Before I Go

by Brian Charles

Genres: Women's Fiction; Clean & Wholesome Romance

Synopsis

In the spirit of The Notebook, Brian Charles’ Before I Go is at once a tender love story and a powerful, provocative exploration of life after loss, and the numinous links that tie all our lives together.
 
A year after her husband’s plane crashed into the Pacific Ocean, Abby Gamble knows she needs to start moving beyond her grief. She and Ben shared a deep love, made even stronger by the heartache they went through together. But Ben would want her to keep living. So Abby throws herself once more into her cosmetics company—only to find herself at a crossroads when she meets Joel, a physician whose past is as scarred as hers.
 
Joel has never forgiven himself for a fateful childhood decision. That guilt has spurred him on to save other lives. When he meets Abby he begins to see a way forward, though Abby is holding back, struggling with the idea of finally leaving Ben behind.
 
Yet Ben isn’t gone. Ever since his plane went down, he’s been trying to make his way back to Abby. That journey begins on an island thousands of miles away, as Ben discovers his journal among the wreckage debris that has washed up on shore—a series of letters that recounts Abby and Ben’s love story. Rereading his letters about the life they planned, and the joy and misfortune they encountered along the way, Ben knows what he must do. Somehow, he must set out to see Abby again—even if he doesn’t know what will be waiting for him in the extraordinary event that he makes it home . . .

 

Release date: September 27, 2022

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

It’s easier to die when you don’t see it coming.

The stealth approach of a heart attack or the sudden strike of a car accident offers no opportunity to dwell on what’s to come. Neither allows time to contemplate life—the loved ones left behind and the dreams left unfulfilled. But when an airplane falls from the sky, slowly gliding toward the cold, black ocean, there’s nothing subtle about death’s approach. It’s coming. It’s inevitable. And, in Ben Gamble’s case, its slow advance left too much time to think. The gap between knowing his flight was fatal, and actually crashing, allowed time for worry and doubt. Time for panic and anxiety. And far too many minutes to contemplate regret.

The letter shook in his hands as turbulence rocked the cabin. Ben tried to read it again, but a sudden dip in altitude forced his eyes closed. He was a coward for keeping the secret from his wife. Now that the chance to tell her was gone, it tortured him to imagine her finding out from someone else. He opened his eyes and looked out the plane’s window into the night. He wondered what his secret would do to her. He wanted the chance to explain. Wanted one last opportunity to talk with his wife. Taking his gaze from the window, he read the last line of the letter again.

Ben folded the letter and shoved it in his pocket. He looked back to the window and the inky black night beyond. But soon something formed in his vision. It took a moment to understand what he was seeing—the moon’s reflection as it glistened on the surface of the ocean. It came closer and closer until the water reached up and grabbed the airplane. The impact was jarring. Held in place by the seatbelt around his waist, his body lurched forward. He crushed his nose on the headrest in front of him, felt the blood cover his upper lip and drip down his chin. Screams erupted through the cabin, and his vision blurred as his seat vibrated. After the initial shock, though, the plane skidded along the surface for several seconds, the water rushing by as if Ben were on a speedboat.

Enough time passed as they glided along the ocean’s surface for Ben to believe the pilot had miraculously pulled off the emergency landing. But when the right wing dipped into the water, the plane somersaulted violently. The contents of the cabin—from luggage to food, soda cans to passengers—rattled around the inside of the aircraft like a shaken snow globe. Ben’s body lurched to the side and he cracked his head against the window. The impact sent a spider web through the Plexiglas. His world came to a standstill as he watched the cracks spread, a circle of impact centered within the twisting fissures. The nucleus of that shattered window held many images as he stared at it. Everyone in his life peered through that hole at him. He saw his mother and father. His siblings. He saw friends and colleagues and the partners from his firm. Finally, when the screaming disappeared and the whining engines quieted, when the shrieking metal finished tearing apart and the cold Pacific Ocean crept over his skin, he saw his wife. Her beautiful face and radiant smile made him want to stick his finger through that hole in the Plexiglas, then his hand and his arm and his whole body until he could climb from the sinking tomb to hold his wife and protect her from his secret.

When the icy water crept over his face, it jolted him into action. He reached for the buckle on his seatbelt and unclipped it.

Abby Gamble’s eyes fluttered as she slept. A moan escaped her lips while she was deep into her dream. She and Ben were headed off on vacation and, as was typical, running late. She hurried behind him as they raced through the airport’s parking lot, her rolling luggage tipping as she ran. Each time she righted herself, Ben was farther ahead. When Abby made it to the escalator, Ben was already at the top of the stairs and heading for the tram. She took the stairs two at a time, her suitcase banging along behind her. When she made it to the platform, Ben was waving for her to hurry through the still-open tram doors. Abby tried to run, but her luggage became lodged in the top of the escalator, like the loose shoelace her mother had always warned would be sucked up by the revolving stairs.

“I need you,” she heard Ben say.

Abby looked up. The tram doors were closing.

“I need you with me!” Ben said again, just as the doors closed.

She gave up on her luggage, dropping the bag to the ground, and ran toward the train as it began moving. Slowly at first, almost inviting her to jump on the rail and take an easy ride to the terminal, then picking up speed and blurring past her until it was out of sight. When she looked back to the escalator, the steps continued to revolve until they ingested her suitcase.

Abby’s eyes opened and she bolted up in bed. She briefly felt for Ben next to her before gaining her bearings and remembering that he’d left on a business trip. A surge of adrenaline filled her system. The alarm clock told her it was just past four in the morning. She climbed from bed and went to the kitchen for a glass of water, recalling her lethargic jog through the airport parking lot during her dream. Just once she wanted to be a sprinter in her dreams, free from the heavy-legged running she always experienced and able to bolt from one place to another. Abby sipped water and listened to the quiet house. The hallway clock ticked, and the air conditioner hummed.

I need you with me.

She checked the clock again and knew he wouldn’t mind if she woke him. Ben never minded late-night calls when he was away on business. She dialed his number, but his phone went straight to voicemail, which meant he’d either turned it off or run the battery down to nothing—both unlikely. Something had her out of sorts, so Abby paged through the folder in the kitchen until she found Ben’s itinerary. She scanned the information and came to the number for his hotel before it occurred to her that his flight hadn’t even landed yet. She closed the folder and took a deep breath. No wonder his cell went straight to voicemail—he was thirty thousand feet over the Pacific Ocean.

Her shoulders were just starting to relax when her phone rang. The sudden chime in the quiet house startled her. She slowly moved her gaze to the microwave clock again as her phone continued to ring.

I need you with me.

She slowly picked up her phone. The caller ID registered as Transcontinental Airlines. She let the phone ring a moment longer before swiping the bar and pressing it to her ear. She allowed a long second to pass before she spoke.

“Ben?”

“Hello, Mrs. Gamble?”

“Yes?”

“This is David Peirce from Transcontinental Airlines. I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”

At just before seven in the morning, the Chicago headquarter offices of Transcontinental Airlines were immaculate, quiet, and ominous. A TransCon representative met Abby in the lobby and took her hand as if she were a dear relative at a funeral.

“Mrs. Gamble, right this way,” he said.

“Have they located the plane?” Abby asked as the man led her to a row of elevators.

“It’s a developing situation. We’ll have more information after we get upstairs.”

They rode to the thirtieth floor and the man led Abby into a glass-walled conference room where a few other worried family members were already waiting. They all glanced at each other, wanting, but not daring, to ask if this were really happening.

Airline employees with troubled expressions served coffee and donuts. Within ten minutes, thirty-some people filled the room. Eventually, a distinctive looking man, dressed impeccably in a suit and tie, strode through the doorway and took his spot at the front of the room. It was easy to tell this man was in charge. All eyes were immediately on him as everyone waited for good news. Bad news. Any news.

“Good morning,” the man said. “My name is Paul Bradford. I’m the executive vice president of TransCon here in the Midwest. Let me start by first expressing my regret over this unfortunate situation. Our thoughts and prayers are with your loved ones. Let me get right to the details.”

Bradford clicked a remote, which brought a ceiling-mounted projector to life. A satellite image of North America appeared on the screen behind him, and a curved red line demarcated a flight path from O’Hare International Airport to Los Angeles.

“TransCon flight 1641 originated from Chicago, took off on time and landed at LAX at seven p.m. last evening. The plane was refueled, and a routine maintenance check cleared the aircraft for the trip to Sydney, Australia.”

Bradford clicked the remote and a world map popped onto the screen. Another red line materialized, this time originating in Los Angeles and moving in the same arched manner toward Australia. But halfway across the Pacific Ocean, the line stopped.

“Five hours and twelve minutes into the flight, Transcontinental Airlines 1641 experienced an explosion in the forward cargo bay.”

Gasps filled the room, then crying. Paul Bradford offered a brief pause before continuing.

“The explosion caused the engines to ingest fuselage debris and both engines were lost.”

More gasps and murmurs came from the family members.

“What do you mean the engines were lost?” someone asked.

“The engines ingested debris from the explosion and were no longer functional,” Bradford said.

“But isn’t there some sort of safety power supply?” the same man asked.

“Yes, the APU—the auxiliary power unit. However, from the data our engineers and analysts have gathered, we suspect the APU failed.”

“Your analysts?” the man asked, anger in his voice. “Forget the analysts. What are the pilots telling you?”

Bradford took a deep breath. “The pilots were able to confirm that both engines were lost. But shortly after that transmission, the aircraft suffered a total electrical failure and we lost all communication. That’s why we suspect the APU also failed. A functioning APU would have allowed us to continue receiving and transmitting to the aircraft.”

“So what happened to the plane?” a woman in the back asked.

“The explosion occurred at an altitude of thirty-four thousand feet. Without communication, we can only speculate about the course of action the pilots took. Standard protocol, however, when faced with engine and APU failure, is to rely on the ram air turbine. The RAT generates power from the plane’s air speed and is able to provide hydraulic capabilities that allow the pilots to steer and glide the aircraft. It’s our belief that, using the ram air turbine, the pilots attempted an emergency water landing.”

Another chorus of gasps came from the family members. Abby placed her hand over her mouth, remembering her dream from just a few hours before—running after Ben, trying to keep up. The tram doors coming together and closing while his words hung in the air of the empty platform.

I need you with me.

“NTSB has been working the situation from the very beginning of this crisis.”

Bradford turned back to the projector screen and circled an area in the South Pacific with his laser pointer.

“Based on the plane’s location during our last communication with it, we have extrapolated the area where the pilots might have ditched—” He cleared his throat. “Where the pilots likely attempted the emergency water landing.”

He clicked the remote and several lines appeared connecting the West Coast of the United States to Australia.

“These are shipping channels and are filled with cargo boats twenty-four hours a day. The NTSB has alerted the captains of cargo ships in the area we believe the landing may have taken place. Those shippers are essentially the first responders, and we’re hoping to hear good news from one of the boats in the area. We have also been in contact with the US Navy, and ships are en route to the area now.”

“The engine failure happened five hours after takeoff,” another family member said. “That was midnight. It’s now seven in the morning. Why haven’t you found the plane? Or life rafts? Or anything?”

Bradford cleared his throat. “The Pacific is still currently under the cover of darkness. But we hope as day breaks that we’ll have a visual and more information.”

Silence followed as everyone in the room stared at Paul Bradford, wordlessly begging for information he did not have. Aching for confirmation that their loved ones were safe. Abby stood from the conference table and steadied herself with a hand on the rich mahogany before walking slowly out of the room, a noticeable quiver to her gait. The starched-suited vice president of Transcontinental Airlines offered no more details about the location of the plane. He didn’t have to. Everyone in the room knew why the plane hadn’t been found. It was a giant piece of metal that flew into the ocean and sank like an anvil.

The doorbell rang, and she considered ignoring it. This was Day Ten, a week and a half since Ben’s plane had disappeared, and there was still no trace of it. Cable news ran constant coverage of the missing Transcontinental plane and the two hundred forty-seven passengers it held. Abby turned the television off after Day Four and hadn’t turned it back on since. The doorbell rang again. She pulled herself from the kitchen chair and walked to the foyer. When she opened the door, a man stood on her porch in a stiff suit and blinding white shirt. Over the past ten days, Abby had grown tired of starched suits and shiny ties. She wanted an airline representative to show up in faded jeans and a T-shirt to break the bits of bad news they came to deliver. Wearing a suit somehow made it worse.

“Mrs. Gamble?” the man asked.

Abby nodded.

“I’m James Darrow with Transcontinental Airlines.”

“Come on in.”

Along with his somber face, James carried a leather folder. Abby led him to the kitchen where they both sat at the table, across from each other.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“No thank you, ma’am.”

Abby pointed at the folder “What’s the latest?”

James Darrow ran his hand over the leather dossier and took a second before answering, Abby assumed, to gather his thoughts.

“A small debris field has been located. We’ve confirmed that it came from Flight 1641.”

Abby sat up straight. This was real news, not the redundant garbage they had fed her over the last few days.

James placed the dossier onto the kitchen table and opened it. He pulled a graph paper grid from inside, unfolded it, and slid it to the middle of the table so they both could see.

“This is a grid of the search area,” James said.

Abby had seen this graphic before, nearly every day for the past week and a half, and still the vastness of the ocean took her breath away. On the grid was a red oval that represented the presumed area where Flight 1641 had gone down. The red oval was situated inside a larger elliptical, this one demarcated in yellow, which represented a more expansive diameter of the search area. And finally, a green rectangle outlined the whole thing, denoting the area that experts felt represented the farthest possible path the plane could have traveled after both engines failed. Coordinates of latitude and longitude marked each location.

“Here,” James said, pointing at the page. His finger touched the edge of the outer green rectangle. “NTSB located a pair of cabin seats as well as some pieces of luggage.”

Abby licked her lips. “Were they floating?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Why is it so far away from the red circle?”

“Well,” James said, “we’re not certain, but we have some educated guesses. The explosion happened in the forward cargo bay, so we believed the contents of that cargo bay were scattered in an area of the ocean quite a distance from where the aircraft actually touched down. Based on the discovery of this debris field, our engineers and analysts are rethinking the flight path and designing new models that will redefine the search area.”

Abby waited. She knew there was more.

“I know you’ve heard the math before, Mrs. Gamble, but the search area is vast. The engine failure happened at thirty-four thousand feet. If the aircraft was powered only by the ram air turbine, which we believe to be the case, then it averaged two thousand feet of altitude loss per minute. That means it glided for roughly fifteen minutes and covered over one hundred miles before it touched down. The calculations on all that produce an area of over thirty-two thousand square miles that needs to be searched.”

Abby sniffed and wiped her nose, determined not to cry. She had grown hysterical during a few of these meetings, mostly in the initial couple of days, as information first leaked to the families. S. . .