He is listening to the radio as I enter his room with a tray of breakfast - two slices of toast, butter, and a glass of milk because he wouldn't take anything else. The annoyingly jovial breakfast show broadcasters are talking about some exotic holiday destinations. I doubt that he understands any word, but I know he really enjoys the sound the device makes. His eyes wander across the room, dark since the curtain hasn't been opened yet. Finally he acknowledges my presence and I smile at him.
"Good morning, Mr Evans," I say, putting the tray on a small table across where he's sitting. "Hungry yet? Fresh milk today, just the way you like it. And why is it so dark here?" I open the curtain and he squints.
I give him an apologetic look, and he takes his milk. He takes a sip, and then puts the glass back down without a word. I sigh.
"So you're not too hungry yet, Mr Evans," I say patiently. "But you didn't eat much last night. Do you want anything else?"
He shakes his head. I give him an understanding smile. Then he looks at his watch and turns to me.
"They haven't picked me up," he says with a frown.
I always anticipate this whenever I come to him, but I never prepare myself to respond. It's something everyone has been very used to, but still we can't take it for granted.
"Charlotte, why haven't they picked me up?" he frowns again.
I take a deep breath. "I'm sure they're on their way. They called me earlier, saying that you should eat before they can pick you up."
"But I don't want to keep them waiting. We have the best on-time performance in the country, and sure as hell I don't want to ruin that. I've heard the load today is looking good - no surprise, New York always has that effect. Charlotte, can you call them again? Tell them to get here quick. Oh, Captain Wellard will not be pleased! Charlotte, give me the phone. I'll call them myself." He suddenly stands up and paces back and forth. Before I can stop him, he knocks down a bottle of water with his right foot - thankfully the bottle is closed. I finally grab his hand, and a little forcefully I pull him back. He looks at me like a little boy whose toy has been taken away, and I kneel down so that our eyes are level.
"Mr Evans," I say slowly, "calm down. They'll come soon, okay? The flight isn't even scheduled to depart for hours! I'm sure Captain Wellard is still relaxing. Now eat your toasts. I don't want you to starve yourself, how would you fly a plane - "
"Airbus. Airbus A300-600, one of the newest Orla Airways has - " he quickly cuts me off.
"Yeah, yeah," I cut him off just as quickly, "how would you fly your beloved Airbus if you didn't eat anything? Want me to cut the toasts? No worries, if it makes your life easier..."
Again he looks at me like a little boy whose toy has been taken away, but this time he doesn't respond. Slowly I cut his toasts into small pieces and look at him closely as he - finally! - eats. He is neither the youngest nor the eldest here, but we know he's one of the most vulnerable. As he enjoys his breakfast quietly, he looks straight to the window, at a place that once was his good friend but eventually betrayed him.
Again he is listening to the radio. It's nearly noon now and he had his breakfast this morning without any difficulty, thank Jesus, and now I'm bringing him lunch - some fish with potatoes and a glass of orange juice. The radio is currently playing some poppy song that I'm sure he doesn't care about. His hair is still damp from his shower earlier today. He's sitting by the window and his big blue eyes are looking intensely at the sky, but I know those eyes are mostly empty. For a few minutes he's oblivious to my presence, too busy in his own little world - if there's even such a thing. I clear my throat three times until he finally turns around and looks at me.
"Lunchtime, Mr Evans," I say with a slight smile, putting the tray on the table. I start cutting the fish for him, and suddenly he looks at the tray curiously.
"Snapper?" he asks excitedly.
"I think so," I say while cutting the fish.
"Oh, brilliant!" he says - almost shouting. "Brings a lot of memories. That's what I ate on board when I flew my first international flight - Ibiza, yeah. The best fish I ever tasted, but I suppose it was the excitement of a young pilot taking over, eh? My folks were excited - Enda Evans, a wee boy from the wee county is flying with Orla Airways to Ibiza! Have you been to Ibiza, Charlotte? Interesting place. Beautiful women as well. Too bad the hotel was a letdown, but I heard they've moved us into a new hotel. Oh, I should ask to fly there sometimes! Wonderful, simply wonderful..."
I smile a little forcefully. He grins widely as if he really were in Ibiza. I bring him his drink and he takes it with a huge gulp - something he always does when excited. Then he starts eating. I have to admit this amuses me. He is eating rather messily, and I grunt - hopefully - quietly at the thought of having to clean him up later, but it's much better than him not eating at all. Within minutes the plate is empty, and I pat his shoulder in satisfaction.
"Charlotte, where's my uniform?" he says suddenly. I'm startled - I was too busy admiring the way he ate. He stands up and looks at me sharply. "Where is it? They'll pick me up soon and I haven't prepared anything! Ah, I'm sure it's in the wardrobe. I ironed it last night. Captain Wellard likes his crew neat. Can you please take my uniform for me?" He looks anxious, but he is in good spirits. Again I take a deep breath. His good spirits frighten me more than his awful ones. I pretend to check the wardrobe - it's empty, really, except for a pair of wrinkled pyjamas - and then return to him.
"I think you've misread your schedule, Mr Evans. They won't be here for another four hours! I think they're still checking the...Airbus? Your uniform is there, safe and sound. Good job ironing them. Now look at you. You ate like a kid! Captain Wellard wouldn't be pleased if his co-pilot had snapper all over his mouth. Come on, let's clean you up." I grab a few tissues and then gently wipe his face. His smile has ceased, but his whole face is still bright.
When we're done, he politely asks me to leave. I do as asked, and at the door I turn around to take a quick look. He's standing up and looking at the sky again, excitement building up for a trip that never was.
It's now dark and everyone has fallen asleep, but I know he is still wide awake. I look at my watch; it's now 11:09 in the evening. Breakfast and lunch today went without trouble, but it only reminded me further why I wasn't looking forward to today. Near his door I'm trying to smile, but today has been very difficult. Everyone knows what day today is because it's all over the news. I certainly do, even though this particular date never affects me significantly because I have pretty much only heard or read stories about it, but many people I work with here are affected deeply.
I finally open the door, and he's sitting at the window, looking outside. As usual he's oblivious to my presence, but this time I make no effort to make him notice. Dinnertime has passed, but I have a strong feeling that I have to be there for him now. I am always there for him, but today the need is even stronger.
As usual the radio is on. I look at him, still intensely looking outside, the room's light making his blue eyes visible - at this moment they are even emptier than they usually are. In his empty eyes I see a combination of a little boy's excitement and an old man's regret. He still doesn't know I'm here - or maybe he chooses to ignore me, but I can't blame him. Tonight there is no song coming from the radio - only the somber voice of the broadcaster, reminding me the importance of this particular date yet again.
"...the thirtieth anniversary of the crash of Orla Airways Flight 900, the worst air disaster in the country. The crash occurred shortly after the New York-bound aircraft took off from Shannon. The cause of the crash was later determined to be pilot error. At the time of the accident, the aircraft was flown by First Officer Enda Evans..."
Quietly I turn off the radio and silence fills the room. Tears begin falling down my cheeks as I slowly take his hand in mine. He is still looking at the sky, and I can see tears forming in his empty eyes. For the first time I feel that he is aware of his real surroundings, rather than the ones formed in his mind after that fateful day thirty years ago. Tears begin falling down his wrinkled cheeks, and he still intensely looks at the sky where his life was and where it was taken away.
"Good morning, Mr Evans," I say, putting the tray on a small table across where he's sitting. "Hungry yet? Fresh milk today, just the way you like it. And why is it so dark here?" I open the curtain and he squints.
I give him an apologetic look, and he takes his milk. He takes a sip, and then puts the glass back down without a word. I sigh.
"So you're not too hungry yet, Mr Evans," I say patiently. "But you didn't eat much last night. Do you want anything else?"
He shakes his head. I give him an understanding smile. Then he looks at his watch and turns to me.
"They haven't picked me up," he says with a frown.
I always anticipate this whenever I come to him, but I never prepare myself to respond. It's something everyone has been very used to, but still we can't take it for granted.
"Charlotte, why haven't they picked me up?" he frowns again.
I take a deep breath. "I'm sure they're on their way. They called me earlier, saying that you should eat before they can pick you up."
"But I don't want to keep them waiting. We have the best on-time performance in the country, and sure as hell I don't want to ruin that. I've heard the load today is looking good - no surprise, New York always has that effect. Charlotte, can you call them again? Tell them to get here quick. Oh, Captain Wellard will not be pleased! Charlotte, give me the phone. I'll call them myself." He suddenly stands up and paces back and forth. Before I can stop him, he knocks down a bottle of water with his right foot - thankfully the bottle is closed. I finally grab his hand, and a little forcefully I pull him back. He looks at me like a little boy whose toy has been taken away, and I kneel down so that our eyes are level.
"Mr Evans," I say slowly, "calm down. They'll come soon, okay? The flight isn't even scheduled to depart for hours! I'm sure Captain Wellard is still relaxing. Now eat your toasts. I don't want you to starve yourself, how would you fly a plane - "
"Airbus. Airbus A300-600, one of the newest Orla Airways has - " he quickly cuts me off.
"Yeah, yeah," I cut him off just as quickly, "how would you fly your beloved Airbus if you didn't eat anything? Want me to cut the toasts? No worries, if it makes your life easier..."
Again he looks at me like a little boy whose toy has been taken away, but this time he doesn't respond. Slowly I cut his toasts into small pieces and look at him closely as he - finally! - eats. He is neither the youngest nor the eldest here, but we know he's one of the most vulnerable. As he enjoys his breakfast quietly, he looks straight to the window, at a place that once was his good friend but eventually betrayed him.
***
Again he is listening to the radio. It's nearly noon now and he had his breakfast this morning without any difficulty, thank Jesus, and now I'm bringing him lunch - some fish with potatoes and a glass of orange juice. The radio is currently playing some poppy song that I'm sure he doesn't care about. His hair is still damp from his shower earlier today. He's sitting by the window and his big blue eyes are looking intensely at the sky, but I know those eyes are mostly empty. For a few minutes he's oblivious to my presence, too busy in his own little world - if there's even such a thing. I clear my throat three times until he finally turns around and looks at me.
"Lunchtime, Mr Evans," I say with a slight smile, putting the tray on the table. I start cutting the fish for him, and suddenly he looks at the tray curiously.
"Snapper?" he asks excitedly.
"I think so," I say while cutting the fish.
"Oh, brilliant!" he says - almost shouting. "Brings a lot of memories. That's what I ate on board when I flew my first international flight - Ibiza, yeah. The best fish I ever tasted, but I suppose it was the excitement of a young pilot taking over, eh? My folks were excited - Enda Evans, a wee boy from the wee county is flying with Orla Airways to Ibiza! Have you been to Ibiza, Charlotte? Interesting place. Beautiful women as well. Too bad the hotel was a letdown, but I heard they've moved us into a new hotel. Oh, I should ask to fly there sometimes! Wonderful, simply wonderful..."
I smile a little forcefully. He grins widely as if he really were in Ibiza. I bring him his drink and he takes it with a huge gulp - something he always does when excited. Then he starts eating. I have to admit this amuses me. He is eating rather messily, and I grunt - hopefully - quietly at the thought of having to clean him up later, but it's much better than him not eating at all. Within minutes the plate is empty, and I pat his shoulder in satisfaction.
"Charlotte, where's my uniform?" he says suddenly. I'm startled - I was too busy admiring the way he ate. He stands up and looks at me sharply. "Where is it? They'll pick me up soon and I haven't prepared anything! Ah, I'm sure it's in the wardrobe. I ironed it last night. Captain Wellard likes his crew neat. Can you please take my uniform for me?" He looks anxious, but he is in good spirits. Again I take a deep breath. His good spirits frighten me more than his awful ones. I pretend to check the wardrobe - it's empty, really, except for a pair of wrinkled pyjamas - and then return to him.
"I think you've misread your schedule, Mr Evans. They won't be here for another four hours! I think they're still checking the...Airbus? Your uniform is there, safe and sound. Good job ironing them. Now look at you. You ate like a kid! Captain Wellard wouldn't be pleased if his co-pilot had snapper all over his mouth. Come on, let's clean you up." I grab a few tissues and then gently wipe his face. His smile has ceased, but his whole face is still bright.
When we're done, he politely asks me to leave. I do as asked, and at the door I turn around to take a quick look. He's standing up and looking at the sky again, excitement building up for a trip that never was.
***
It's now dark and everyone has fallen asleep, but I know he is still wide awake. I look at my watch; it's now 11:09 in the evening. Breakfast and lunch today went without trouble, but it only reminded me further why I wasn't looking forward to today. Near his door I'm trying to smile, but today has been very difficult. Everyone knows what day today is because it's all over the news. I certainly do, even though this particular date never affects me significantly because I have pretty much only heard or read stories about it, but many people I work with here are affected deeply.
I finally open the door, and he's sitting at the window, looking outside. As usual he's oblivious to my presence, but this time I make no effort to make him notice. Dinnertime has passed, but I have a strong feeling that I have to be there for him now. I am always there for him, but today the need is even stronger.
As usual the radio is on. I look at him, still intensely looking outside, the room's light making his blue eyes visible - at this moment they are even emptier than they usually are. In his empty eyes I see a combination of a little boy's excitement and an old man's regret. He still doesn't know I'm here - or maybe he chooses to ignore me, but I can't blame him. Tonight there is no song coming from the radio - only the somber voice of the broadcaster, reminding me the importance of this particular date yet again.
"...the thirtieth anniversary of the crash of Orla Airways Flight 900, the worst air disaster in the country. The crash occurred shortly after the New York-bound aircraft took off from Shannon. The cause of the crash was later determined to be pilot error. At the time of the accident, the aircraft was flown by First Officer Enda Evans..."
Quietly I turn off the radio and silence fills the room. Tears begin falling down my cheeks as I slowly take his hand in mine. He is still looking at the sky, and I can see tears forming in his empty eyes. For the first time I feel that he is aware of his real surroundings, rather than the ones formed in his mind after that fateful day thirty years ago. Tears begin falling down his wrinkled cheeks, and he still intensely looks at the sky where his life was and where it was taken away.
Victoria Park, WA, Australia
October 31, 2014
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