Free Winter Passing by Cindy Martinusen Coloma Page A

“lift,” the woman pointed toward. Aware of the woman watching her, she thanked her again and entered the elevator. The doors closed, and Darby examined the buttons. When she pushed the 1 button, the door opened without the lift moving. She was still in the lobby. The woman saw her and smiled.
    The doors closed again. Rechecking the room number on the card, Darby guessed that the first floor must actually be what was considered second floor in the United States. As the elevator rose, Darby realized how much she’d been assuming during what should have been a simple journey from airport to hotel. Europe was much different from what she’d expected, in the littlest ways that made her feel uncomfortable and shaken. If today has been a challenge, how will I ever get any information from this trip?
    Darby hauled her luggage up several marble stairs, its weight seeming to increase with every step. She found room 14, yes, on the second floor. The room in the old building was neat and simple. There was no flowery wallpaper or brass fixtures like the Cozy Hotels she had stayed at in the United States. It was low on fluff, but high on efficiency. A white down comforter lay folded sideways at the bottom of the bed atop crisp, white sheets. A small mint sat in the crease of an extremely fluffy-looking pillow. She dropped her belongings in the entry, locked the door, and flopped across the inviting bed. “Safe at last.”
    Streaks of dull sunshine filtered through the blinds as Darby’s head sank into the down pillow. She hadn’t slept on the plane. Too many thoughts had swirled inside her head. Every time her eyes closed, she’d thought of the enormous gravitational force pulling hard on the jumbo plane with the cold Atlantic waters waiting to swallow them up. She’d listened to every word of the flight attendant’s instructions—even checking for that life preserver under her seat. The person next to her mocked her inexperience with his smile. But Darby figured she’d be the one laughing when he sank to the bottom of the Atlantic while she floated.
    The ten-hour flight from San Francisco had felt longer than she had anticipated. The book of essays a friend gave her, A Dose of Medicine for Travelers , had quickly bored her. She had already received A Dose of Medicine for Single Women and A Dose of Medicine for Photographers. There was only so much medicine a reader could take. Darby planned to read The Lonely Planet Austria guidebook she’d bought to be prepared for her arrival in Salzburg. But the international flight allowed only one carry-on bag, and she had accidentally checked in the bag with her in-case-your-luggage-gets-lost outfit and her travel guide.
    Darby’s next airplane mistake was the two cups of coffee she’d drunk, then regretted when four times she had to hobble over three people to go to the bathroom. Later, she’d attempted to sleep right when turbulence began to jar the plane nearly into pieces—though more experienced travelers continued to sip drinks and tap on laptops. Right then Darby connected with the ominous feeling that had lingered the entire day. She made a plane switch in London and finally arrived in Austria. The flights distanced both time and miles. She had flown into the next day. While home prepared for bed, Austria was grumbling for lunch.
    “If you want to beat jet lag, you have to stay awake, stay awake!” Clarise, her business partner, had instructed. “Get on your current time schedule, no matter how tired you become. Get on their schedule, get your work done, and get back to the studio.”
    Clarise’s reminder opened her eyes. She dragged herself from the embrace of the down pillow and comforter. Her shirt stuck to her back and felt like she’d worn it for a month. Her hands cried out against the millions of germs they carried—airport germs, taxi germs, doorknob germs.
    She went to the blue-and-white-tiled bathroom and washed her hands. What had happened to her childhood