Two years after I saved a woman’s life at 35,000 feet, I was at rock bottom, struggling to make ends meet and reliving the loss of my mother. On Christmas Eve, there was a knock on my door bringing an unexpected gift and a chance to start a new life from a stranger I thought I would never see again.
In my years as a flight attendant, I’ve seen every passenger imaginable: nervous first-timers, seasoned business travellers and excited holidaymakers.
But one passenger I’ll never forget. Not because of her designer clothes or business class ticket, but because of what happened that day at 35,000 feet. Two years later, she changed my life in ways I could never have imagined.
Let me first paint a picture of my life. My basement flat was exactly what you would expect for $600 a month in the city. Water stains adorned the ceiling like abstract art, and the radiator banged at night like someone was hitting it with a spanner.
But it was all I could afford now, at 26, after everything that had happened. The kitchen counter served as my desk, workstation, and dining table. A small twin bed stood in one corner, its metal frame visible in places where the sheets had peeled off.
The walls were thin enough that I could hear every footstep from the flat upstairs, each one a reminder of how far I had fallen from my former life.
I stared at the stack of unpaid bills on my folding table, each one a reminder of how quickly life can spiral. The collection agencies started calling again. Three times that day alone.
I picked up my phone, hovering my thumb over my mum’s number out of habit before I remembered. Six months. It had been six months since I’d had no one to call.
On the neighbour’s TV across the wall, there was some cheery holiday movie on about family reunions and Christmas miracles. I turned on the radio to drown it out, but the Christmas songs were like salt on an open wound.
‘Just keep breathing, Evie,’ I whispered to myself – Mum’s favourite advice when things got tough. ‘One day at a time.’
The irony never left me. BREATHING. That’s what started the whole story on that fateful flight.
‘Miss, please! Somebody help her!’ A loud shout carried down the aisle.
Memories of that flight two years ago were still crystal clear. I was doing a routine check in business class when I heard panic in a man’s voice. Three rows ahead, an elderly woman was clutching her throat, her face an alarming shade of red.
‘She’s choking!’ shouted another passenger, half rising from his seat.
My preparation worked instantly. I rushed to her, taking a seat behind her seat. The other flight attendant, Jenny, was already radioing to the medics on board.
‘Ma’am, I’m here to help. Can you even breathe?’ I asked the woman.
She shook her head frantically, her eyes widening with fear. Her perfectly manicured nails dug into the armrest, her knuckles white with tension.
‘I’m going to help you breathe again. Try to stay calm.’
I straddled her torso, found the spot just above her navel, and pushed upward with all my might. Nothing. And then nothing again. Nothing. The third time, I heard a faint sigh.
A piece of chicken flew across the aisle and landed on the man’s newspaper. The woman folded herself in two, taking deep, ragged breaths. It seemed the whole cabin exhaled all together.
‘Easy,’ I soothed, stroking her back. ‘Just breathe slowly. Jenny, could you get some water?’
The woman’s hands trembled as she smoothed her silk blouse. When she finally looked up at me, her eyes were watery but warm. She took my hand and squeezed it tightly.
‘Thank you, sweetheart. I’ll never forget this. I’m Mrs Peterson, and you just saved my life.’
I smiled, already going to get her some water. ‘Just doing my job, Mrs Peterson. Try drinking in small sips.’
‘No, dear,’ she insisted, holding onto my wrist. ‘Some things are more than just work. I was so scared and you were so calm. What can I do to repay you?’
‘The best payback is to see you breathing normally again. Please drink some water and rest. I will examine you again soon.’
If I had known then how right she was about how some things are more than just work, maybe I wouldn’t have been in such a hurry to get back to my responsibilities so quickly.
Life has a way of making you forget the good moments when the bad ones are bearing down on you. After my mum was diagnosed, everything else became background noise. I gave up my job as a flight attendant to care for her.
We sold everything – my car, Grandad’s house in the suburbs, even Mum’s art collection. She was pretty famous in the local galleries, and her paintings were worth a decent amount.
‘You don’t have to do this, Evie,’ Mum protested when I brought her the leaving letter for her to read. ‘I’ll manage.’
‘How did you cope 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 was her favourite painting, a watercolour of me sitting at our kitchen window sketching two birds building a nest in the maple tree outside.
She captured every detail, from the morning sunlight in my mussed hair to the way I bite my lip as I concentrate. It was the last thing she drew before she got sick.
‘Why did you paint me drawing birds?’ I asked when she first showed me the painting.
She smiled, gingerly touching the dried paint. ‘Because you’ve always been like those birds, sweetheart. Always creating something beautiful, no matter what life throws your way.’
Soon we found a gold mine on the Internet. An anonymous buyer offered us a fortune, much more than we expected. And Mum couldn’t believe her luck.
‘See, Evie? Even when things seem the bleakest, there’s always someone willing to help settle the nest.’
Three weeks later, she was gone. The hospital room was quiet except for the slow beeping of the monitors.
‘I’m so sorry, baby,’ she whispered her last words, turning 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. On Christmas Eve, I was alone in the basement, watching the shadows dance on the wall from the headlights of passing cars.
I didn’t bother with decorations. What was the point? The only Christmas card I got was from the landlord reminding me that rent was due on the first of the month.
No one knew where I lived. I made sure of that. After my mum died, I couldn’t stand the pitying looks, awkward conversations and well-meaning but painful questions about how I was ‘keeping up’.
But then a loud knock on the door startled me.
I approached cautiously and peered through the peephole to see a man in an expensive suit holding a gift box with a perfect bow. His coat was probably worth more than three months of my rent.
‘Can I help you?’ I called out through the door.
‘Miss Evie? I have a parcel for you.’
I opened the door ajar without removing the chain. ‘A gift? For me?’
He smiled politely. ‘Yes, ma’am, this is for you,’ he said, holding out the box. ‘There’s also an invitation in here. I assure you, it will soon become clear.’
The box was heavy for its size, wrapped in heavy paper that crumpled softly when I picked it up. I found an elegant cream envelope. But it was what lay beneath it that made my heart stop – Mum’s last painting. There I was, forever frozen in time at our old kitchen window, sketching birds on a spring morning.
‘Wait!’ I exclaimed. ‘Who are you? Why are you returning this painting?’
The man looked up. ‘You’ll get answers, don’t worry. My boss would like to meet with you. Do you accept the invitation?’
I looked at the painting, then back at him. ‘When?’
‘Now, if you’re ready. The car is waiting.’
The car pulled up to a mansion that looked like something out of a holiday film, with twinkling lights and wreaths in every window. Fresh snow crunched under my worn boots as the man led me down the driveway.
I pressed myself against the painting, feeling out of place.
Inside the mansion, a grand staircase soared upward, and the banisters were festooned with garlands. The man led me into a warmly lit study, where a fire crackled in the stone fireplace. And there, rising from her chair, sat Mrs Peterson – the same woman I had rescued on that flight two years ago.
‘Hello, Evie,’ she said softly. ‘It’s been a long time.’
I froze, clutching the picture to my chest. ‘Mrs Peterson?’
She gestured for me to sit in the leather chair by the fireplace. ‘I saw your mother’s work on the website of a local art gallery,’ she explained. ‘When I saw your painting, I knew I had to have it. Something about the way you captured those birds…’ She fell silent, her gaze becoming detached. ‘It reminded me so much of my daughter.’
‘You bought my mother’s painting?’
She nodded. ‘I found out about your mother’s diagnosis and even talked to the doctors,’ she continued, her voice trailing off. ‘I offered them any kind of money just to save her. But some things…’ She wiped away 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 give your address, given the circumstances. I wanted to make sure you were taken care of even if I couldn’t save your mother.’
‘Why did you go to such extreme measures for me?’
Mrs Peterson moved over to sit next to me. ‘Because I lost my daughter to cancer last year. She was about your age.’ She gingerly touched the picture frame. ‘When I saw this ad online – my mother’s last work 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. ‘With the money from that painting, we lived together for another three weeks.’
‘My daughter Rebecca loved art, too.’ Mrs Peterson’s voice trembled. ‘She would have loved that painting. Its symbolism…building something together, even when everything seems to be ruined.’
She put her arms around me and we both cried, two strangers bound by loss and a moment at 35,000 feet.
‘Spend Christmas with me,’ she said finally. ‘No one should be alone on Christmas Day!’
The next morning we sat in her sunny kitchen and shared stories over coffee and homemade cinnamon rolls. The kitchen smelled of vanilla and spices, warm and cosy, something I’d never had in my basement flat.
‘Rebecca used to make these every Christmas morning,’ Mrs Peterson said, handing me another roll. ‘She insisted on making them from scratch, even though I told her store-bought ones were perfectly fine.’
‘Mum had exactly the same attitude to Sunday pancakes,’ I smiled. ‘She used to say the secret ingredient was love.’
‘Sounds like your mum was an amazing woman.’
‘That’s the way it was. She taught art at the community centre, you know? Even when she was sick, she worried about her students missing class.’
Mrs Peterson nodded, understanding read in her eyes. ‘That’s the hardest part, isn’t it? Watching them worry about everyone else until the very end.’
It was nice to find someone who understood what it was like to feel such a huge void in their lives. Someone who knew that grief doesn’t come on a schedule and that some days are harder than others, and that’s okay.
‘Evie,’ Mrs Peterson said, setting aside her coffee cup. ‘I have a proposition for you. My family’s business needs a new personal assistant…someone I can trust. Someone with quick thinking and a kind heart.’ She smiled. ‘Do you know anyone who might fit that description? Someone named Evie!’
I looked at her in surprise. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Totally. Rebecca always said I work too hard. Maybe it’s time someone helped me share the load.’ She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. ‘What do you think?’
Looking at her hopeful expression, I felt something I hadn’t felt in months: a spark of possibility. Maybe Mum had been right that morning when she’d drawn me watching the birds. Maybe home really is something you build together, one small piece at a time.
‘Yes,’ I said, squeezing my eyes shut. ‘Yeah, I’d really like that.’
As we hugged, I realised that my life was about to change. That Christmas, I found my family again. And while nothing could replace the hole that my mother’s absence had left, perhaps with Mrs Peterson’s help I could build a new home… one that would honour the past and give me hope for the future.
Here’s another story: A month after my mother died, my father brought his young mistress home for Christmas. My heart broke, but another devastating revelation awaited me.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but for creative purposes it was fictionalised. Names, characters and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and is not intended by the author.
