When the ocean flies, p.13
When the Ocean Flies, page 13
~
At home, after Mum and Dad went to bed, Alison snuck a cigarette on the deck. She inhaled, looked to the sky, thought of Vic, who had written only twice this past year. She seemed to have been drifting into her own universe since she’d finished school. As always, Vic knew what she wanted and seemed to be getting it, playing bass and singing in a band, steady gigs in Glasgow. Her last letter mentioned a tour further afield. She was busy. Too busy, Alison was sure, for a girl she’d once shared a single bed with in a tiny room in a tenement flat.
In the morning, the phone rang. Mum, sunning herself on the deck, and Alison, hiding in her room, ignored it.
“For God’s sake answer that,” Mum shouted.
Alison sighed, lifted the receiver.
“Hey. Alison? It’s Wade Earley.”
Silence. Why would he call? Had she left something at the party?
“From the party?” he said.
“Yes. Of course. Hi. Sorry.”
“How’s your summer going?”
“Good?” A fizz of anxiety started in her stomach.
“You don’t sound sure.”
“No. Yes. It’s good.”
She will not recall what else he said, only that there were a few minutes during which she held the phone anxiously, waiting for him to say what it was that she’d left behind. He had to ask her twice if she wanted to go out. She thought she’d misunderstood the first time.
~
An art opening: quirky, mixed media installations. The press of the crowd. Wade’s long fingers reaching for hers.
“Did I guess well?” He asked.
“Yes.” Alison’s cheeks heated.
“I was hoping,” he squeezed her hand, like a father might squeeze his daughter’s on the way into the circus. Alison felt only the sureness of it. “I didn’t get to ask you about what kind of art you like.”
“I like this.” They stood in front of a sculpture: a woman emerging from a mountain as though she was part of it, hair like rivers, reaching skyward. Stone and fabric and feathers, earth and water and sky at the same time.
“I always wanted to be part of the art crowd in undergrad,” he said. “Grew my hair out, bought different clothes.”
Alison took him in, with his closely cropped hair, neatly pressed khaki trousers.
“Didn’t you want to be a lawyer?”
“I wanted both. I wanted it all,” he turned to her. “Maybe I still do.” He did not say that he’d gone to the shows, the galleries, hadn’t wanted to be just another face in the crowd. The political science events were less colorful, but he held the audience there.
Out into the evening air, the sun lowering. Just their footsteps on the street. She’d hardly said a word. The familiar paralysis gripping her, only this time, she wasn’t sure if it was from fear or awe.
Street-side café. One of the first at the beginning of the town’s rebirth. Dessert and coffee. Not the drink she’d expected, but then, she wasn’t yet old enough to drink legally and he was a lawyer.
Under the porch light, a gentle, hesitant, kiss.
~
He almost didn’t bother with the kiss. She’d said so little the whole evening that he thought she didn’t like him. His light had been dimmed again, overpowered by the pull of the art. Why had she even gone out with him in the first place? He was equal parts angered and intrigued as he drove away.
He was also the youngest of four boys who had to fight for everything he wanted as a child. His brothers had nicknamed him the Little General, this boy who had learned to pick himself up and get what he wanted, one way or another. Although he didn’t consciously recognize it, he’d called the Little General forward when he kissed her, and again the next day when he called and asked her out again. One way or another, he would have her.
She managed to make a few sentences that time, to smile; he noted a hint of admiration in those dark eyes of hers.
Two weeks later, on a camping trip with ‘the boys’, he hiked out to call her.
He took her on a hike, offering her fresh terrain.
Another art show.
More hikes.
He seemed to understand everything that was dear to her, without her even saying. Daily calls. A hand-picked flower dropped off at her part-time job at the university gallery, waiting when she got there. He came to meet Mum and Dad. Mum’s hand lingered awkwardly long when he shook it; Dad beamed.
By October, Alison was staying at Wade’s place more often than her dorm. This continued through spring and into a summer class in metalwork that Alison hadn’t been able to fit into her regular schedule. After the last exam, Wade stood in the parking lot.
“I have a surprise for you,” he said. “At my place.”
A dusky-blue silk dress on the bed.
“Try it on,” he said. “I want to show you off downtown. Enjoy a last night with you before I give you back to your parents.” He grinned.
A fine dinner and a stroll on his arm. He whisked her home at dusk, unzipping her dress before the door was fully open. She moved with him, a kind of dance. She’d learned by then the moves that pleased him, and what to do to imply that he, too, pleased her.
In the dark after, she watched the outline of him beside her. She settled her head on his chest. In the morning, he shifted, turned to her, pulled her close, kissed her forehead. Safe, here. A Handsome Boy. He seemed to believe she was a Beautiful Girl.
~
The sun streaming through the kitchen windows. Dad in China. Mum’s note still on the kitchen table from last night. Alison had heard her stumble in just before dawn. Alison had been home for a week.
Eggs in the pan, fried, with a tomato, like Papa used to make. A seat at the table. Quiet.
The ring of the phone startled her. Broad Glaswegian down the line, still so familiar, she didn’t register that it was from three thousand miles away.
“Is your Mum in?”
“She’s indisposed at the minute. Can I take a message?”
“Indisposed? Could she possibly become disposed? It’s urgent.”
Down the hall, just one step into the darkened room. “A man is on the phone. He says it’s urgent.”
Mum sat up, her face lined by the pillow, hair rumpled, lipstick smeared. She lifted the phone; Alison headed for the kitchen to listen in. Halfway down the hall, she heard Mum let out a small cry, then mumble something. By the time Alison got to the kitchen, it was over.
Mum staggered through: a glass, a cube of ice, and so on, then back to the phone. Alison gathered that she was looking for Dad. She didn’t have a number for him. Apparently, his secretary wouldn’t give it.
Mum stalked back down the hall. “Passport,” she said. “Where the hell did he put them?”
“What’s happening?” Alison asked.
“I’m looking for my passport, obviously,” Mum said.
“Why?”
“To go home. Your father hides everything.”
“Mum?” Alison said, and then silenced herself as Mum upended files in the top of his closet, strode back down the hall and out to the garage. She returned with a hatchet. Alison pressed her back against the wall as Mum hacked at Dad’s locked rolltop desk. Alison remained frozen, afraid to say anything lest Mum might turn in her direction. Mum paused, lifted the passport, threw it on the bed, and then attacked the chest of drawers, her rage not yet spent.
The ring of the phone gave Alison reason to move.
“Mum,” Alison said. “Mum! It’s Dad’s secretary.”
Mum paused, hatchet in hand, red-faced and breathless. She took the phone, listened, then hung it up. “I have to take you as well.” Her face crumpled. She dropped the hatchet, sank to the floor. “My daddy’s dead.”
The air seemed to leave the room. Alison went to Mum, gathered her in her arms, helped her up, handed her the gin.
Dad’s secretary booked the flights. Alison packed, called Wade, pretended not to notice Mum whispering on a phone call of her own.
They left the hatchet and splintered roll-top desk and chest of drawers as they were. Alison drove to the airport, checked them in.
As they rose into the air, what had happened began to sink in. Eyes closed, the memories swirled: Papa at the beach explaining the tides, giving her the compass, the morning she thought he didn’t want her. His hands on the teapot that first night she and Vic stayed in Glasgow. And then to herself and Vic, in that twin bed, limbs entwined, lip to forbidden lip. She leaned her head against the window, left Mum to her gin and tonic, to flirting with the flight attendant. She recalled Vic’s voice like a patter of gentle, soothing rain. For the first time in a long while, she dared to allow herself to imagine being side by side with Vic again.
March 29, 2017
The thunderous run down the tarmac, gaining speed, the familiar lift, the turn. Glasgow is already gone, left somewhere behind me. Under a clear sky, the Clyde wends its way seaward. When I catch the first glimpse of Tursa, I pull down the window shade. This time, watching it go is too much. I wait for the drinks cart. Surely it won’t be too long.
I ask for Dailuaine, thinking they can’t possibly stock this Scotch.
“We have that, yes. How would you like it?”
“A double, neat, please.” I watch him pour. “And a spare.” He glances at me. “It was my father’s tipple.” I smile. He sets the drink and the spare down on separate napkins. I do not question this sudden compulsion, the single malt, a man’s drink, and the amount, definitely a man’s share. It feels like something I’ve earned.
The first several sips burn. After that, it flows down smoothly, feels like a friend. I think of Mary, tucking in with Nigel, Vic showering and heading out to the pub to set up for the evening. I am heading for a divorce and a daughter who is heading away from me, as she should.
Normally, on this flight, I hold on to these precious hours between places, this space in which I am neither here nor there, and so am neither fully with nor fully separate from anyone I love. This time, I cannot stand the leaving. I do not want to be awake for the seven hours it will take to ferry my heart from one place to the next. I swallow the last gulp of the spare, settle my head on the tiny pillow.
~
A hand on my shoulder. “If you could sit up, please. We’re preparing to land.”
Fuzzy head, thick tongue. Dry. As though I’ve been cast out into the desert. The landing is smooth and the luggage quick. In the few days I’ve been gone, the season has fully turned: the whisper of summer seems to have become a shout. The air steals my breath when I step out of the airport. I stagger forward, everything familiar and strange at the same time. There, the taxi line. There, the shuttle to the parking lots. It could be any small city airport. I stand at the curb, feeling as though I might have somehow disembarked in the wrong place. My feet feel unable to move. I want to go back inside, check the sign on the wall that says Welcome to Terra Pines International Airport. I stand, stare, blink. I must advance.
“Mum. Mum.” I turn. Tori and her friend Adrienne. Panting, they arrive at my side. “We were afraid we’d missed you.”
“If I had my game on, you would have.” I wrap my arms around her, forcing myself not to hold too tightly, and then hug Adrienne, too. I want to hold on to them both. My eyes well. For all her, bullshit, Alison, and you don’t have to be fine all the time, Tori would be mortified if I cried right here, right now. “Why are you here?”
I am used to making this journey alone, save for the one time I asked Wade to pick me up. He arrived forty-five minutes late. Couldn’t resist another round at the nineteenth hole. He’d won the day, after all. He deserved one drink, he said. Wade had never made one drink last forty-five minutes. After that, I decided that the long-term lot cost less than the humiliation of waiting for Wade.
“To meet you!”
“My car is here.”
“We Ubered. So we can ride home with you.”
“Of course.” The tears are just there, behind my eyes. I hold them back. These girls. Oh.
“We could stop for pizza on the way, at the new place.” Their smiles are far too big. New usually means expensive.
“Your dad?”
“He put his suitcase in the car this morning. He’s gone.”
My jaw tightens. As much as I want him out of my space, I also want him to want to see me. I want I want I want. The beak open again.
“Okay. Pizza.” I can celebrate the best welcome back I’ve ever had.
~
I awaken in the dark, well before the alarm, my body having quickly attuned to the time on the other side of the Atlantic. The occasional glow of headlights passes, illuminating familiar objects: Papa’s desk, the glass flowers that Jimmy gave me that are not at all my style but still take pride of place on the desk, a wooden box someone gave Wade and I as a wedding gift, books, two sculptures from my senior show—a thin woman and a fat one, two sides of the same coin, the coin being me. All of this feels alien, as though I have awakened in a far-away hotel, yet with the artifacts of home around me. I listen to my breath, change positions, change again, then pull back the sheets and swing my feet to the floor.
Outside Tori’s room, I hesitate. How much I wish to open the door and watch her sleep. Seven weeks to graduation and then the summer and then she’ll be gone. She has a full ride to a good school, one she chose. It wasn’t on Wade’s list at all.
On the deck, all is still in the lull before the earth fully awakens, before cardinal song and leaf rustle, before the air closes in just before the thunder rumbles in the late afternoons of July. Within me, I feel the girl who sat on the screened porch in the din of my first southern summer nights and tried to make sense of it, who found herself lost in the dark, in the cover of trees on the hillsides, in the racket of night, in the melee of school, beneath the boy she’d know for an hour. There she is, suddenly so present after all this time she might as well be in the rocking chair beside me, in which Wade used to sit on the rare occasion he condescended to join me. Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought it here, to the halfway house.
When the alarm chirps, I am still there. I rise, set to making Tori’s breakfast, drive her to school, face the day.
Nights remain like this for weeks. Mary emails to ask how I am, to say she’s written to the solicitor. Vic emails to ask how I am, to tell me to ignore the MacInnes’ and the solicitor. She suggests bands to add to my Spotify list. Still, my body refuses to readjust.
In early May, a parcel arrives from Mary. I save it to open after Tori goes to bed. In the dark, I unravel Eilidh’s journals, sit on the deck and finger them, stroking the pages covered by her words, handwritten. Perhaps because Mary told me she was afraid of their contents, I am too. What if there is something within these pages that will hurt us? I cannot risk any further loss. I tuck them away—something to occupy me when Tori leaves in August.
Barely a month wed, I knew there was a bairn on the way. I’d watched my mother with my brothers and sisters, rubbing her great roundness. I can’t say I fully looked forward to it. Perhaps something in me sensed that there would later be so much pain for us, though I’d never have imagined it coming in the way that it did. It went along like clockwork, and Hamish was all I could have wanted in a caring husband and future father.
That spring roared in. Mary came on its tide, on an early spring night, amid a wild storm. The wail of the winds drowned my own. The howdie came, crouched. Hours like that. I saw the fear in her face. Likely, I should have been taken to the mainland; it was not the night for a boat of any kind. My body would be the only vessel ferrying someone from one place to the next.
I recall the heat and tightness of it all. Colors—red and purple—swirled in my belly.
I closed my eyes and let go.
Later, they’d try to say it was only dreams I had: bright colors danced through my nights, the northern lights of my soul. Waters flowed and clouds sprinted across blue, blue skies. Once, I was a mermaid, once an eel turning into a sword—solid, glinting in the sun, the broad hands of a warrior around me. Warrior-woman and weapon, one. I saw these colors around others when I woke.
What I did not tell them was that it wasn’t the first time. These were no dreams; these were visions. When I was a girl, my older sister warned me to hold these secrets to myself.
They seemed to have floated away and returned me to my old, tiny self when I wakened. Hollow. Bright white all around.
“Decide to come back to the living, did you?” The nurse eyed me. Small, dark eyes set in a wide face. Fleshy arms. “You’ll be staying with us this time, I hope?” In the calm waters of the morning, they’d ferried me across.
A fragment returned to me, like a ribbon in the beak of a bird, a magpie. Don’t they steal? Hot pain, gripping. Where was Hamish? From my center, the sense that I might splinter, break in half. A squawk, separate to myself.
My daughter—your mother—was five days old by then. All my life I’ve wondered if those five days, and what would come later, harmed her. The separation like a foreshadowing of what she would live. Separation, what we’d been living for generations. In those few days, when they’d thought me dead, and then comatose, I saw. Nothing I hadn’t known before. Shimmers of our other lives.
I broke my promise to my sister, whispered to Hamish.
“Wheesht,” he said. “None of this nonsense. You’re tired.”
Angry the next time, and then whispering with the nurses at the end of the ward. I’d refused the pills from the nurse’s fat fingers.
“Come on, Eilidh.” Hamish, at my bedside. Mary in his arms. “They’ll not let me take you home if you don’t. They’ll make you better.”
I held his eyes in mine. He lifted one pill, placed it on my tongue, followed with the water, tilted the cup, like a bird feeding its young.
