Sky Daddy

Chapter 1

Call me Linda. My tale begins in January, when I was invited to a Vision Board Brunch hosted by my coworker Karina Carvalho. According to Karina, the vision boards, crafted from common drugstore materials, could be used to manifest anything a person wanted in life. I was receptive to the idea, as I’d always subscribed to the notion of an intelligent universe, a web of predestination in which we all were tangled. Only such a cosmic force could bring about my dream of marriage to a plane—what others vulgarly refer to as a “plane crash.” I believed this was my destiny: for a plane to recognize me as his soulmate midflight and, overcome with passion, relinquish his grip on the sky, hurtling us to earth in a carnage that would meld our souls for eternity. I couldn’t alter my fate, but perhaps, with the vision board’s help, I could hasten its arrival.

Karina had told me about previous VBBs, which her friend group convened at the start of each quarter, but this was the first one she’d invited me to, and I took it as a sign she wanted to deepen our friendship. I was so excited to see the evite in my inbox, I RSVP’d “yes” before considering the risk of revealing my dream to a gathering of normal women. I suspected Karina’s friends would balk at a vision board comprising only photos of planes, or worse, crashed planes strewn in postcoital debris. The imagery might offend Karina most of all, as she was fearful of flying and had vowed never to set foot on a plane again. It was this quality that first drew me to her when I came to Acuity, where we both worked as content moderators for a video-sharing platform. I’d found her trembling in the break room, and learned that she’d just witnessed gruesome footage of plane wreckage in her queue of flagged videos. I comforted her, resisting the urge to inquire about the specifics of the wreckage and whether it could be viewed elsewhere on the internet. I’d always considered aerophobes my spiritual comrades, their fear and my desire flip sides of the same coin, and from that day forward, I knew Karina and I shared a special bond.

As the VBB approached, I’d reached an impasse. I couldn’t truthfully present my vision, nor did it seem wise to craft a fraudulent board. I didn’t want to give the universe the wrong idea, which might cause it to mix up my destiny with another person’s, as when a traveler picks up the wrong suitcase at baggage claim. I began to think it was safer not to attend, though I knew Karina would be disappointed.

On Thursday, Karina and I went to our usual happy hour at the sushi place on the ground floor of our office building. The VBB cycled venues, with a different member hosting each quarter, and this Sunday, it was Karina’s turn.

“I’m making three types of mimosa,” she said, her brown eyes gleaming beneath fluffy mink lashes. “Celia will be at work, so we’ll have the whole house to ourselves.” Karina lived with her fiancé, Anthony, at his mom’s house in Daly City. Like me, they lived in a room off the garage, though unlike mine, their room had a window. I’d never been, but I’d seen pictures of the space, and it looked cozy: tile floor, tulip wall sconces, Scarface poster, Anthony’s immaculate sneaker collection lined against a wall.

“Will Anthony be there?” I asked.

“Probably, but he’ll stay downstairs.” Karina frowned, setting down her sake cup. “Don’t you like Anthony?”

I recalled previous happy hours during which Karina had expressed dissatisfaction with Anthony, always for good reason. There were the flirtatious Instagram messages she’d discovered between Anthony and his coworker at the fastcasual pizza restaurant. There was his novelty T-shirt business, into which Karina had sunk large sums of her earnings, with little promise of her investment ever paying off. There was his habit of forgetting important dates, such as Karina’s birthday and their anniversary. I’d learned to be cautious when speaking of Anthony, to discover exactly where Karina stood on the subject of the man on that day before voicing any sentiment.

“I’ve only met him a few times,” I told her now. “I like whoever you like, Karina.” I was impressed by my own diplomacy. Perhaps I’d overheard someone saying this on the bus.

“Well, he likes you,” Karina said. “He’s always asking, ‘What’s Lindy up to?’”

“That’s nice of him.” I was surprised to hear that Anthony held any opinion of me. I took a sip of sake. “I’m not sure I can make it on Sunday,” I said carefully.

Karina’s eyes narrowed. “Why not? I thought you were coming.”

“My landlords are having a garage sale,” I lied. “They want me to help out.”

“You really don’t want to miss it,” she said, gnawing an edamame shell. “The Q1 VBB is always the most powerful. It sets the tone for the whole year.”

I told Karina I’d try my best, though I’d already decided against going. While it pained me to squander an opportunity to nudge the universe on behalf of my destiny, the risk of exposure was too great. I could not do anything that might compromise my position in society—my job and my housing—which in turn would threaten my prospects of marriage to a plane.

From happy hour, I took BART to SFO, hoping the AirTrain would boost my spirits. I planned to ride the Red Line’s loop for an hour or two, my typical routine when I hungered for connection with my loves but couldn’t afford to take a flight. The train rounded a bend, approaching Terminal 3. Through the window, I glimpsed many fine planes resting at their gates. Jet bridges nuzzled their temples, their rear ends pointed provocatively toward me. A beefy Boeing 777 pulled back from F4, pivoting on his slender ankles with surprising grace for such a big fellow. Parked at F12, I spotted an old friend who went by the tail number N78823, an Embraer 175 bound presently for Phoenix, according to my flight-tracking app. I’d accompanied N78823 to Salt Lake City a few months ago, and found him to be a playful lover, teasing me with a round of turbulence as we descended into SLC.

At the Terminal 3 stop, the doors opened and a pilot boarded my car. I was shy in his presence, as I always am around pilots, granting them the level of respect others extend to doctors and members of the clergy. This pilot was stout and snub-nosed, his face resembling that of an Airbus A350. He was around fifty, with silver hair protruding from his pilot hat. He wore his uniform of black trousers and a jacket with four stripes on each cuff, indicating he was a captain, a pilot in command. He settled onto the seat across from me. As the doors closed, our eyes met and he smiled in the polite but distant manner of a celebrity. I wouldn’t dare to disturb him, though I wished I could ask him many things, such as which model of plane was his favorite, and whether he felt an emotional attachment to the planes, as a farmer loves the horse that assists his labors.

The train rumbled on. As we approached Terminal 2, I was struck with an idea for how I could attend the VBB after all. I could place a pilot on my vision board as a stand-in for my goal of marriage to a plane, claiming I wished to marry a pilot instead. If the universe took my request at face value, and supplied me a pilot husband, I’d make the best of it. I would have access to discounted flights, and a companion to talk about planes with. Though I’d take no pleasure from sex with this pilot, or any person, I would submit to the act to please him, and remain in good standing as his wife. I’d be caressed—infrequently, I hoped—by fingers that had recently touched the most intimate parts of a plane, and been anointed.

Of course, I’d prefer to skip the middleman, launching myself directly into the aluminum embrace of my soulmate: whichever plane would finally recognize my worth and claim me as his bride in orgasmic catastrophe. But I’d recently turned thirty, and perhaps it was time for compromises.

I leaped from my seat and stood impatiently by the doors until they opened to the BART station. Normally, I’d have remained on the AirTrain for another five or six revolutions, but tonight, I couldn’t afford to linger. I had a vision board to craft!