“Maybe.”
Then she smiled.
“Maybe he did.”
I watched them together for another moment.
“I’m okay now,” Grandma told me. “Go enjoy your seat.”
She gestured toward Oliver.
“I have company.”
So I made my way back to first class.
Twenty minutes later, the cockpit door opened.
A younger pilot emerged into the galley.
He quietly said something to one of the flight attendants.
Surprise crossed her face.
Then she pointed toward the rear of the aircraft.
The pilot began moving toward the back.
Slowly.
He wasn’t simply inspecting the cabin.
He was searching for someone.
I’m not sure what compelled me to follow.
But I did.
He passed row twenty.
Then twenty-five.
Thirty.
When he reached row 34, he stopped.
Grandma remained beside the window.
Oliver had finally started coloring a purple dinosaur.
The pilot stared at Grandma.
Then his eyes dropped to her purse.
Then to the small silver wings attached beside the zipper.
His expression transformed completely.
He crouched beside her.
“Where did you get those?”
His voice was unsteady.
Grandma studied him closely.
The pilot swallowed hard.
“Mrs. Walsh,” he said, “why did you choose seat 34A?”
I stopped several rows behind him.
He knew who she was.
Grandma’s chin began to tremble.
“Because that’s where he told me to sit.”
There could only be one person she meant.
My grandfather.
A man who had been dead for twenty-seven years.
The pilot quickly stood.
“Who told you?”
Grandma opened her purse.
Her hands trembled as she reached into the side compartment.
She removed the yellowed piece of paper I had glimpsed earlier at the gate.
It was an old boarding pass.
The thick cardstock type airlines had used decades ago.
Its edges had been softened by years of handling.
She passed it to him.
He unfolded it.
Even from where I stood, I could make out the faded printing.
FLIGHT 212
BOSTON — SAN FRANCISCO
MARCH 14, 1999
SEAT 34A
Passenger:
FRANK WALSH.
The pilot stared at the pass.
Then he flipped it over.
Faded pencil handwriting covered the back.
He read it.
His face changed again.
He looked toward the front of the aircraft.
“Carol,” he called. “Please get the captain.”
The gray-haired flight attendant rushed down the aisle.
“Danny? What happened?”
The pilot raised the old boarding pass.
Her hand immediately covered her mouth.
“It’s her,” he said. “She’s in 34A.”
Carol stared at Grandma.
Then hurried back toward the cockpit.
Danny lowered himself beside Grandma once more.
