Page 47 of The Perfect Son
Stop, Tessie. Don’t watch it!
Too late.
I sit down, perching on the edge of the sofa.
An expert of some sort—a lecturer in aviation safety—is talking about the failings of the airline, but I’m only half listening. A picture is forming in my mind of you sitting down and clipping on your seat belt. The compensation letter from the airline flashes in my thoughts. It’s still tucked in my cardigan pocket waiting for me to do something about it or throw it away.
“The plane left London City Airport on schedule and was on the flight path bound for Frankfurt, but we know from the cockpit recording,” the lecturer says, his eyes moving between the camera and the anchorwoman as if he’s not sure where to focus, “that the pilot sent the copilot out of the cockpit only a few minutes after takeoff,supposedly because he had a headache and asked the copilot to get him some painkillers.”
“Is it normal practice for the copilot to leave the cockpit during takeoff?” the anchorwoman asks.
“No, it is not. Aviation Safety regulations recommend two people should remain in the cockpit at all times during the flight, which is why the CAA—the Civil Aviation Authority—ruled the airline to be negligent. Alarm bells should have rung for the copilot then as it would have been far simpler to call a member of the cabin crew into the cockpit and ask for painkillers from their medical kit. But as we know, the copilot didn’t question the pilot and left the cockpit.
“Following the tragedies of 9-11, all cockpit doors were installed with a lock on the inside, which the pilot then used, giving him sole access to the aircraft controls.”
“And we also know that the pilot—Philip Curtis—was signed off on medical leave by his doctor with stress,” the anchorwoman continues, “just four weeks before the Thurrock crash. The flight to Frankfurt was his first flight back at work following his absence, leaving many people to speculate that Philip Curtis returned to his duties as a pilot with the intention of killing himself and all those on board. What kind of safety measures are in place with airlines to support the mental health of their employees?”
My heart is beating in loud rapid thuds in my ears. The anchorwoman and the lecturer are still jabbering on about negligence and suicide, but I know what’s coming. A red banner flashes across the bottom of the screen. THURROCK CRASH UPDATE: PILOT SUICIDE NOTE FOUND is written in bold white writing.
My throat constricts, and tears blur my vision, but not enough to obscure the change in the screen and the amateur video footage now playing, just as I knew it would.
I blink the tears away and feel myself sucked like the last dregs of water down the drain, all the way back to that first Monday. The bonfire is smoldering in the garden and the smoke from it is still clawing at my throat. From the kitchen I can hear the whir of the kettle and the murmur of PC Greenwood talking quietly to the other officer, the one with the gray face and tearful eyes. A phone is ringing somewhere in the house.
Shaky footage starts of a young girl in a park riding her bike. Then the camera moves up to a clear blue sky. The image blurs as the person filming zooms in on an aircraft. It’s flying low in the sky but climbing higher and higher, until it isn’t. Until the nose of the plane dips suddenly and it’s rocketing straight toward the ground. The video shakes as the plane disappears into a fireball of black smoke. The voice of the person filming is screeching out of the TV, but I block out the sound and think only of you, bent over in your seat with your warm hands wrapped around the back of your head. How scared you must have been in those final moments. Were we your last thoughts? The wife and son you’ll leave behind?
It breaks my heart to think of Jamie watching this one day. I didn’t tell him it was the pilot’s fault.“Daddy’s plane crashed. It happened very quickly. He wouldn’t have felt any pain”was all I said. One day, when he’s older, I’m sure he’ll search for more answers. He’ll find the footage of the plane going down and learn about the pilot’s cruel and selfish actions, but I’ll shield him from it for as long as I can.
The news anchor appears back on the TV, her lips touched up with more of the wrong color, and I’m back, almost eight weeks on. Almost eight weeks without you.
The camera zooms in, cutting out the expert, and leaving only the anchorwoman. “Up next, we’ll be talking to two of the families of theThurrock crash victims and the lawsuit they are filing against the airline.
“Here is our main headline today: A suicide note from the pilot of the Thurrock plane crash has been handed in to police investigators. The letter was posted by Philip Curtis to a colleague in the human resources department of the airline and remained unopened until yesterday. Forty-five people were killed in the crash, including—”
The screen turns black, plunging the room into silence. I stare at the remote clenched in my hand. I don’t want to know who else died that day. I don’t want to share the grief.
I force myself to stand. Every part of my body is willing me to climb the stairs and lie on Jamie’s bed, or sink into a bath, but I can’t keep doing that. It isn’t helping me, and it certainly isn’t helping Jamie. Instead, I shuffle along the hall to the parlor and slowly, very slowly, I continue to unpack the boxes.
By midafternoon it’s done.
CHAPTER 28
Saturday, March 10
29 DAYS TO JAMIE’S BIRTHDAY
Memories have been haunting me today, Mark. The ones from before you died that are still intact and running like old home movies in my mind, filling my head with laughter and joy. So after lunch I switch off the TV Jamie is slumped in front of and we put on our wellies and go out in the drizzly rain to the playground.
“Why isn’t Shelley coming over this weekend?” Jamie asks. He skips ahead a little in his wellies and I let him. The lane into the village is so quiet. I guess people are tucking themselves up indoors, away from the heavy gray clouds and the rain in the air, but I like it. The feel of the droplets on my face, the chill blowing through me. I feel more alive outside.
“She’s visiting her sister. I’ll ask if she can come after school one day next week instead. Would that be OK?”
“On Monday?”
“I don’t know when. I’ll ask her.”
He gives a huff-like sigh and steps ahead a little further. “I wish Shelley was here now.”
So do I.
