Nothing. The third time, I heard a small gasp. A piece of chicken shot across the aisle, landing on a man’s newspaper.
The woman doubled over, taking deep, ragged breaths. The entire cabin seemed to exhale collectively. “Easy now,” I soothed, rubbing her back.
“Just breathe slowly. Maris, can you bring some water?”
The woman’s hands were shaking as she smoothed her silk blouse. When she finally looked up at me, her eyes were watery but warm.
She grabbed my hand, squeezing it tightly. “Thank you, sweetheart. I’ll never forget this.
I’m Ms. Harlow, and you just saved my life.”
I smiled, already moving to get her some water. “Just doing my job, Ms.
Harlow. Try small sips.”
“No, dear,” she insisted, holding onto my wrist. “Some things are more than just a job.
I was so scared, and you were so calm. How can I ever repay you?”
“The best repayment is seeing you breathing normally again. Please, drink some water and rest.
I’ll check on you again soon.”
If I had known then how right she was about some things being more than just a job, maybe I wouldn’t have hurried back to my duties quite so fast. Life has a way of making you forget the good moments when the bad ones come crashing down. After Mom’s diagnosis, everything else became background noise.
I quit my flight attendant job to care for her. We sold everything — my car, Grandpa’s house in the suburbs, even Mom’s art collection. She had been quite well-known in local galleries, and her paintings fetched decent prices.
“You don’t have to do this, Liora,” Mom had protested when I brought her the resignation letter to read. “I can manage.”
“Like you managed when I was sick with pneumonia in third grade? Or when I broke my arm in high school?” I kissed her forehead.
“Let me take care of you for once.”
The last painting to go was her favorite — a watercolor she had painted of me sitting by our kitchen window, sketching two birds building a nest in the maple tree outside. She had captured every detail, from the morning sunlight in my messy hair to the way I used to bite my lip when I concentrated. It was the last thing she painted before she got sick.
“Why did you paint me drawing birds?” I asked her when she first showed it to me. She smiled, touching the dried paint gently. “Because you’ve always been like those birds, honey.
Always building something beautiful, no matter what life throws at you.”
Soon, we struck gold online. An anonymous buyer offered us a fortune, way more than we expected. And Mom couldn’t believe her luck.
“See, Liora? Even when things seem darkest, there’s always someone out there willing to help build a nest.”
Three weeks later, she was gone. The hospital room was quiet except for the slowing beep of monitors.
“I’m sorry, baby,” she whispered, her last words to me. “Stay strong.”
The doctors said she wasn’t in pain at the end. I hoped they were right.
Time slipped away like grains of sand. Christmas Eve found me alone in my basement, watching shadows dance on the wall from passing car headlights. I hadn’t bothered with the decorations.
What was the point? The only Christmas card I had received was from my landlord, reminding me my rent was due on the first. Nobody knew where I lived.
I had made sure of that. After Mom died, I couldn’t handle the pitying looks, the awkward conversations, and the well-meaning but painful questions about how I was “holding up.”
But then, a loud knock on my door startled me. I approached cautiously, peering through the peephole to see a man in an expensive suit holding a gift box with a perfect bow.
His overcoat probably cost more than three months of my rent. “Can I help you?” I called through the door. “Miss Liora?
I have a delivery for you.”
I opened the door a crack, keeping the chain on. “A gift? For me?”
He smiled politely.
“Yes, ma’am, this is for you,” he said, extending the box. “There’s an invitation too. I assure you, everything will make sense soon.”
The box was heavy for its size, wrapped in thick paper that crinkled softly as I took it.
I found an elegant cream envelope. But it was what lay beneath that made my heart stop — Mom’s last painting. There I was, forever frozen in time at our old kitchen window, sketching birds on a spring morning.
“Wait!” I called out. “Who are you? Why are you returning this painting?”
The man looked up.
“You’ll get your answers, don’t worry. My boss would like to meet you. Do you accept the invitation?”
I looked down at the painting, then back at him.
“When?”
“Now, if you’re willing. The car is waiting.”
The car pulled up to a mansion that looked like something out of a holiday movie, complete with twinkling lights and wreaths in every window. Fresh snow crunched under my worn boots as the man led me up the walkway.
I clutched the painting closer, feeling desperately out of place. Inside, a grand staircase swept upward, garlands trailing its banister. The man led me through to a warmly lit study where a fire crackled in a stone fireplace.
And there, rising from an armchair, was Ms. Harlow — the same woman I had saved on that flight two years ago. “Hello, Liora,” she said softly.
“It’s been a while.”
I stood frozen, the painting clutched to my chest. “Ms. Harlow?”
She gestured for me to sit in a leather chair beside the fire.
“I saw your mother’s work featured in a local art gallery’s online post,” she explained. “When I saw the painting of you, I knew I had to have it. Something about the way you were capturing those birds…” She trailed off, her eyes growing distant.
“It reminded me so much of my daughter.”
“You bought my mother’s painting?”
She nodded. “I learned about your mother’s diagnosis and even spoke with the doctors,” she continued, her voice breaking. “I offered them any amount of money to save her.
But some things…” She dabbed a tear. “Some things are beyond the reach of money.”
“How did you find me?” I whispered. “I have my ways,” she said with a small smile.
“I contacted the hospital and convinced them to share your address, given the circumstances. I wanted to make sure you were taken care of, even if I couldn’t save your mother.”
“Why would you go to such extreme lengths for me?”
Ms. Harlow moved to sit beside me.
“Because I lost my daughter last year to cancer. She was about your age.” She touched the frame of the painting gently. “When I saw this listed online — a mother’s last artwork being sold to pay for her treatment — I knew I had to help.
Even if I was too late.”
I felt tears rolling down my cheeks.
