Our commuter jet arrived at its gate at the Atlanta Hartsfield Airport, 15 minutes late. I leaned over to my mother in law, and told her not to worry.

 “We’re a few minutes behind schedule,” I said “I think we’ll be fine.”

We had 45 minutes to catch the connecting flight to New York City. Antoinette Kotite, who we call grandma, was going home. At 83, she walked slowly, wearing heavy orthotics.

         “They’ll have a wheelchair for me,” she said confidently.

When we made it off the airplane, I noticed an elevator. “Let’s take that. I don’t see wheelchairs down here,” I said.

“OK,” she said quietly, clearing her throat.

 On the main level, people were everywhere. Delta agents stood out wearing red blazers. There were no wheelchairs.

I scooted over to an agent with a radio.

“We ordered wheelchair assistance,” I said. “We have a tight connection.”

She looked down at me. “It will be just a minute,” she said. “Why don’t you take a seat.”

Fifteen minutes later, grandma’s hand was shaking as she unwrapped a lemon drop. I looked at the agent, trying to disguise the anger in my eyes. “I called for a one,” she said.

         Ten minutes later, a wheelchair appeared.

“Can you get us to Terminal D,” I nearly shouted at the slow-moving attendant.

         “You won’t make it,” she said.

         “Well, I want to try.”

         She resigned, ushering us inside an elevator. She relinquished her duties as the doors closed, muttering something about how I was crazy. As I pushed the chair out, I discovered the brakes, a long, slim bar running parallel under the handlebar.

         I slung my purse across my body. Grandma clutched her giraffe- patterned one tightly, like a seatbelt.

“We’re going to make it,” I said.

 I started to jog. Grandma glided across the polished granite of Terminal D. The gate numbers increased and blurred. People shifted to the sides.

As we made it within a block of our gate, I heard a child scream, momentarily distracting me. I watched as the toddler bolted from her father’s grasp to stand directly in our path. I lost my grip. The brakes activated. Grandma’s chair stopped like a car hitting a curb. I imagined her body flying out, but she managed to stay down.

“I’m so sorry,” I said to Grandma.

         “How much time do we have,” she asked, looking into my eyes.

         “Five minutes.”

         Without discussion, the race was on again. We careened into Gate 30’s waiting area. The boarding process was ending.        

         We were the last to board.