More Than a Kiss

Leaving On a Jet Plane

Ten minutes later, Irma and Jordan were sitting in a private jet, flying over the skies of Nevada. Jordan was slumped in her seat with her chin on her chest. Irma slapped her.

“Ow!”

“No sleeping.”

“You Russians are mean,” Jordan said.

“It is our way,” Irma said. “We protect our soft hearts with armor.”

“Whatever,” Jordan said. “How much longer until I get to see Amy?”

“Not long.”

“How did you get this jet on such short notice? Who’s is it?”

Irma smiled and shook her head. “The less you know, the better.”

Jordan felt the top of her head. It was sticky and oozy. “I think I need to change my sanitary napkin.”

Just as Irma predicted, not much later the jet was landing at a private airport on the outskirts of Portland.

Jordan sat up straight in her seat. “How do I look?”

Irma’s eyes roamed over Jordan. From the bloody sanitary napkin on her head to the blood spattered shorts she wore. “You look like you need medical attention.”

Jordan was delighted. “Perfect, Amy will know that I need her. So, I really look injured then?”

“Yes, you have that sufficiently covered. Now, let’s go.”

Victor, the big bearded pilot, opened the plane door as soon as the ground crew wheeled the stairs over. “Thank you so much,” Jordan said, trying to shake his hand. She missed it several times. It seemed her eye-hand coordination was still off kilter.

He grasped her in a bear hug. “May your love save you. Go in peace,” he gave her a hearty pat on the back and Jordan weaved from side to side.

“Victor, can you get her down the stairs?” Irma asked as she poked her head out the door and ascertained the difficulty for someone with impaired motor skills.

“This little twig of a girl? Ha!” He lifted her up and over his shoulder and before Jordan had time to process what had happened she was in the back of another limo. Victor held the door open for Irma.

Irma smiled at him. “Victor, you shouldn’t have.” She kissed him on both cheeks.

“Victor is here should you ever change sides,” he said, kissing her hand.

Irma was all business when she got in the limo. “Take us to University Hospital quickly before she leaks all her fluids out,” she told the driver.

He was a thin, reedy looking man. In a deep voice he said, “Yes, comrade.”

Jordan watched as the lights of Portland danced across the glass of the limo. She was glad to be home. If she could’ve hugged the whole city she would have. “My homeland,” she whispered, leaning her head against the window. She closed her eyes. She was so happy.

Irma pulled her upright and slapped her. “No sleeping.”

“Ow,” Jordan muttered.

“We are almost there. How do you feel?” Irma gave her the once over. “Never mind, you look awful. Irma swears on Babushka’s grave if you die Irma will haunt you forever.”

“But you have to die before you can haunt someone, silly,” Jordan said.

“Your little doctor will kill Irma,” Irma said. “Irma will be dead.”

“Don’t worry. Amy will just kill you a little bit.”

Irma shook her head and swore under her breath. Jordan didn’t know exactly what she said, but it sounded like she said something about a mother and a moose and a compromising position.

The limo pulled into the emergency room entrance at University Hospital. Jordan grabbed Irma’s arm. “I only want Amy. No one else. Please.”

“Yes, I know. Irma will make sure of that.”