On Little Wings Page 5

  “That’s okay. I understand.”

  Her mouth pulled up humorlessly at one corner. “I hope you never do.” I didn’t know how to answer that so I just ducked my head and told her I loved her one more time before closing the door. I bit down on my lip as I shuffled down the dark hall, wondering what was stronger – my reasons for going or her reasons for staying.

  “I put your bag by the front door. All set to go.” My father’s head rose up from his laptop when I passed the office. He had forgotten to turn the lights on (again) and his face glowed blue in the dark room. “You all right?” he asked. “Nervous?”

  “I guess so,” I said as I slipped up to his desk. “When I talk to Sarah she sounds great. When I talk to Mom I think I’m going to hate her.”

  My dad grinned. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about. I think you two will get along fine. She’s a good person. They both are.” He slid his rolling chair away from his keyboard and looked at me. “I’m sorry I can’t take you in the morning.”

  “That doesn’t bother me at all. Seriously. How I get to the airport is the least of my worries.” I fingered the paperweight on top of his stack of DV magazines. “Do you think I’m doing the right thing?”

  My father smiled. He usually resorts to a bad joke when he doesn’t know the answer. I waited for the buildup but he just said, “Can I answer that when you get back?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have no idea. I don’t think you’re doing anything wrong, but I’m not sure I was right to tell you.” His bushy eyebrows lowered in thought.

  “I’m glad you did. She should have. I don’t understand why she didn’t.”

  “I don’t think she could if she wanted to. She’s locked up those memories tight. Like a bank vault. Inside a bunker. Inside a cave. I’m hoping all of this helps her in the end.”

  “Dad?

  “Yeah, Babe?”

  “You’ll take care of Mom? Make sure she knows I’m not doing this to hurt her?”

  His eyebrows tilted with sympathy. “She knows. But yeah, I’ll watch out for her.” He opened his arms and I bent over and squeezed him tight.

  “I’ll miss you,” he said.

  “You, too. I love you.”

  “Tell Sarah hi for me.” He smiled at me. “And tell her that I’m looking forward to meeting her.”

  That made two of us.

  CHAPTER 7

  Cleo picked me up the next day and helped me load my suitcase and carry-on duffle into the backseat of her old Corolla. I kept my eyes on the living room window, where my mother appeared briefly with a worried frown and a last wave.

  “Feels weird,” I told Cleo as we left the neighborhood and headed for the highway.

  “How was your mom today? Did she make you feel bad?” Cleo turned down the radio.

  “She was okay. She acted nervous, but not mad. She didn’t say much.” I squeezed my hands together in my lap. The fields outside seemed to float on the horizon as the car gathered speed.

  “She’s not the only one,” Cleo said after a long silence.

  “Huh? Oh … sorry. I’m nervous.”

  “Still want to do this?” Her eyes darted doubtfully to my face.

  “What? Yes, of course!” I looked at her a moment before my expression fell. “Why? Do you think I shouldn’t?”

  “No,” she sighed with exasperation. “You have to go.” The breeze from the air conditioner shifted a few loose strands of hair away from her face. “I am wildly jealous,” she confessed. “I wish I could be there.” Her lips pursed in frustration. “It will be wonderful, I’m sure. And I have to miss it.”

  “But I’ll tell you everything. Every detail. Every word. I don’t want you to be sad.”

  “I’m not sad,” she countered. “I’m just wishing. There’s a difference.” Despite her denial, she sounded wistful. I let my gaze travel up to her brooding face.

  “You’re going to miss me,” I said.

  She rolled her eyes. “Don’t look so surprised, Sherlock. I’ll be bored to death without you and you’ll be on a grand adventure. Of course I’ll miss you.”

  “I just didn’t think about it till now,” I admitted. Cleo gave an insulted huff and I scrambled to clarify. “I mean we’ve done all of this together. Some part of me thought that I’d get there and you would still be nineteen houses away when I wanted to talk.”

  “ Nineteen hundred miles, maybe…”

  “Don’t be mad.”

  “I’m not,” she said. “Just…”

  “Jealous.” I finished for her with a grin.

  “Jealous,” she repeated with a radiant smile. She doesn’t usually turn those smiles on the helpless population of Riverhurst. I think she frowns so often because it is the expression that invites the least attention.

  “I’ll miss your face,” I told her. A reflexive shadow passed through her eyes.

  “I’ll miss yours,” she said, forgiving me for the compliment.

  As we pulled up to the airport, Cleo narrowed her eyes in intense concentration. She eased into the drop off lane, cut the engine and gave me a solemn look. “Remember,” she commanded while she shook her finger at me, “call me as soon as you can. Don’t forget anything so you can tell me everything. Take lots of pictures. Tell Sarah all about me because next time you go, I’m going with you.” Her smile flashed teasingly on that point, but quickly grew serious again. “If you get stuck in a riptide, swim parallel to the shore.” I gave her a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-look but she plowed on. “And no boys. If you come home in love with some small-town, summer beach fling I will disown you. It will be like a bad scene in Grease, but without the songs. So just don’t.”

  “I would never tarnish my good name like that,” I said in mock astonishment. “And it goes for you, too. No playing footsies with Barry while I’m gone.” Cleo gave me a snarl that could freeze water and I sobered. “I will tell you everything. I’ve got all my pictures to show Sarah and she’ll be sick of hearing about you.” I unbuckled my seatbelt, feeling the lightheartedness leave as I went to step out the door. Gravity seemed too strong all of a sudden, making my limbs heavy as I pulled myself out of the car. I looked at Cleo, the first signs of panic showing in my face.

  “Don’t,” she commanded as she pulled my suitcase from the backseat and wheeled it to me. “You’ll be fine. Better than fine. Take deep breaths. Think of funny things.”

  I grasped the telescoping handle. “I’m sorry you won’t be there.”

  “I will be,” she reassured me. “At 2:00 I will be sweating bullets and walking off the plane with you. And at 2:01 I better get a phone call telling me all about it.” She was only half joking. I would have laughed but I couldn’t unclench my teeth. The idea of going proved much more bearable than the reality of taking these last steps.

  “Go,” she pointed to the doors. “Leave me to my boring, normal life and go.” I must have looked positively helpless because she took my arm and began pushing me toward the wide automatic doors. I shook free of her grip and turned to give her a tight hug. She pried free first and gave me another gentle shove.

  “If you miss your plane then you’ll have to do this all over again and it will be very anti-climactic. I love you. Go.” She kept command of her voice but her green eyes glinted with emotion.

  I nodded, trying to gather my courage. “I love you, too. I’ll call you later.” I entered the airport, dodging a steady stream of travelers to look back through the glass doors. Cleo pulled back into traffic and I watched the closest thing I ever had to a sister drive away.

  Going to the ticket counter and through security by myself felt too mature and foreign. I tried to keep a calm, bored face, as if I knew what I was doing, but my pulse was fluttering hard and fast inside my chest. I made my connection in Detroit after sitting in a plastic airport chair for over two hours and picking at a dry, soft pretzel. Boarding the second small plane wreaked havoc on my heart rate. Those steps had an air of finality to them b
ecause I knew that when they closed the airplane door I had only two options left: 1. Arrive in Maine and meet Sarah or 2. Die in a plane crash. I couldn’t say which one sounded scarier as I nestled tightly into my vinyl seat beside a middle aged woman. She gave me a polite smile and a nod and returned to her thick book.

  I’m sure I tried to smile back, but it must have been a sickly looking thing. Hi, I thought to my seatmate, my name is Jennifer. I might puke all over you during this flight, but don’t worry, I’m not airsick. I’m just having a nervous breakdown. Just hand me an oxygen mask and ignore the hysterics. I curled my lip and gave the voice in my head a small snort. The woman looked up inquisitively and I managed a weak smile as a blush exploded up my face. Let’s save the lunacy for when we’re alone, I admonished myself as I grabbed the Sky Mall magazine.

  As the plane lurched into the air I pushed my elbows into the seat, bracing myself, not for the flight, but for the truth. I felt it waiting for me, patiently biding its time while I made the final leg of my journey. The earth fell away from the plane as it took to the air and I saw only glimpses of the patchwork world of fields and trees from my aisle seat until we bounded into the white nothingness of the clouds. I watched the wing tip fluctuate hypnotically in the wind until the drink cart came clanking up the aisle.

  When the flight attendant finished handing the woman next to me a Diet Coke she asked me animatedly what I wanted. I stared at her for a split second, bewildered how she could look so happy about drink preferences. I whispered ‘Sprite’ and started drinking before the burning bubbles stopped jumping from the glass. I breathed hard, suppressing a cough and my seat companion took the moment to study me more carefully.

  “Are you alone?” She asked.

  I nodded my head too enthusiastically.

  “Coming or going?” She asked.

  “Going,” I said as casually as I could manage. “Do you live in Maine?” I asked out of courtesy.

  “No, no. I am going for a girls weekend out. No kids, no husbands. Just a spa on the coast with my girlfriend.”

  “Sounds great,” I said, not really caring. “Me, too,” I added, surprising myself. “I’m going for a girl’s vacation, too. With my aunt.” I smiled, feeling my fear push ever so slightly to the side. My aunt felt good to say offhandedly, as if I said all the time.

  “What town?” she asked.

  “Smithport,” I said as I gulped down another sip.

  “Hmm, I’ve never heard of it,” she said, deepening the wide wrinkles around her mouth as she thought. She looked like a spa would do her good.

  You’re not the only one, I thought wryly as I gave her a polite grin and shrugged my shoulders. An hour after our short lived conversation, the plane began its descent. I craned my neck to see the ground as we sunk beneath the solid clouds. More trees than I expected. The fuzzy texture of forest seldom gave way to the smooth carpet of open land. When the pilot made a wide turn our window tilted to the ground and I could see a river twisting languidly through the landscape.

  The plane jostled momentarily and then steadied. The flight attendant said something but my ears were thundering with my own blood. Hugging myself tightly, I willed my stomach to stay where it belonged. I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.

  With a jolt the plane wheels grabbed the asphalt and the engines shrieked in protest as we hurtled toward our terminal. I’m sure the people around me thought the landing terrified me from the way my white fingers cut into my palms. My seatmate smiled at me sympathetically, but I couldn’t reciprocate. Our plane stopped. Dying in a fiery crash was no longer an option. “Oh crap,” I breathed almost soundlessly as the seatbelt light blinked off with a loud chime.

  CHAPTER 8

  I gripped my blue duffel bag, twisting it mercilessly in one hand as I shuffled forward in the halting line. In my other hand I clung to the photograph of Sarah like a talisman. Our plane was so small we exited onto a portable, metal staircase and ducked under the nearly palpable noise of the tarmac into the airport. Nothing looked exceptionally different from Nebraska in those first hazy glances. An open field around the runway and trees in the distance. My brain took in the surroundings sluggishly, too tied up in my internal struggle to devote attention to details. The tide of passengers pushed through a glass hallway and emptied me into the bright, open gallery of the airport. I didn’t have to scan the crowd more than a few seconds. Apart from the throng, flushed, and leaning onto her toes with impatience, stood a pretty woman with caramel colored hair. She had my mother’s short, trim frame, but lighter eyes and higher cheekbones.

  She was different from the ballerina in the picture, showing those vague signs of age that make even the most beautiful women different from the most beautiful girls, but still lovely and golden. Her skin had the same strange, olive tint as mine, perpetually tan without being brown. Her intriguing, slanted eyes flashed recognition and her hands jumped to her chest. She hopped once on her feet and then closed the distance between us with fast steps. When her arms grabbed me hungrily, I dropped my bag and hugged her back, aware of, but unconcerned by, the people watching curiously.

  “Jennifer. . .” she breathed like a prayer against my face. I loved the smell of her – a mix of fresh breezes and dryer sheets. I surprised myself by how tightly I gripped her. I’ve always been affectionate, but never one for big public shows. At that moment my brain didn’t spare a thought for the crowd.

  “Hi, Sarah,” I said without releasing her. At last she drew back, keeping a strong grip on my arms.

  “Come here,” she said walking backwards, steering us to an empty seating area away from the mingling people. “Let me look at you. I can’t believe it,” her eyes traveled over my features. Her expression warmed with delight after studying me. She never tore her eyes from my face. “Those are the same tiny freckles I used to have. I couldn’t see them in the pictures you emailed. Mine faded, but they looked just like that, like tiny sugar grains.”

  “Thirty seven,” I answered without thinking. Then realizing that answer required explanation I said, “My mother always told me I had thirty seven perfect freckles across my nose. I’ve counted them before and there were more than that, but we still …” I stopped talking when a stunned look came into her eyes. What did I say wrong?

  “Thirty seven,” she repeated, her hazel eyes bright and moist.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked in confusion.

  “Nothing,” she affirmed with a smile. “My mother always told me I had thirty seven freckles. I had completely forgotten. I guess Claire remembered.”

  Hearing her name made me ache for my mother. Maybe somewhere beneath her anger she kept happy memories of her sister. I wanted her there, gripping Sarah’s wrist in excitement the way Sarah gripped mine.

  I swallowed my sadness and held up the picture. “This is how I found you. I found this in a book.” She took the battered photograph reverently and skimmed her finger over her face and then the damaged part where the page had melted to the ink of the photo.

  “I wasn’t much older than you here. This is my Senior Recital. I was seventeen.” She looked up and said “My mother took this picture. I still remember her telling me to smile.” And then, though she had already asked me many times before on the phone, she could not restrain the question, “How is Claire?” The longing in her voice hurt my chest.

  “She’s fine. This morning she was calm when I left. I think it’s sinking in.”

  “I miss her,” she stated freely.

  “I know.” I wished I could say She misses you, too.

  I think she saw the conversation wading into gloomy waters and she shook her head, brightening her smile. “I didn’t know what to do with myself today. I can’t remember the last time I felt this nervous! I didn’t know what to wear. I didn’t know what to bring. I thought about flowers, but that felt awkward. So what is the appropriate gift for a meeting your grown niece? Do you have any idea?”

  I laughed and waved my hand in dismissal, “I don’t
need anything.”

  “I can’t tell you how relieved I am after seeing you. This would have felt like a long visit if you stepped off the plane with multiple piercing and black make-up.”

  I laughed again, her warm, easy voice putting my fears at ease. “I only wear the black make-up on weekends,” I replied.

  “No, but really,” she said seriously, “You are beautiful. I can’t look at you enough.”

  “I think I look like my aunt,” I told her.

  “With several improvements,” she said as she stood up to direct me to the baggage claim. “My hair was never that light. And your skin! What do you remind me of? The sand? The sunset? Maybe the last light of day on the ocean, when everything is glowing."

  “Wheat,” I told her as I set my duffel by my feet in front of the rotating carousel which was just starting to spit out battered bags. “My mother says that I look like a Kansas wheat field on a summer day.”

  She fixed her eyes on me intently, thoughts spinning behind them. “I’ve never seen a Kansas wheat field, but I can imagine that is true.” Then, “Why Kansas? Why not Nebraska?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered as I spotted my suitcase high on the belt, entangled with a golf bag. I grappled it to the floor. “This is everything,” I said pointing to my luggage. Sarah led the way to the parking lot while I talked. “She tells me all the time that she wishes she named me Kansas. She went to college in Kansas and thought it was beautiful. She told me a story about it growing up.” I paused there, trying to assess if I was babbling.

  “Can I hear it?” she asked, unable to suppress the fascination in her voice.

  “It probably sounds silly. But yes.” I had to stop while a loud, smoky bus crossed in front of us. Despite being a smaller airport, the traffic kept a steady pace and we concentrated on crossing at the right places in-between hurrying travelers and cars. Sarah’s black SUV chirped loudly and blinked its lights as we approached and I loaded the luggage.