Chapter 8 - THE RESTRAINING ORDER
The legal paperwork was served to my mother and Hannah on a Tuesday morning at 9:00 a.m.
My attorney, a sharp, middle-aged woman named Sarah Vance (no relation to my captain), had drafted a comprehensive civil protection order. It explicitly prohibited Linda Collins, Hannah Whitmore, and Luke Whitmore from contacting me via phone, email, social media, or through third-party employers. It also restricted them from coming within five hundred feet of my apartment building, my hangar at JFK, or any aircraft registered to my airline.
The penalty for violation was immediate civil arrest and a five-thousand-dollar fine per infraction.
I was sitting in my kitchen, drinking a cup of green tea, when Sarah called to confirm service.
"The mother was served at her residence," Sarah said, her voice carrying the dry, efficient satisfaction of a professional. "According to the process server, she tried to tear the documents up and throw them back into his car. He informed her that the service was already recorded on his body camera and that destroying the paper didn't cancel the court date."
"And Hannah?" I asked.
"Served at her home. The husband was there too. Apparently, there was a moving truck in the driveway. It looks like their suburban house is under foreclosure, Mark. They're moving into a two-bedroom rental apartment near the interstate."
I closed my eyes for a second, listening to the quiet sound of the wind against my window. "They brought it on themselves, Sarah. They had opportunities to fix it."
"I know," she said. "But you need to be prepared for the hearing next month. Your mother has already contacted a local legal aid clinic to contest the order. She’s going to argue that you are causing her emotional distress during a family health crisis."
"What crisis?"
"She’s claiming your father’s blood pressure issues constitute a terminal condition caused by your abandonment," Sarah said. "It’s standard theatrical leverage, but we have the medical logs from his public pharmacy account showing his prescriptions haven't changed in three years. We’ll be fine."
The hearing was set for December fourteenth—ten days before Christmas.
I spent the intervening weeks flying my regular routes. I flew to Tokyo, to Frankfurt, to Rio de Janeiro. Every time I taxied down the runway, looking out at the endless expanse of clouds ahead of me, I realized how small their world actually was. Their entire lives were contained within a sixty-mile radius of bad decisions, resentment, and cheap entitlement. They wanted to drag me down into the mud with them because they couldn't stand the sight of someone who had climbed above the ceiling.
When the fourteenth arrived, I walked into the county courthouse with Sarah Vance at my side.
My mother was sitting on the bench outside the courtroom, looking significantly older than she had three months ago. Her hair wasn't perfectly coiffed, her coat was a cheap polyester blend instead of her usual wool, and her eyes were dark with a mixture of exhaustion and raw, unfiltered venom. Hannah was next to her, looking small and defeated, her usual smug expression entirely gone.
My father sat at the end of the bench, his head down, his hands tucked between his knees.
May you like
As I walked past them, my mother stood up, her fingers clenching into the fabric of her purse. "Mark," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Please. Just look at your father. We're losing the house. Just five thousand dollars. That's all we need to stop the auction. You have it in your checking account right now. I know you do."
I didn't stop. I didn't look at her face. I walked straight through the heavy oak doors of the courtroom, my boots clicking against the linoleum with a steady, unyielding cadence that told her the key she was looking for had been melted down months ago.
