Different Circles

She put her arm around Laura’s waist and the two of them slowly made their way to the back of the plane, supporting themselves with the seatbacks as they went. The plane continued to bump and bounce with no predictable rhythm, but they managed to keep their feet beneath them. Celia opened the door to the toilet and locked it in that position so it could not slam back shut. She helped Laura unbutton her pants and pull them down. Once that was accomplished, she held onto her arms so she could ease down on the toilet. She remained standing there while Laura peed.

“You have a pad on,” Celia told her. “Don’t bother wiping.”

“I’m sorry,” Laura said, “but I am not going to skip wiping. That’s gross.”

“Okay,” Celia told her, “but hold onto me with one hand while you do it.”

Laura nodded. “This is so undignified,” she said miserably.

The ladies made it back to their seats without falling down or being slammed up to the ceiling, but it was a close thing. They sat back down and strapped in. Jake breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the buckles click shut.

The unsecured booze bottle continued to bounce and jump and slide all over the place but miraculously did not break. Eventually, it worked its way down the aisle and over to where Celia could grab it. She held it up and looked at it for a moment. It was a bottle of sixteen-year-old Bushmills single malt. She pondered it for a moment and then popped the cork and took a large, healthy swig directly from the bottle.

“Ahh,” she said. “God does provide.” She put the top back on and then stowed the bottle in the seatback pocket on the back of Jake’s seat.

Jake saw an expanse of orange and white city lights in the distance. That was Redding, the northernmost city in the Sacramento Valley. It was still better than forty miles ahead of them, but he welcomed the sight, nonetheless. There were two hospitals in Redding, both of which had NICU services. And after Redding there were no more long stretches between cities and hospitals. And once they were out of the mountains and over the valley itself, the turbulence would likely die down considerably.

“Just a few more minutes and the ride should smooth out some,” he told his passengers.

“Thank God,” Celia said, wondering if just one more slug of the Bushmills would be too much.

Laura said nothing. She was already back asleep.

As predicted, the turbulence eased up once they crossed over the last set of mountains and flew out over the valley. It did not go away completely, but it was no longer violent and continuous, just an almost gentle bumping from time to time. Redding passed beneath them and the next closest hospital was in Red Bluff. After Red Bluff, the familiar outline of the Heritage metropolitan area came into view. Heritage had three hospitals equipped with NICUs. After Heritage came the Sacramento area, which had multiple NICU equipped facilities, including the UC Davis Medical Center and Sutter Memorial Hospital, which were both regional specialty centers for high-risk deliveries and neonatal care. If there was anywhere along their path where it would be optimum to divert, Sacramento would be that place.

But they did not need to divert. Laura’s contractions had advanced a bit since they had taken off, but were still nine minutes apart—well within the safety margin. Jake began to feel more confident that they were going to make it home.

They passed over Stockton and then Modesto before their route took them further to the west, where the south San Francisco Bay Area came into range. From here, they could easily land in San Jose if needed. Beyond San Jose was Hollister and Salinas. Laura kept contracting regularly, but stayed in the nine-minute range. Just past Salinas, Jake began his descent, bringing them down from thirty-one thousand to four thousand at a rate of two thousand feet per minute. By the time they passed over Pasa Robles—the last possible diversion airfield with a NICU in easy striking distance—Jake knew they were going to make it.

He entered the familiar pattern for San Luis Obispo Regional, taking them offshore over Morro Bay and then turning for an ILS landing on Runway 11. He did not do many night landings as a matter of course, but he had done enough to be comfortable with it. The sky was clear and he could see the lighted runway from more than ten miles out. The ILS brought him down the glideslope smoothly. At five hundred feet above the ground, he disconnected the autopilot and took over control of the plane. He touched down neatly at 5:13 AM.

“We’re here,” he said, unnecessarily since both of his passengers were awake (Laura, like usual, had awakened when the flaps came down prior to landing).

“Thank God,” Laura breathed.

“Amen to that,” Celia echoed.