“Helena?” Mark speaks gently and I blink, the room coming into focus.
“It hasn’t been that long,” I say. Five years.
“It’ll be fun, I promise. And it will help clear your head. While you feel good, let’s go.”
It’ll be fun. It will most definitely not be fun. I don’t know what Mark Fortune’s version of fun entails, but it probably involves sweating and bugs.
While you feel good, let’s go. Do I feel good? I take a self-assessment. This week has certainly been leaps and bounds above last, my nauseous reactions to the meds gone, my dizziness reduced to rare bouts, my energy almost back. “Feeling good” isn’t really the phrase to describe it, but I certainly feel more capable, less shaky, and a little bit like my old self. According to the doc, the short-term effect of the meds will help, but my energy will begin to wan, my headaches will worsen, my appetite lessen, and I’ll be practically bedridden within another month. Mark’s right. If I am ever going to travel, this week is the time. Where he’s wrong is his assessment that I have any interest in the journey, although getting a peek into Marka Vantly’s world is tempting.
“Thank you for the invite,” I shake my head. “I’m going to pass.”
“Ever seen a baby cow be born?”
“I’ve never seen a lot of things, that doesn’t mean that I’m interested in any of them.”
“Stop being stubborn.” He smiles kindly, and I hate the comfort I find in the gesture. “It’s September in Memphis. It’s the most beautiful time of the year. And Mater’s like you—old and crotchety. You’ll get along well.” He holds out his hand for me and I take it without thinking, his strong pull getting me easily to my feet.
In my thirty-two years of life, I’ve only been to a handful of places. New York. New London. Tremblant. Maine. Washington, DC. Vermont. They’ve all been the same. Cool, both in their people and their climate. I like Northerners. I’ve read stories based in the South, in cities like Memphis, and am appalled at the people described. The type who throw their arms around someone right when meeting them. The kind who trust too easily, ask too many questions, then gossip that information all over town. In New York, if you invite random strangers in for tea, you’ll be raped and dead within a week. I think that’s almost the way it should be; we should all have a healthy fear of each other.
I realize that Mark has packed up his things, the cord of his laptop stuffed into his leather duffel, the papers I had spread on the floor now stacked, a paperclip found and securing their corners. His laptop slips into the bag, and he eyes my pajama pants. “I’ll go downstairs,” he announces, “and grab some snacks. Don’t worry about packing too much, you’ll fit into Maggie’s clothes if you need anything.”
“I’m not going.” The words stop him at the door and he pauses, a heartbeat of time passing before he turns.
“Helena.”
It is not a simple name. In just the three syllables, he manages to pack in everything that he is doing for me, for this book. He is saving the final days of my life. He is allowing me my confession. He will, one day soon, keep my secrets until I die. And he wants me to go to Memphis. It seems, on this good day of health, like a small concession.
“Okay.” I purse my lips. “But only a couple of days.”
“I’ll take you home the minute you ask.”
I nod, a grating movement that almost creaks from unuse, and his face splits open in a smile. He is jogging by the time he moves down the stairs, the heavy vibration of boots against wood echoing through the house.
Oh, how quickly a life can change.
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.”