Ask the Passengers

An even bigger lake appears. I had no idea Pennsylvania had lakes. All I knew about it before now was that it had my father, who is worse than my mother.

Lake, can I jump into you, and will you keep me safe underwater until I can escape? There are no other options. My mother has said it.

“There’s nothing I can do about it,” she said. “You’ll stay at that camp until they make you right again.”

My father said, “Your mother didn’t discipline you right. These people will.”

I wrap my love for Marie into a tight ball of mental swaddling. I wrap it in a soft flannel blanket, four, ten, a hundred times. I wrap it so well that nothing can hurt it. And then I look out the window and down at the green-and-brown landscape, and I toss my love to whoever might be there to keep it safe.

Maybe if you catch this love, you can keep it safe? I ask them. Maybe someone down there knows what to do with it while I go and get brainwashed by people who hate me?

Dee says, “What?”

I try to think of what just happened, but I can’t explain it. All I know is that a huge, overwhelming feeling of love has just landed in my heart, and I have to keep it safe for a while.

“Nothing,” I say. “Don’t worry about it.”

I’m left with this feeling, though. A lucky feeling. I squeeze Dee’s hand and kiss her on the cheek. I can do that now. I can do whatever I want.

I look at the plane, and I send my love. Don’t worry. I’ll keep it safe. Stay strong.