Vanessa turned her glare on him.
"Stay out of my business."
Walter opened his book.
"With pleasure, if you'll let me read."
The aisle fell quiet, but Sophie's eyes remained fixed on the notice.
When Jordan asked Vanessa to sit, she crumpled the paper and shoved it into her purse.
Sophie whispered something to her mother.
Vanessa bent toward her.
"Not one word."
From my new seat, I realized the exchange had solved the wrong problem.
MY WIFE SECRETLY SOLD MY FATHER’S VINTAGE MOTORCYCLE FOR $55,000—BUT ONE...
AT 67, I SOLD MY HOUSE TO TRAVEL AMERICA IN AN RV—BUT A DINNER INVITATIO...
MY SISTER THREW MY NAVY WORK BAG INTO THE RIVER—THEN DISCOVERED I WAS TH...
My back was finally still.
The girl behind Walter was shaking.
Walter turned one page of his book and then another.
Sophie did not kick his seat.
Instead, she held her knees together, pressing her hands around them with the concentration of someone trying not to move at all.
I watched only when I could do so without making her feel observed.
She was counting something on her fingers.
Then she started again.
Vanessa opened her tablet, but her face was still flushed.
Sophie had the kind of face adults often mistake for defiance.
Her brows drew together whenever someone spoke sharply, and she pressed her lips into a line rather than crying.
I remembered my older son doing the same thing when he was six.
A teacher once described Lucas as stubborn after he refused to join a class performance.
Later we learned that he hadn't heard his cue and was terrified of getting it wrong.
The word stubborn had hidden the truth for an entire afternoon.
I wondered what word Vanessa used for her daughter.
Troublesome, perhaps, or dramatic, or difficult.
It was uncomfortable to acknowledge that I had silently chosen several of those words myself.
Walter explained that children sometimes count breaths, tiles, or passing cars when they feel powerless.
He wasn't diagnosing Sophie.
He was remembering classrooms full of students who carried worries no adult had thought to ask about.
I told him about a hospital volunteer who provided simple coloring pages to young cardiac patients.
One girl had drawn a dozen empty windows before surgery, and her parents had asked what terrible meaning the drawing contained.
The volunteer told them she simply liked windows.
The lesson had seemed obvious at the time.
Now I studied ten blue circles on a napkin and felt how tempting it was to turn uncertainty into a mystery with an answer I controlled.
I put the napkin away because a child deserved more than my guesswork.
"People are so sensitive," she muttered.
Walter leaned across the aisle to speak to me while the cabin crew passed with drinks.
"That child isn't enjoying herself," he said.
"My youngest used to tap the furniture when she was worried."
"Sophie is doing more than tapping."
"Yes, but I don't think the seat is the point."
I looked toward the aisle and saw Sophie mouth two words toward Maya.
After Sophie mentioned medicine, I considered what I would do if she actually fainted or complained of chest pain.
I knew the procedures for volunteering medical help on board were different from those of a hospital.
The crew would remain responsible for coordinating any assistance.