I stood up and walked out of the bedroom. “I don’t understand what you’re saying to me. How could he just disappear?”
Another pause. “His plane vanished off the radar.”
The words hit me like a brick, and I sank onto the sofa in the dark living room. For a moment I couldn’t speak. All I could do was sit in a state of shock and disbelief.
“Olivia, are you still there?”
“Yes, I’m here. I’m just trying to digest this.”
“I know it’s difficult,” Richard replied. “But rest assured, a search has already begun. The Coast Guard was summoned immediately, and we know exactly where Dean went off the radar. The Puerto Rican authorities are involved as well, and there’s a navy ship in the area, so they’ve been alerted. It’s a clear night with good weather, a near-perfect calm on the water, so that’s a blessing, and the sun will be up soon.”
“They’ll be searching for wreckage,” I mumbled, pushing my hair back.
“Yes, and for Dean. We’re all praying.”
I tried to comprehend this. “Was there anyone else on the plane with him?”
“No. There was supposed to be a flight attendant on the return trip, but she wanted to stay in Saint Thomas. I think there might be something going on between her and Mitchell, so Dean flew back on his own.”
Oh God. I thought of how I had pressured him to come straight home to me and wished that instead I had given him the choice to stay and return in the morning.
“You mentioned he contacted air traffic control in San Juan,” I said. “Was he having a problem? Was it a Mayday call?”
“That’s unclear. From what I understand, he said he was having some trouble with his instruments, and he reported some fog.”
“And then he just vanished?”
“That’s what it sounds like.”
“But that makes no sense. If he was having trouble with his instruments, wouldn’t he have requested permission to land somewhere?”
“One would think.”
“Maybe if his instruments were acting up, he lost radio contact. Maybe he’ll land in Miami like he’s supposed to.” I looked out the window at the dark Atlantic Ocean sparkling brightly beneath a full moon. “Like you said, it’s a clear night. He could find his way back, couldn’t he? Even without his instruments?”
“He’s an excellent pilot,” Richard said. “But if he was out there, radar would be picking him up.”
I began to feel a little shaky as I tried to imagine what might have occurred. “If he had to ditch over the water,” I said, “there are life jackets on board, aren’t there? He would know what to do to survive?”
Richard let out a breath. “I don’t know, Olivia. Sometimes pilots can get disoriented, and they don’t even realize they’re going down until it’s too late.”
I pictured Dean’s plane in a death spiral and felt like I was going to be physically ill.
“Are you all right?” Richard asked. “Is there anyone you want me to call?”
“No,” I replied, wiping a tear from my cheek while my heart pounded like a jackhammer. “I’ll call my mom. But please, can you keep me informed as soon as you hear anything?”
“Of course.”
We hung up, and I sat for a moment in a state of terror-filled paralysis, staring straight ahead, seeing nothing but frightening images of my husband: Dean sitting in the cockpit and fighting to control the shaking throttle while the plane was going down. I imagined him fighting until the last second to lift the nose before finally giving up, squeezing his eyes shut, and crashing into the sea.
Something in my heart took flight, and my gaze shot to the full moon again.
No. It wasn’t possible. Dean wasn’t dead. If he were, I would feel it. I would feel darkness and despair. Hopelessness. But that’s not what I felt at all. People were searching for him, and I believed they would find him. I believed my husband had landed that plane safely on the water. Someone would spot the wreckage and find him floating, alive, and he would come home to me. Because if there was one thing I knew about my husband—besides the fact that he loved me—it was that he was a survivor.
Shortly before dawn, my mother arrived. I buzzed her upstairs to the condo, where I had been pacing around the kitchen while finishing a third cup of coffee. When I let her in, she pulled me into her arms.
“There, there,” she whispered as I broke down and wept on her shoulder. It was the first time I had given in to tears since Richard had called. I suppose I had been fighting to remain in a state of denial, which was much easier than accepting a potential reality where Dean would never come home to me.
I withdrew from the comfort of my mother’s embrace, shut the door behind her, and followed her into the kitchen. Neither of us spoke while she set her pink Gucci bag down on a chair and stared out the massive wall of windows at the fiery sunrise over the Atlantic.
“He shouldn’t have taken that job last night,” she said, judgmentally. “He should have turned it down and come with you to dinner. Then none of this would be happening. But he just couldn’t resist the brass ring, could he.”
I stared numbly at my mother. “Seriously, Mom? That’s what you want to say to me right now? You can’t bite your tongue, just this once, and pretend that you care that my husband might be . . .”
I couldn’t say the word. I couldn’t even consider the possibility that he might be . . .
She turned to me with umbrage. “Of course I care. I’m just angry with him, that’s all. I’m angry that he’s put you in this position—that he’s causing you such pain—when it all could have been avoided if he’d only just—”
“Stop it, Mom.” I held up a hand. “You’re not helping. He took the job because he’s a great pilot. He’s passionate about his work, and he’s dedicated. And I hate it when you say those things about him, as if all he cares about is money and prestige. As if that’s the only reason he married me. You’d think after four years of your daughter being blissfully happy, you might consider the possibility that you were wrong about him.”
My mother held up a hand as well, but it was a gesture of surrender. I felt my shoulders relax slightly.
“You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry. I know you love him, and now’s not the time for me to be critical.”
“No, it’s not.” Part of me wanted to continue singing Dean’s praises until she finally admitted defeat, once and for all, but I was emotionally drained. Instead, I picked up my coffee cup, dumped what remained of the cold contents into the sink, and scrubbed it out with a long-handled bristle brush. I waited for my blood pressure to return to normal before I set the cup on the dish rack and faced my mother again.
“If your father were here,” she said as she moved to the sofa in the living room, “he would be on the phone right now shouting at people. At least then we’d know something.”
I moved into the living room as well and sat down beside her. “Richard promised he would call back as soon as he heard anything.”
“Who’s Richard?”