Page 11 of Poison Wood
Riverbend, Louisiana
Tuesday, February 12, 2019
9:53 p.m. CST
As the last commuter flight from DFW to Northwest Louisiana bucks against the turbulence, I toggle between the stress of Debby’s text and chiding myself for the hornet’s nest I’ve kicked at work. I promised Carl I’d talk to Dom, and I assured Dom that Carl could jump into any scrums that pop up and get vis for us. He’s more than capable of getting footage of any press conferences or briefings without me. Hell, Carl could teach a master class on it. Carl.
Jeopardizing my career is one thing. Jeopardizing the career of the man who has done nothing but support me and make me look good for the past eight years is another.
I’ve got to figure out a way to not only make this right but also find a way to keep Laura Sanders.
The plane drops, and the woman next to me crosses her chest.
Getting to Dallas from Miami was easy enough, but then a winter storm had hit once we landed at DFW and we’d had to wait it out. I could have tried to get to my house in Highland Park, at least grab a change of clothes, but I couldn’t risk missing the last flight to Louisiana. I’d considered renting a car at DFW and driving, but I know how I-20gets in these storms, and coming up on a jackknifed tractor trailer in the dark wasn’t appealing either.
I exhale and stare out the window. My leg taps nervously as we finally begin our descent.
“Praise Jesus,” the woman next to me says.
I study my phone and wait to see a signal pop up. I’ve been texting with Debby since leaving Miami. She said my father had been rushed into surgery, then sent to the ICU, and now she’s annoyingly silent. She hasn’t answered my last four texts, and this small plane does not have Wi-Fi.
I chew my bottom lip. Come on. The plane drops again, and a few passengers yelp. Then a signal appears. Yes. My phone dings, and the lady looks at me. I shrug and open the text thread with Debby.Touch and go.
I reply:What does that mean!Send.
I rub my face as the plane touches down, and the passengers around me actually clap.
When we park at the jet bridge, I jump up. The entire thirty-five-minute flight was deadly silent, but now that we’re all safe, the talking has begun. I hear conversations about nightmare travel days and long drives still ahead.
Finally, the cabin door opens and people start filing out. I feel a tap on my shoulder, and when I look back, a woman with a round, friendly face says, “I thought that was you.”
I smile at her the best I can.
“Carita,” she says. Oh boy. Only people in this area know me by that name.
“Rita now,” I say.
“Oh, right. Of course.” We start moving toward the front. “I’m Sarah Lynn Hebert. Your daddy, Judge Mac, helped our family. I’ve never forgotten how much we owe him.”
It’s a phrase I grew up hearing. Judge McCormick Meade brought justice to a lot of families. He has always been known for being tough, fair, and unflinching. Traits he passed on to his only child.
“Please tell him Sarah Lynn Hebert said hello.”
This happens every time I visit Riverbend, but I never quite get used to it. In Dallas, I can disappear in a crowd. In my hometown, the crowd is filled with people who know my father or went to grade school with me or took art classes from my mother.
“I will.” My gut clenches for a moment as the thought that I may not ever get to tell him that passes through my mind. I choke the thought back, shake it away, and concentrate on getting the hell off this plane.
I make it to the top of the jet bridge in time to see some random dude walking off with my gate-checked bag. I left my larger bag with my makeup and wardrobe in Miami with Carl, at a new hotel that did not serve $125 drinks.
I run after the guy with my bag. “Hey,” I yell as I catch up to him.
He stops and turns. His hair is dirty blond, and he has a slight scruff of a beard. His eyes remind me of a golden retriever’s.
“That’s my bag,” I say.
He looks down and sees the giant red tag I attach to it to distinguish it from the other black carry-ons.
“Oh shit,” he says, rolling it to me. “Sorry. Little distracted.”
