their families, but I shrugged it away. I had my own tragedy to contend with. The station turned to the latest Washington scandal, another politician with a vote for sale and I collapsed in relief. A plane crash would have gotten higher billing. It would have followed the bombing story. Unless it had run before I had turned on the set. I tore down the hall to our office and paced off a couple hundred calories or so while I waited for the computer to boot up. Then I leaned over the desk and scanned the headlines. AP, Reuters, New York Times. Nothing about a plane crash. I refreshed the screen to make sure the news was up to date. Still nothing. I put my head down on the desk, closed my eyes and breathed deeply. Everything was okay. I still had my James. So why hadn’t he called? I jerked up and looked at the screen. Could there have been an accident on the way to the hotel? What about a health scare that sent him to the emergency room? It didn’t have to be a plane crash that took him away. There were hundreds of everyday disasters waiting to claim him. “I did call,” he said, sounding annoyed to be woken up. “I left a message on your cell and I sent you an email.” “Why didn’t you call here?” “The plane was late. I didn’t want the phone to wake everyone,” he said sardonically. “What time is it anyway?” “Around 2:30.” “Christ. I’m going back to sleep. I have a big meeting this morning.” “Wait. I’m sorry, it’s just… I was so worried. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you. I don’t even know what kind of funeral you want. Do you even want a funeral? Maybe you want your ashes scattered at sea or something. Do you?” “It’s late. I’m exhausted. We can talk about this when I get home.” “James.” “What?” “I love you.” “Then let me sleep.” He hung up and for a moment I just stood there cradling the receiver. I was so lucky to have him, the kids, this house. My life. I went upstairs and put on one of his shirts. I could just make out his scent under the detergent’s perfume. Then I crawled into bed and when I fell asleep I didn’t dream. The week passed as it usually did, a flurry of pickups and drop offs, soccer games, gymnastics, meals made, laundry folded, the kids’ lives unfolding, mine in stasis while I waited for my husband to come back to me. Then it was Thursday. I had just stopped at the store to pick up a nice bottle of wine—I had a special celebration planned for tonight in honor of James’ safe return—and was on my way to pick up the kids from school when James called. “I’m going to be home late tonight.” “What do you mean by late?” “We got a key portion of the plan approved so we’re going out to celebrate. I’m taking a late flight. Don’t wait up.“ Realization hit like a shot in the heart. My premonition hadn’t been about James’ last flight. It had been about this one. Don’t change your flight, I screamed silently. Don’t mess with…what? Fate? Destiny? There would be consequences. You always hear the stories about the guy who survived a crash because he changed his window seat for an aisle. Meanwhile the guy he changed with was sucked out the back of the plane. Or the man who’s furious when he misses his flight due to traffic and is slamming down drinks in the executive lounge when his plane goes down. The guy who had gotten the seat on standby, who had called his girlfriend to tell her how lucky he was, died realizing he wasn’t lucky at all. There was no way to know which side of the equation you’d be on. I tried to explain that to James, to impress upon him the importance of sticking to the routine, but he wouldn’t listen. “It’s important for me to be there tonight,” he said. “It’s important for you to keep yourself safe for your family.” “Changing my flight isn’t going to cause my plane to crash. You’re not even close to being rational.” He muttered something under his breath. “What? Did you say something about Prozac? I’m scared—no, I’m terrified—that I’m about to lose you and you’re making jokes?” He sighed. “Sorry. It’s been a long week and I’m under a lot of pressure. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” His voice was calming. “I’ll be home soon. Try not to worry.” A few minutes before James’ usual flight was scheduled to take off I turned on CNN, squeezed my eyes shut and prayed like I had never prayed before that if a flight was going down it would be this one, not the later one that James had switched to. I tried to tell myself that I wasn’t praying for disaster to strike others so much as I was praying to avoid disaster myself. While the TV played in the background, I started thinking about what I’d do if I lost James. The thought was so unimaginable but my sense of impending tragedy was so strong… How would I tell the kids? It wouldn’t be fair to wake them; I’d wait until morning. Who would I call first? What about his mother? She was across the country. Would it be better for her to hear the news from me by phone or directly from one of the aides in her nursing home? I’d probably need to get a job, not right away because he had a good insurance policy, but eventually. Maybe I could sell the house and move us to something smaller. That would give us more of a cushion. But the kids would have gone through so much, maybe it was best to stay put, keep things stable. Stable like my marriage had been. I started to sniff. I wasn’t ready to lose my best friend. My life partner. I began to shake. “Mom! Is it time for dinner?” came the shout from upstairs. I had forgotten all about dinner. I looked in the refrigerator and stared at the food without seeing it. The refrigerator alarm started beeping and when I closed it I had no idea why I had opened it in the first place. “Mom! I’m starving. When’s dinner?” It was Dane, my fourteen-year-old son and for just a second I resented that he had nothing more to worry about than his stomach. “I’m ordering a pizza. Half hour or so.” There were approving sounds from upstairs. I picked up the phone to order a pizza and must have called James’ cell phone by mistake. “Why are you calling? Is everything okay?” he said. “I was just thinking about you.” I was flustered, not expecting his voice. He sounded so normal. “You too, Honey. They’re about to seat us. I’ve got to go.” “Enjoy your dinner. I love—“ “Hold on.” His voice grew soft and I could picture him turning his head away and putting his hand over the receiver. Then he was back at full volume. “Sorry, Hon, what were you saying?” “Sounds like you’re busy over there.” “Our table’s ready. They’re waiting for me.” “James, come back…” A voice in the background broke into our conversation. Again, James said something I couldn’t make out before he addressed me. “Tell the kids I love them. I’ll see you soon.” I got the feeling again. “Honey, just…” “What?” What could I say? James’ regular flight had already taken off. Events were in motion. There was nothing to do now but wait. “Never mind. Enjoy your dinner. And have a good, safe flight.” “I will. Don’t wait up.” I hung up the phone, brushed a tear away, and ordered the pizza. I glanced at CNN—still no signs of a plane crash—and thought about my conversation with James. Would it be the last time I heard his voice? Maybe I’d call him back before his flight and ask him to leave a message for us on the machine. Just in case. I thought about how he had told me not to wait up, worrying about me, and got teary again. “James, please come back to me,” I yelled, then stood perfectly still as the realization hit. I had sounded just like the voice on the phone. Only she had said, “James, come back. To bed.” She had said, “James, come back to bed.” Hadn’t she? ____________________________________________________________________________________________ Michelle Baron is a former marketing executive. Her flash fiction is forthcoming in The Spillway Review. She currently lives in New Jersey with her husband, three children and a cat. She has an MBA from The Wharton School and a BA from UCLA.