I haven’t mentally prepared for the flight. The drive here was too short and dominated by Mark, his jaw not pausing since the time we climbed into his truck. I expected lines of security, an x-ray machine, some liquid restrictions—but none of the woes of travel, everything I’ve read about—occurs. We walk from his truck, through a small lobby, and are suddenly at the plane, everything in motion, us minutes from taking off.
Something in my belly flips, and I feel a wave of panic, one strong enough to cut through the anti-anxiety pill I took before we left. His plane looks small, too flimsy to lift off the ground and barrel across the sky. I examine the vessel, a two-door aircraft with one giant fan stuck on the nose. I don’t know planes, but it seems that two propellers would be better than one, and that the larger the plane, the safer it will be. The wind whips around us and I clutch my jacket closed, the weight of my backpack reassuring, my laptop hard and flat against my spine. If we die, I’ll have the manuscript with me. I’ll die knowing I fit in as many words as I could, even if I don’t get into the root of the mess.
“You look worried.” He pushes something into the underside of the wing, and then holds a small bottle up to the sunlight, examining the liquid level in it.
“I haven’t flown before.” The confession darts from me, the words almost carried off by the wind.
“You haven’t flown private? Or haven’t flown at all?”
“At all.” It’s ridiculous, I know. I’m thirty-two, for God’s sake. This should have been knocked out in my twenties, my chubby bank account taking me to Paris, or Alaska, or some other glamorous locale. Instead, I stayed stubbornly in the New England area, any trips outside done by car or train. It isn’t so much that I have a fear of flying, it is more that I’ve always been a little too educated in its danger potential. I read Alive. If we crash on a mountain range, I’ll be the first to succumb. I’ll die, knowing that he will turn cannibal and eat my scrawny forearms. I swallow a gruesome smile at the thought and nod to the deathtrap. “It looks dangerous.”
“It’s the safest plane you’ll ever step foot in,” he says, moving forward and peering at the front wheel. “It’s got a parachute on it. If something goes wrong—hell, if I keel over and die while flying—you can push a button and it’ll get you to a safe altitude and open the chute, and you’ll float down to the ground.” He straightens and makes a swaying motion with his hand, like that of a feather falling. “The impact might sting a little, but nothing that a few visits to the chiropractor can’t fix.”
A parachute makes me feel enormously better, and I watch him circle the end of it, his hand sweeping over the metal in the way you might check a horse. “What are you doing?”
“Pre-flight check. Why don’t you climb on up? This’ll take me a few more minutes.”
“I’m good.” Truth be told, I have no idea how to climb on up. There are no stairs, or a ladder, and I can’t see a door handle. I stuff my hands into my pockets and wait.
“Suit yourself.” He looks over at me and pauses. “I’m a good pilot, Helena. I’ll get you there safely.”
The wind howls and I look up to the sky, not a cloud in sight. At least the weather is clear.
I stare at the screen, at the red and yellow bands that flicker across it, and feel a wave of panic. The plane dips, and I grab at the door, cursing Mark Fortune with every word in my dictionary. All I can picture, as rain peppers the windshield, is that damn parachute. It won’t float gently down, not in this storm. Gusts of wind will grab ahold of its sail and whip us from side to side—like one of those carnival rides that only stupid teenagers enjoy. I close my eyes and breathe through my nose, my hands sweating against the seatbelt straps.
“Relax.” The word drawls out of him, and I turn my head, my peripheral vision catching the loose fit of his hands on the stick. “We’re going around the storm. We’re in no danger.”
As if to defy him, the plane rocks, and I whimper despite my best attempts to control my hysteria.
“Just turbulence.” He turns to me. “I’m taking us higher. It’ll calm down in a moment.”
“How much longer before we arrive?” I wish I could reach my water. It’s in the side pouch of my backpack, which I tossed in the back seat without thinking. My mouth feels dry, my face clammy, and as the plane shudders, I feel nauseous.
“Two more hours. That seat reclines, if you’d like to take a nap.”
The man is crazy. Anyone who would sleep, at a time like this, is crazy.
By the time the small plane reaches Memphis, my heartbeats have slowed. He was right—the turbulence calms the higher we climb, and we skirt around the storm, the view almost magical from our place in the sky. By the time we descend, I am almost calm, Mark’s competence proven, the small cockpit roomy and comfortable. Mark reaches over and taps at my belt. “You can take that off now.” He cracks a window and cool air rushes in, the plane rolling forward, down a long runway and towards a set of buildings, WILSON AIR CENTER on a sign big enough to see from the sky. I unbuckle and stretch my legs, pushing my toes against the floor. Looking out of the window, a larger plane passes, the sun glinting off its back.
We pass a stretch of buildings, and end up in front of a hangar. I crawl out the door and hop off the wing, my backpack in hand. Mark motions me to the side and I drop my backpack on the ground and untwist the top of my bottle, chugging the lukewarm water. It is an interesting production, the gassing up of the plane, the roll of it into the hangar, and fifteen minutes pass before Mark stands before me, keys in hand.
“Ready?” he asks, and I nod, grabbing my backpack.
His vehicle—a vintage Bronco—is parked in the hangar, the top of it down, and I open the door carefully, admiring the polished wood accents and the pristine leather seats. They are two-toned, dark green and white, and I slide inside, admiring the showroom-ready finish. I think of him eating the taco, bits of lettuce fluttering to the floor of his rental truck. The floors of this truck are wood strips inlaid with rubber, and I can guarantee that he’s never eaten here. “How old is this?” I ask.
“1976.” He climbs into the truck and the frame of it shifts, his elbow bumping against me as he twists to get his belt. “I’ve had her six years now, did the restoration myself.” His voice flexes with pride, in a way I haven’t yet heard. “Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful.” I recognize the loving way he brushes his hand over the dash before reaching for the ignition. Simon loved cars in the way a rich woman loves shoes. He loved the purchasing of the item, being the first to drive it, a brief affair with a shiny new toy that he always grew tired of. I had married a conservative man, one who stressed over the price of a fancy cup of coffee. But I became the widow of a spoiled man, one who spent almost every dollar I made, our house and garage quickly filled with the best of everything. It’s another reason I threw it all away after he died. Every time I saw the jet skis in our garage, the line of expensive watches, or the framed sports memorabilia, I hated him a little more. I had enough things to hate Simon for. I didn’t need the extra negativity of his consumerism.
Mark glances at his watch, his push of the pedal more aggressive as he reaches for his phone. I watch as we move through the airport gates, employee hands raised in parting, familiar smiles given as we pass through the parking lot. There is the faint sound of a voice, and Mark speaks into the phone. “I’m in the truck. I’ll be there in twenty. How is she doing?”
I look out of the window, watching a large commercial plane take off, dust swirling behind it. From the one-sided conversation, I pick up that the cow is still in labor, and that there’s cause to be concerned. Mark hangs up, and I look over at him. “Will she be okay?”
“I’m not sure.” He puts on his signal, and the truck rocks a little as we pass a minivan, a smiley face drawn in the dust of the back window. I had a minivan. In the winter, Simon drove it, putting a reindeer nose on the front of it, his festive side a lot more enthusiastic than mine. “She’s thirteen. It’s a little old, for a cow. This will be her last baby.”
“How many has she had?” I turn away from the window.
His mouth twists and he uses one hand to rub at the back of his head. “Oh… seven, I think. One died during birth, a few years back.”
“What do you do with the babies?”
“I keep the heifers, sell off the males. I don’t need more than one bull, he keeps us busy enough as it is.”
“What’s wrong with her now? Is the baby going to make it?”
“Nothing’s wrong, necessarily. She’s just uncomfortable. Taking a little longer than usual.”
I hope his cow doesn’t die on me. My life story is chock full of sadness already. I don’t need to travel a thousand miles to get more of it. If I want grief, I can just open up a photo album, or visit the cemetery.
“I was thinking of having Maggie drive up, Friday night, for dinner.”
Maggie? It takes me a minute to remember. His daughter. The freshman. I picture her sunny smile, beaming out from that crinkled photo. I don’t say anything.
“She’s curious… I think. Me staying in Connecticut—”
“I didn’t ask you to stay.” A ghastly thought occurs to me, and I turn to look at him. “She doesn’t think we’re—” I can’t voice the words, and he grins in understanding.
“Nah. She’s just been asking a lot of questions. She’s a little protective of me, has been ever since her mom died.” He clears his throat. “I didn’t tell her you’re sick. I’d prefer her not to know.”
I make a face. “She’s an adult. She can handle—”
“I don’t think she can. And I don’t want her thinking about it. I’d just rather, if you don’t mind, her not know.”
Simon constantly wanted to protect Bethany; it was our most frequent fight. But how can a person trust someone that lies to them? And how can a person know what they can handle if they aren’t challenged by life? One day, probably soon, Maggie will find out about my diagnosis. She’ll know she was lied to. And everything else Mark tells her will be received with a seed of doubt. I voice my opinion, and am met with a stretch of silence.
When Mark finally speaks, the words stab through the air. “Fine. I’ll tell her not to come.”
I shrug, looking out the window, watching trees pass, their leaves a bright canvas of yellow and orange, the ditch between us filled with water. We are on a two lane road, the truck shuddering when a semi passes, and a small house moves by, twin rocking chairs on its porch, a limp orange Tennessee flag hanging off a pole normally reserved for an American one. When we drove up to Tremblant, we passed through country like this, homes like these, everything covered in a thick mat of snow. I remember thinking how peaceful it must be to live in such a place, one free of nosy neighbors and architectural review boards, one where you could sit on your porch and not be disturbed for days. I’d been deep in the fantasy, a small smile crossing my face, when Simon had sighed. “I don’t know how people live out here,” he’d said, turning to glare at a man walking along the road. “I’d think you’d just die of boredom.” It had been such a clear clashing of our mindsets that I had laughed. When I told him what I had been thinking, he’d looked over with a wry smile, and leaned over, kissing my cheek. “Crazy Helena,” he’d whispered, his breath warm against my jaw.
Crazy Helena.
For once, he’d actually been right.