Susan Lafferty“Momma. Momma.” I woke from a deep sleep. In the middle of the night.
Jenna, 6 or 7 years old at the time, was standing next to the bed. Pressing my arm.
Yes?
“I heard a voice. Like this…” her voice changed from sweet innocence to a guttural growl. “‘Jenna, I’m going to get you.’ And there were two red eyes. And he laughed like this…” It was an evil laugh.
I sat up straight in bed. On high alert. Heart pounding. Wide awake.
Night flight. The hum of jet engines wraps around me. Creating space for solitude. Thought.
All else is silent. Lights out. Passengers sleep. A few watch small flickering screens, earphones in place.
Jetspeed on a clear sky night. Across Central Asia. The map says we’re passing over desert. Mountains. Cities and villages.
I watch out the window.
“Is your arm hurting?” she asks. Yes. The broken bone near my shoulder is healing. Slowly.
It’s 2015 and Manga is prepping me for physical therapy at a hospital in Malaysia. “Be happy!” she says. “Think positive thoughts. Then you will not be hurting.”
I smile. She’s friendly. Gregarious. Her speech and ways and dress make me feel at home.
South Asian home.
