Dandelion Dreams Read Online Free PDF

anyone.
    “Excuse me,” I uttered, unbuckling my seat belt. “I need to use the restroom.”
    The woman’s eyes widened. “But you can’t go now, we’re about to—”
    “When you gotta go, you gotta go.”
    A perky blonde flight attendant, perhaps the one who had spoken over the intercom, appeared in the aisle almost instantly. She must have had a sensor for recalcitrant passengers. “Excuse me, ma’am, you have to sit down.”
    “I need to use the bathroom for one second,” I whispered, my voice beginning to tremble. Emotion flooded my veins as I tried to remain collected. It was everything I could to do to keep from screaming.
    “Ma’am, we will be in the air in a moment. The captain will turn off the seat belt sign when it’s safe, and then you’ll be able to use the restroom.” The attendant’s voice was firm, her stance pugnacious.
    I could only imagine how I appeared—gray eyes stained red from non-stop crying, my face white with pain and anger. Matted, dull chestnut hair I couldn’t be bothered to brush because it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered; especially not appearances.
    It was all bullshit.
    The flight attendant’s tone turned combative. “Please sit down.”
    For one long moment, I didn’t move, didn’t breathe. With reluctance, I took my seat and buckled myself in. The flight attendant nodded and then continued moving down the aisle, closing compartments in rapid succession.
    The woman next to me remained blessedly silent.
    As the plane began to pull away from the gate, I shut my eyes. I didn’t watch as I flew away from the city I had once called home.

    •••

    “Would you like something to drink?” It was the flight attendant whose pleasant mask was back in place. How did she do it? I wore my emotions like a sweater, and I didn’t have any acting talent to conceal my grief.
    “Coke, please,” the woman next to me answered.
    “And for you, ma’am?”
    “What scotch do you have?” I inquired. It was an evening flight, but if it had been eight o’clock in the morning, I might have asked for it anyway.
    “Canadian Club, Dewar’s, and Glenlivet.”
    “Glenlivet, please,” I replied, handing the attendant my credit card and ID.
    “Want anything in it?” She glanced at the ID and swiped the credit card before returning them.
    “No, thanks.” I opened the mini bottle of scotch, pouring it into cup I’d been given. She rolled her cart along, serving other passengers.
    “You don’t look old enough to drink.” There was a dose of protective concern in my companion’s voice.
    It made me hesitate ever so briefly. “Well, I am. Would you like to see my ID, too?” Inhaling a shaky breath, I took a liberal sip, feeling warmth blast through me. “Consider it a sedative,” I said, trying for levity and failing.
    “You’re afraid to fly, right?”
    I didn’t answer as I gazed out the window into a bank of clouds. I wanted to forget the horror of the last couple of weeks, the endless days and nights of my mother’s pain, and then what came after.
    The tears fell unchecked down my face, and I sniffed.
    A tissue appeared, and then my compatriot put a hand on mine and squeezed in sympathy. It only made it worse, and I wondered if I would ever be able to take a deep breath without feeling like I was dying.

    •••

    Eight hours later, the plane landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport. Tired passengers unhooked their seat belts and stood, wanting to stretch their legs and disembark.
    I didn’t move, waiting until it cleared. When half the plane was empty, the woman next to me rose and pulled a bag from the overhead compartment. With one final look at me, she inclined her head and left.
    We had come to an understanding somewhere over the ocean.
    I trudged through the airport, looking for baggage claim signs through bleary eyes. I wondered how tourists ever found their way through the labyrinth of French confusion. Even I, who spoke and read French, had trouble.
    Only a few