LYRA

07.06.15

“Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of the flight deck and the rest of this British Airways crew who’ve helped serve you this afternoon, we’d like to welcome you to Pamplona, Spain, where the local time is 5:05 p.m., and it’s a warm and sunny thirty-one degrees outside, or eighty-eight Fahrenheit for our American passengers. For those of you here to run with the bulls this week, we wish you the best of luck and hope to see you back all in one piece on your travels home.” The flight attendant giggles over the intercom as a guy across the aisle jokingly waves a red towel in the air. She continues with her spiel about staying in our seats until we reach the gate and instructions for those making connecting flights.

Bending over to retrieve my backpack wedged under the seat in front of me, I heave the black canvas bag onto my lap and pull out the brand-new toy I bought just two days ago—a Leica S Summicron camera body that cost more than most people pay for a car. Thankfully, since I live in Brooklyn and only use the subway or taxis to travel, I don’t need a car, and being a photographer by trade, I can write off the entire camera expense on my taxes. Plus, it’s not like I have anything or anyone else to spend my money on. One of the perks of being a loner with no family.

My admiring gaze lingers on the impressive instrument for a few extra seconds before I reach into the bag again for the mid-range lens I need to take snapshots while at the airport and during the bus ride to the hotel. As I do, my fingers brush up against the small wooden box in the bottom of the backpack and I freeze momentarily, both pulse and breath suspending abruptly.

I can’t believe I’m really doing this.

It’s taken me nearly thirteen years to even look at the box, and now, here I am traveling halfway around the world with it, ready to deliver it to its final home, where it belongs. Where they always dreamed to be.

I just never thought it’d be like this.

Forcefully swallowing down the lump that threatens to lodge itself at the base of my throat, I blink back the burn prickling my eyes as I jolt out of the paralyzing trance. This trip is not about sadness and dwelling on the past. I’ve done that long enough. I’m ready to ‘surrender to what is’ and ‘let go of what was’—the first two steps in my newly adopted life motto.

Or at least that’s what I keep reminding myself.

Hopefully after I conquer those, I’ll figure out how to ‘trust in what will be,’ the end goal according to Dr. Rose, my therapist. That is, assuming I accomplish what I’ve set out to do on this trip.

I grab the lens with trembling hands and hastily attach it to the camera base then lift the apparatus to my right eye to adjust the zoom ring.

Deep breaths, Lyra. In through your nose and out through your mouth. You got this.

After the fourth calming inhale and exhale, the headrest of the seat in front of me comes into crystal-clear focus through the viewfinder, and my heart rate returns to its normal rhythm as my shoulders relax.

I’ve totally got this.

Unfortunately, my moment of zen is short-lived as a small, round cherub face with big brown eyes and rosy pink cheeks suddenly appears in the frame and yells, “Cheeeeese!”

Startled, I jump slightly in my seat and my finger presses down on the shutter button, rapidly capturing numerous shots of the little girl with bouncing blonde pigtails as she continues to show off her wide, toothy grin while standing backward in her seat.

“I say cheeeeese, Mummy. I take pwetty pictures,” she boasts proudly to the lady next to her, who immediately twists around and also looks at me through the lens, offering an embarrassed smile.

“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry. Chloe, sweetheart, I told you not to take off your safety belt yet,” the young woman says with a thick British accent while trying—and struggling—to wrangle her toddler back to a sitting position and facing forward. “We recently had family portraits taken, and now she thinks everyone wants a photo of her.”

Not wanting to seem overly awkward, I lower the camera into my lap and keep my gaze from meeting either of theirs as I fiddle with levers and buttons, pretending to adjust the settings. I make eye contact with others as rarely as possible, usually toeing the lines of being both ill mannered and downright weird. I just… can’t. Especially not kids. Seeing their numbers makes me physically ill.

The corners of my mouth lift in a placating gesture that I hope resembles a smile and I give a swift shake of my head, purposely causing my long, straight, dark brown hair to tumble down like thick curtains on either side of my face. My first line of defense is my camera; my second is my hair. “No worries at all,” I reply softly. “She’s adorable, just took me by surprise when she popped up.”

“I say cheeeese and get candy,” Chloe announces loudly, and several people seated nearby chuckle, having overheard the exchange.

I cringe internally at the thought of others paying unwanted attention to me and decide to end this conversation as politely and quickly as possible. Maybe if I don’t say anything else, they won’t turn back around.

“You can have one piece of candy once we’re on our way to the hotel, but you have to listen to Mummy and be a good girl in the airport, okay?”

“Fwee pieces. Fwee, like me,” Chloe counters as she holds up three chubby little fingers, which is followed by another round of snickers, my own included this time, impressed at the child’s negotiating skills.

Her mom sighs aloud before compromising at two pieces, all while I keep busy messing with the camera and doing my damnedest to blend into the background and be forgotten. Fortunately, a loud ding echoes through the cabin and the safety belt light turns off, triggering a massive wave of bodies pushing to their feet and stretching their legs.

Standing, I hoist my bag up on my back, sling the camera strap around my neck, and then shuffle sideways out into the center aisle while everyone behind me is busy opening the overhead bins to retrieve their things. One of my favorite parts about flying business elite is being one of the first people on and off the plane. Even if Wanderer magazine, my new employer, hadn’t paid for the upgraded ticket for my trip here to cover the San Fermin Festival and the notorious running of the bulls, I would’ve happily forked over the money myself.

After all, the seat next to me isn’t empty by coincidence. There was no way in hell I was going to spend fourteen straight hours, with a brief stop in London, sharing an armrest and breathing space with some stranger, especially given the chance it could be someone who might actually want to converse during the flight. Uh, nope. Not a chance. Best money I ever spent… well, except for my new camera.

The moment the main cabin door opens and the flight attendants motion for us to disembark, I scurry up to the front of the aircraft and murmur a quick “Thank you” to the crew as I step onto the jet bridge, lifting my gaze only chest-high as I do. Only one man makes it off the plane in front of me, and I shadow his swift pace through the tunnel, thankful for the wide-open space and high ceilings once I’m in the Pamplona airport.

Immediately, I scoot off to the side, bring my camera up to my eye, and then start snapping away to capture the initial moments of my first ever international trip. One of the main reasons I accepted this job instead of one of the higher-paying gigs I was offered in the NYC fashion industry was for the opportunity to travel and push myself out of my comfort zone. Now, on my second assignment with the magazine, I find myself on foreign soil and with a chance to prove to myself that I’m ready.

Though, honestly, I’m still not sure.

After a couple of minutes and a few dozen photographs, I fall in step behind the slow, straggling passengers from the back of my flight and follow them down to baggage claim. We locate the moving belt with our flight number, and I find an open spot to stand and scan the suitcases as they pass by.

While I wait for my luggage, I dig out the folded piece of paper in the front part of my bag with the confirmation for my shuttle service to the hotel and review the instructions. It doesn’t take me long to locate the sign hanging nearby that shows the way to taxis, rental cars, and buses, and a sense of calm settles over me. I’m not sure why I’ve always been so anxious to travel by myself; this has proven to be much easier than I thought.

After about ten minutes of watching people all around me pull bags off left and right, I’m one of the last passengers left lingering at the baggage claim belt, and my newfound confidence wavers. Squeezing my lids shut, I suck in a deep breath through my nose and count backward from five, blowing it out through pursed lips.

Please, God, don’t let my bag be lost. I really need to at least start this trip off on a good foot.

My eyes flutter open and my prayer has been answered. Just a few feet away, headed in my direction, is an oversized black suitcase clearly marked with my bright orange luggage tag. For the second time in the last hour, a smile tugs at the corners of my mouth as I heave the bag off the conveyer and onto its wheels firmly on the floor.

“Thank you, Jesus. Now let’s get going before I miss my ride,” I whisper to myself before taking off in the direction of the hotel shuttles, weaving in and out of people with my luggage in tow.

I get another lucky break when the bus I’m supposed to be on is parked right up against the curb as I emerge from the cool, air-conditioned building and out into the brighter-and-warmer-than-I-expected late afternoon sun, thus saving me from having to drag my bag all over the place. In the long-sleeved black shirt I have on, I’d’ve been dripping in sweat in no time. With the door propped open, I bound up the steps into the vehicle and give the confirmation paper to the driver.

“Pasaporte, por favor, señora,” the man says in Spanish, then repeats himself in English, his accent heavy. “Passport, please, ma’am.”

I frown briefly, wishing the website would’ve told me I’d need to have my identification out and ready. Instead, I’m now standing here, the center of attention of all the people already seated, a situation I purposely try to avoid at all costs in my life.

“Here… here you go,” I stammer as I hurriedly locate my passport in my backpack and hand it over to him.

After comparing the name on the ID to the name on the printed reservation, he then peers up at me to make sure my face matches the one on the photo in front of him. He pauses a few seconds in what I perceive as him waiting for me to look at him, so reluctantly, I lift my eyes and meet his stare.

070615.

The moment I see the numbers, I forget everything else and panic. 07.06.15 is today’s date.

No. Oh, God, please no…

My head instinctively swivels to the left, Exorcist-style, and I frantically search the pupils of the two older women smiling cheerfully in the front seat. 070615. Both of them.

This has to be a nightmare. There’s no way this is really happening to me.

Then I check the next seat behind them. 070615.

And the one behind them. 070615.

My stomach lurches upward at the same time my heart plummets with G-force, the collision of realization darker than the center of a black hole.

Wake up, Lyra! Open your eyes!

Someone jumping up and down in my peripheral vision catches my attention as I hear a sweet, high-pitched voice call out, “Cheeeeese! I get candy!”

Though it all seems to play out in front of me in slow motion, I’m unable to stop myself from looking over to the source of commotion and find myself locked in on the sparkling brown eyes of little Chloe, once again bouncing excitedly next to her mom on the seat. Bigger and brighter than anyone else’s, the number 070615 in her pupils shines clearly, mocking me from across the bus. I’m powerless to change them. Helpless to save her. I know, because I’ve tried no less than a hundred times in my life, but no matter what I do, it never works. Fate trumps all.

Wake up! Wake up! Wake the fuck up, Lyra!

“Gracias, señora. Please take a seat.”

The bus driver’s words snap me out of my reverie, and immediately, my fight-or-flight instinct kicks in. I may not be able to save these people from whatever is going to happen, but I sure as hell can try to save myself. I have had more than one therapist tell me one of my biggest issues is that I’m afraid to live, and though that may be true, I can guarantee you, right now, I’m more afraid to die.

Acting on impulse, I snatch my passport out of the driver’s hand and spin around on my sandaled heel, then somehow pick up my suitcase like it weighs five pounds instead of fifty-five, and hightail it down the stairs. Once my feet hit the concrete, I drop the luggage back on its wheels and take off running, not really sure where I’m going, but I need to get as far away from that bus as possible.

My camera bobbles wildly against my ribs as it hangs from my neck, my backpack doing the same against my spine, and I try my best to secure them both with the hand that’s not pulling the suitcase, all while sprinting like a lunatic back into the airport. I make it about four strides inside the building when I slam full-force into a brick wall that appears out of nowhere, causing me to stop suddenly and consequently stumble backward into my bag.

Feet and wheels tangling, I tumble to the floor without an ounce of gracefulness, and my first and only thought is to keep the camera safe as I hold it up against me the best I can. I brace myself for impact with the floor, but before that happens, two large, strong hands shoot out from the offending wall and grab me around the waist, saving me from the crash.

The stranger hauls me up against his firm, broad chest and holds me steady, with my camera thankfully wedged between us, keeping our bodies from being flush up against one other. Though I’m positive he can feel my heart pounding anyway with the way it’s thumping wildly.

“Holy shit, are you okay?” he exclaims. “By the time I saw you blowing through here, it was too late to stop.”

“I-I-I…” Keeping my focus straight ahead, I lock in on the white graphics on his gray T-shirt, but with the current state of disorderly chaos that is my brain, I can’t make sense of the letters and illustration in front of me. I open and close my mouth several times, but nothing else comes out. The combination of anxiety, dread, and fear has hijacked my ability to form a single intelligent thought. All I know is I need to get away from here. Fast.

I squirm backward and lightly push off his shoulders, but his fingers dig into my hips through my jeans and keep me firm in his grasp.

“Hey, seriously, are you okay?” he asks again, concern coating his deep timbre. “You were running like you saw a ghost. Was someone chasing y—”

His thought is cut short when the floor below our feet begins to shake and shift like what I always imagined an earthquake would feel like, but the rumble is followed immediately by a deafening explosion that shatters windows and bends walls in ways I didn’t think physically possible. Before I can even register what just happened, a second blast rings out, and we both cower in reaction as the ceiling collapses right beside us, landing directly on a woman walking by. She releases a bloodcurdling shriek from the pain, but it is promptly muffled by a third and louder boom that rocks the crumbling building and buries her in falling debris. For a nanosecond, I’m paralyzed by disbelief and pure shock, realizing I was only inches away from being that woman, who was alive a minute ago and now… is not.

Despite the screams of horror filling my ears and the rubble and sheetrock raining down around me, an eerie calm blankets me. As I stand here in the middle of a foreign airport, in the arms of a complete stranger, suddenly everything is in crystal-clear focus for the first time since I was ten. I don’t know how I know, nor do I know why I know, but there is absolutely no doubt in my mind this is exactly where I’m supposed to be. Right here, right now. It’s my destiny.

The moment of clarity and composure is quickly replaced with mass mayhem and pandemonium, as high-pitched sirens wail and a stampede of terrified people—travelers and airport personnel alike—scramble to escape the crumbling airport. Everyone is pushing and shoving, some even getting trampled in the process. Adrenaline surges through my veins while watching the scene unfold in front of me, but my feet are cemented to the floor.

Move, Lyra, move!

“Fucking hell! We gotta get out of here! Let’s go!” the man shouts frantically as he yanks on my arm then holds out his hand for me to follow him.

I lift my eyes to meet his, this time a purposeful glimpse into the future, only to confirm his numbers don’t match today’s date. Once I see the 042316 radiate in the blackness of his pupils, I press my lips together and slip my free hand into his. We take off toward the closest exit, leaving our suitcases behind.

Today is not our day to die.