After dinner he brought the cloth pouch from his bag and placed it on the table. Lillian untied the cord with careful fingers and lifted her father's railroad badge into the pool of yellow light above the kitchen. The old brass was not worth much money, but she turned it over as though weighing thirty years of work and a lifetime of stories. On the back, Miles had found a tiny scratch made during a winter accident decades earlier, when Isaiah helped passengers evacuate a stalled train and caught his coat against the metal doorway.
"He used to complain that nobody thanked him for the days nothing happened," Lillian said. "He'd inspect every car, check every latch, and carry people's bags, and if the train arrived on time they thought the whole trip had taken care of itself."
"That's usually how safety works."
"He knew that. He didn't mind. What he minded was people acting like the person checking the latch had no business asking questions." She ran her thumb across the letters. "He would have liked that Molly. Sounds like she paid attention when somebody else told her not to."
Miles looked at his mother. "I keep thinking about what would have happened if she hadn't been there."
"Then think about who you can help be that person next time," Lillian said. "You don't get to rewrite yesterday, baby. You get to decide what you're willing to change tomorrow."
They left for the airport early the next morning. Lillian carried a bright scarf and a small travel bag that she refused to check because she had read too many stories about lost luggage. Miles wore a navy shirt beneath a comfortable jacket and carried the same old bag he had used on Flight 2286. He briefly considered buying a new one, then decided the bag had done nothing wrong. Replacing it would have been one more way of letting that day dictate what belonged in his life.
At the gate, Lillian insisted on buying two cinnamon rolls and then scolded him for looking at an aircraft registration through the window. "You're doing it again," she said. "Reading airplanes instead of relaxing."
"Old habit."
"Well, read this one all you want. But when they call our boarding group, you take my bag and act like you know how to escort a lady." She smiled at the young couple sitting nearby. "My son thinks an airplane is a complicated thing. To me it's a place with chairs that somehow goes to another place with chairs."
The woman laughed, and Miles felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. It had been months since he had last crossed an aircraft threshold with no schedule beyond spending time with his mother. He had expected to feel apprehensive. Instead, he felt nervous and hopeful at once, as though he were learning a familiar skill again after an injury.
When first class was called, Lillian stood immediately. "Oh, Lord, look at all this legroom," she announced upon entering the forward cabin. "I could raise a family in here."