The Flight Attendant

by Chris Bohjalian

Men are afraid that women will laugh at them. Women are afraid that men will kill them. —Margaret Atwood

And yet she moved forward because like the planes on which she lived so much of her life, that was the only direction that allowed for survival. Think shark.

She recalled something her father had said to her when she was a little girl: you bury the dead and move on.

The truth was, there was nothing casual about casual sex. When it worked, it was intense. When it didn’t, it was particularly unsatisfying. Either way, it left scars, some that were similar to the blackout scars, but some that were different: the violation was less pronounced, but the self-loathing could be fierce.

In the meantime, she would brace for impact. It was, she knew, inevitable.

The irony of blackouts was this: you had to have a spectacular alcohol tolerance to black out. Amateur drinkers passed out long before they put the hippocampus—those folds in the gray matter where memories are made—to sleep. She was a pro. Partial blackouts happened when the blood alcohol hit the magic 0.2; en bloc or total blackouts occurred when you ratcheted up the number to an undeniably impressive 0.3. The bar for drunk driving, by comparison, was a fraction of those numbers: a mere 0.08.

But she had the sense, real or imagined, that in this crush was someone who was there just for her. There was someone watching her. She could tell herself that this was mere paranoia, absolutely understandable after what she had seen in Dubai. It was, perhaps, an inevitable if mean-spirited trick of the mind. But she couldn’t shake the feeling. She was a woman, and she had spent enough time alone on subway platforms or streets late at night to know when something was wrong. When someone approaching was sketchy. When it was time to move and to move fast.

Like almost everything else she did, it was crossing a line that most people wouldn’t. She did it because it thrilled her. It was just that simple. She did it because it was, like so much else that made her happy, dangerous and self-destructive and just a little bit sick.

Negronis in Rome. Akvavit in Stockholm. Arak in Dubai. Her life was a drinking tour of the world.

A shiver along the back of her neck. She knew the word from a psychology course she’d taken in college: scopaesthesia. The idea was you could sense when you were being watched. It was a cousin of scopophobia: the fear of being watched.

“Cassie?” She waited. The waves of Ani’s anger were receding now, and in their wake was only sadness and worry. “I promise you: you’ve done nothing so bad that you deserve what might be coming.”

“It’s a terrible era when idiots are allowed to govern the blind,”

“Remember that person you wanted to be? There’s still time.” She wanted to believe that; she wanted to believe it almost desperately. She wanted to be different from what she was—to be anything but what she was. But every day that grew less and less likely. Life, it seemed to her in the back of the cab, was nothing but a narrowing of opportunities. It was a funnel.

Vindication, she thought, was not especially gratifying when everything she did was pathetic.

a smart girl is nobody’s pushover and nobody’s foe. A smart girl is both sword and smile.

“You’re thinking you’re so handsome that I’m going to fall under your spell. Well, you are that handsome, and I am under your spell. But I’m trying to do better. To be better. So, please don’t tempt me anymore because I’m really not known for my willpower.”

She hoped her small joke would make him smile, but the truth of it made her cringe. It wasn’t merely the acknowledgment of her drinking; it was the reality that she was poisonous; she always risked diminishing the people she loved or might someday love. Too often she forced them to make the same bad choices she did or she forced them from her life. Best case, she forced them to care for her.

“And I have a feeling you’re not nearly the shitstorm of a mother you probably figured you’d be.” She rolled her eyes. “Being sober helps.” “You named her Masha, right?” She nodded. “That can’t possibly be a family name.” “Tolstoy. The young woman in ‘Happy Ever After.’ She’s my happy ending.”

She thought of that quote she’d seen on a blackboard outside a West Village boutique: “Remember that person you wanted to be? There’s still time.” She wasn’t completely sure this was who she wanted to be, but she found the work offered the same adrenaline rush as drinking, but without the hangovers and humiliations. It gave her life purpose. She knew, however, that the person who had most assuredly saved her life was Masha, because Masha was the reason she had stopped drinking and Masha was warmth in the morning when Cassie was home and they would wake together, and Masha was a euphoric squeal when she would return to her from a trip. Masha was the word moon, her first word, and how with her authoritarian little pointer finger she had looked skyward at dusk at a sickle moon and elongated that single, lovely syllable almost into song. Masha gave her something she loved more than herself—something that didn’t come in a glass with ice cubes or a paper umbrella or a straw.