The Speed of Falling Objects

by Nancy Richardson Fischer

  It’s early evening when we finally spy the yellow T-shirt. While the botanists and their guide pull the canoe onshore and call the authorities with our exact location, Gus and I run up the hillside. I smell the fire’s smoke. It’s a good sign. Someone has been keeping it alive. When we hit a tangle of vines and thorns, Gus swings the machete, clears our path. We reach the edge of our campsite. Jupiter is feeding the small fire from the pile of kindling we left behind. He looks up, eyes burning bright with fever. Cougar is asleep beside him. My dad’s face is covered with the Curious George sweatshirt Cass once wore. His arms are flung wide, like he’s embracing the rain forest’s canopy.

  I look at Jupiter. He’s crying now, big, shaking sobs. “Danny—”

  “Shhh.” I kneel beside my father. With shaking fingers I feel for the pulse in his wrist. The utter stillness, the total absence of life, is a silent earthquake. If we’d just traveled faster, paddled through the night, found help sooner, pushed harder. “When?”

  Jupiter says, “A few hours after you left.”

  For the past nine years all I’ve wanted is a relationship with my dad, to prove to him that I’m worth loving. I am, and he’s gone. My dad was wrong about a lot of things, especially that his absence wouldn’t be felt. I will never stop feeling it. An empty space where my larger-than-life father once lived.

  My dad’s hand is clenched into a fist. I gently pull the fingers open, wanting to hold his hand one last time, be his seven-year-old buddy even though I finally understand there was never any chance of going back. At first the splash of bright gold makes no sense. But then I see what remains of a webbed foot squeezed between my dad’s second and third fingers. Poison dart frog. Beneath it is torn flesh, to allow the frog’s toxins to enter his bloodstream quickly. Cougar Warren doesn’t get hurt, let alone die from something as lame as a bruised spleen...

  “Danny,” Jupiter says, holding out a scrap of paper torn from his book. “He wanted me to give you this.”

  The damp page trembles in my hand as I read the sentence my dad wrote in charcoal: BE YOUR TRUE NORTH.

  Cougar whispers in my ear like he’s still alive, like he’s right beside me: A compass differs from true north depending on where you are on the planet. I depend on myself to find the way.

  “I do, too,” I say softly, then give the scrap of paper to Gus, watch him read.

  Gus says, “I haven’t found mine, yet.”

  “You will.”

  “Truth?”

  Overhead, I hear the drone of a helicopter. I ignore it and kiss Gus to seal the promise, salt water on our lips. “Truth.”

  41

  We carry a barely conscious Jupiter to the water’s edge. The helicopter, hovering above, drops a basket by cable. Gus helps Carlos pull it sideways and I kiss Jupiter’s hot cheek before we lift him into the basket and he’s swept through the air, disappearing into the belly of the helicopter. He’ll be flown to a hospital in Iquitos, maybe in time to save his life. I wipe away tears. Kindness is underrated, and Jupiter Jones overflows with it.

  Gus and I ask Anthony, Paulette and Carlos for their help getting Cougar to the edge of the river. His body is heavy, like he decided to weigh more in death to remind us that Wits. Strength. Ingenuity...wasn’t just a tagline. They were a responsibility that only the strongest could shoulder.

  Carlos says, “I’m so sorry for your loss. We’ll stay with you until the helicopter returns at first light tomorrow to transport you, Gus and your father’s body to safety.”

  I meet his gentle eyes. “Thank you, for everything. But we’re fine now. Really. I’m sure Anthony and Paulette want to continue their journey, and I’d like some time alone to say goodbye to my father.”

  Carlos’s brow wrinkles but he nods. “Is there anything else you need?”

  “Yes. Can you spare some food, water and gasoline?”

  Gus and I stand side by side as the group pushes off from shore and motors down the river. When they’re gone, we cut down bamboo and make a quick raft, lashing the pieces together with vines. Neither of us talks. We’re both trying to sift through the wreckage and use what we find to start building our own constellations.

  Night falls and moonlight illuminates Cougar’s body as we shift it onto the raft and tie lianas around his chest, waist and legs to keep him in place. I try not to feel the sharp jut of his hip bones, notice the narrowness of his rib cage, the gray stubble on his chin, choosing to see my dad like he always saw himself—unbeatable, a force of nature. Gus takes all of Cass’s tapes and smashes them with a rock. I wedge them under Cougar’s body. What happened between all of us, and the secrets we shared, will stay in the Amazon.

  “You’ll tell everyone about the dart frog? That Cougar died from its poison?”

  Gus says, “Yes.”

  Gathering a handful of wild orchids, I rest them on my dad’s chest, then take hold of his hands one last time. “People are flawed,” I say. “You were no exception. But in your own way, you tried.” I smile through my tears, kiss my dad’s cheek, then breathe in his essence. “I forgive you, Dad.” Tearing the final pages from Jupiter’s book, I crumple and slide them into Cougar’s pockets, the folds of his shirt, beneath shoelaces and under movie star sunglasses so that his eyes can light up like fireworks. We pack branches around his body, sprinkle his clothes, the tapes and kindling with the gasoline Carlos left us. I use Mack’s flint-steel to spark the last shred of paper by my dad’s feet. A flame catches.

  “Will he burn?” Gus asks.

  “I don’t know. But we’ll say my dad ignited the sky like a Viking hero.” I untie the raft and push it into the current. “Sleep with the angels,” I say, watching John “Cougar” Warren burn bright.

  The Pigeon inside me stirs. I open my arms wide, tip my head to the velvet sky and set her free.

  EPILOGUE

  I called Samantha during my transport to the hospital where Jupiter was being treated. She was at the airport with Jupiter’s mom, about to get on a plane to Peru. I asked her not to come. It was an awkward conversation since we were barely talking when I left for LA. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt her feelings, but I needed to finish my journey without any help or distractions. I also wanted some time to absorb all that had happened. Sam agreed to give me that space. I slept in Jupiter’s hospital room and when his mom arrived, she was kind, super tough, and together we were Jupiter’s advocates.

  For a few days it looked like infection might kill Jupiter, but massive infusions of IV antibiotics, a great surgeon and luck saved both his leg and his life. He will walk with a limp, but the doctors told me he would’ve certainly died if Cougar hadn’t reduced his fracture, treated him for shock and if Gus and I hadn’t gotten help so quickly. In his press conference about Jupiter’s injuries, the chief of surgery called Cougar a “wild cowboy hero.” He would’ve liked that.

  Gus’s team whisked him out of Peru once he’d given his statement about the crash to the authorities. One minute he was at the hospital, then he was gone. We didn’t get the chance to say goodbye and I haven’t heard from him since. My heart aches, but I figure that a heart that doesn’t hurt has never loved or been loved.

  I do know that Gus hasn’t spoken to the press. Nor have Jupiter or I. The media is ravenous for the inside story, even sneaking into the hospital and later my hotel in Lima. On my flight home, this time in coach, the guy seated beside me was from Star Variety Magazine. A really nice flight attendant moved me to business class so that I could have privacy and get some sleep. I’m really tired, like everything that happened has caught up and filled my bones with cement.

  My mom is waiting, along with a dozen reporters holding cameras and microphones, as I walk through Portland International Airport’s arrivals gate. Commander Sam and I stare at each other while flashes go off around us. We’re only a foot apart but miles stretch between us. Then she pulls me in, hugs me tight, for l
onger than I expect.

  “Having you didn’t ruin my life,” Sam says, her breath warm in my ear. “You gave me a life. I’m sorry I never told you that.”

  My throat constricts. “I heard your voice in the Amazon. Sometimes it was annoying, but other times it gave me strength.”

  She lets me go but doesn’t step back. “You look thin.”

  “I’m not a huge fan of grubs.”

  My mom actually laughs. She’s not wearing her hospital scrubs; instead she’s in a long sweater, black leggings and boots, like she dressed up to see me. From the sharp jut of her shoulder blades when we hug, she’s thinner, too. A red scarf accentuates the paleness of her cheeks. There are dark smudges marring the skin beneath her gray eyes. For the first time I notice they’re a shade lighter than mine. “I missed you, Mom.”

  She blinks away the shine in her eyes. “I missed you, too.”

  There’s so much to talk about, things I want to know, stories to share, boundaries to set, truths to tell, but that will come in time. For now it’s enough that I’m closer to understanding. My mom is a woman who made tough choices, sometimes failed, always tried, never left. Just like Cougar couldn’t get beyond being that insecure foster kid, my mom may never let go of her anger or resentments. Regardless, I forgive her. Letting go and redefining who you are isn’t just a choice. It’s a battle. Not everyone sets her pigeon free.

  “Danny, tell us about the crash,” a reporter says.

  Another journalist pipes in, “Are there any photos?”

  “Are there?” Trix asks. “I’d love to see pictures of you kicking the rain forest’s ass.”

  My stomach drops. I didn’t see Trix hanging behind the reporters. Her hair is blond today, close to her natural shade. There’s a new piercing in her lip but she’s wearing a baggy sweater, loose jeans and sneakers. What do I see? A best friend abandoned at birth, working out how to fill that void and find her place.

  Trix says, “I asked your mom if I could tag along.”

  “Hey.” I wave her over, turn my back to the reporters and lean in so they can’t hear. “I said some things that were unkind.”

  She exhales hard, like she’s been holding her breath for weeks. “You get that from me. I said some stuff, too. Maybe I didn’t want to be alone.”

  This is Trix’s version of an apology. “You’re not.”

  She nibbles the hoop in her lip. “Really?”

  “Truth.”

  Turning back to the reporters, I tell them the story that Gus and I decided on before we left the Amazon. “This will be my only statement. Our small plane went down in the Peruvian rain forest during a storm. There were seven people on board. Sean, the show’s cameraman, and Mack, our pilot, both died in the first twenty-four hours from impact injuries. Cass, Cougar Warren’s assistant, died a few days later from a traumatic brain injury. The authorities had difficulty finding us because our pilot diverted well off course to avoid storm cells and the plane’s emergency locator wasn’t working. So we set out to find a river to carry us to safety.” I take a deep breath. “I’ll take questions now. This is all a bit overwhelming, so please ask one at a time.”

  “Danny, I’m Scott Horsley from NPR. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  I hear Cougar’s voice singing harmony with mine. You have a lovely voice. You get that from me. Grief and gratitude mingle. When a tear escapes, I don’t wipe it away. “Thank you.”

  “Where are Sean, Mack, Cass and Cougar now? Did you bury them?”

  The perfumed scent of flowers weaves around me. “It wasn’t possible. The Peruvian authorities are working to recover their bodies.” They won’t find Cougar’s. At some point I’ll share that my dad blazed like the brightest star. For now, that memory is mine. I point to the next reporter.

  “How’d the rest of you survive?”

  Cameras whir and click but I don’t rush. It’s important to fulfill my promise, get this right. “We wouldn’t have without my dad. He found food, taught us how to make fire and build shelters to avoid hypothermia. He protected us from deadly snakes, spiders and caimans, and led us to the river that ultimately saved us. Who’s next?”

  “Celebrity Magazine. Good to have you home safe, Danny. Sounds like your dad was a superhero.”

  There’s a hard lump in my throat. “No. He was human. Next?”

  “Were you terrified?”

  “Yes. But wits, strength and ingenuity weren’t just Cougar’s motto. They were the code he lived by. He showed us how to dig deep and stand on our own. He truly was—” my voice cracks “—he was Cougar. He died the night before our rescue from the toxins of a poison dart frog. My dad... He’ll be missed more than he realized. Next, please?”

  “Are there any videos from your ordeal?”

  “No.”

  “Chris Richards, the Oregon Times. What’s your plan for the future?”

  I take a deep breath. “Both my parents have made a difference in people’s lives. I’d like to do that, too. My plan is to go to college, premed.”

  The reporters follow us all the way to the parking garage. The Christmas decorations and blinking holiday lights we pass on our way make my reentry feel all the more surreal, like maybe the Amazon was the real world. Once the three of us are in the car, the journalists race to theirs and trail us out of the Portland airport. They’ll probably camp out in front of our apartment for a few days before they give up.

  “Medical school?” my mom asks as she pulls onto the highway.

  “She’s really good at the science stuff,” Trix says from the back seat.

  “I am. And yes, med school.”

  One side of Commander Sam’s mouth crooks up. She hands me a small FedEx package. “This arrived for you yesterday.”

  Her eyes flick from the road to watch me open it. Inside is a new iPhone. No card. She’s not the sentimental type. I turn it on. It’s already fully charged. “Thanks, Mom.”

  “It’s not from me.”

  The phone lights up. The ringtone is the ’70s song “Chase.” Butterflies take flight. “Hello?”

  “Hey.”

  In an instant I’m transported to the Amazon. The exotic perfumes, thrum of wildlife, roar of the river flood my senses. I can see the gold flecks in Gus’s hazel eyes and feel the weight of his hands as they run along my body. A million thoughts join the butterflies, but what I say is, “How’d you know when to call?”

  Gus laughs. “Always pragmatic. I have people. And if you didn’t answer, I would’ve kept calling until you did.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Better now that I hear your voice. You?” Gus asks.

  “Same.” The line is silent except for the sound of his breathing. “Gus?”

  “Truth or dare?”

  A spark ignites. “What if I don’t want to play?”

  Gus says, “I’ll go first. Truth.”

  WWDD? “Do you miss me?”

  “Yes. Your turn.”

  I smile. “Dare.”

  * * *

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The Speed of Falling Objects was a team effort and I’m incredibly grateful for the support, guidance, input and intellect of a wealth of people.

  First, always, is Henry, my partner in all things, best friend, husband and dream come true. Thank you for believing in me, reading my very rough first draft, telling the truth even when it’s hard, supporting my passions and always knowing when I need a long bike ride or kitesurfing session to put things into perspective. Kindness is underrated and you’re overflowing with it.

  Thank you to Natashya Wilson, editorial director at Inkyard Press, champion of authors, determined, talented, insightful editor who (I think) harbors the same secret dream I have of being a pop star. You have made The Speed of Falling Objects a stronger novel with every idea and editorial suggestion while always giving me th
e space to find my way. I truly appreciate and love working together.

  Thanks to the whole Inkyard Press team! Line editor Libby Sternberg. Art director Gigi Lau. Publicity director Shara Alexander; publicity manager Laura Gianino; library marketing manager Linette Kim; and Natashya’s wonderful assistants, Gabrielle Vicedomini and Connolly Bottum. Copyediting, proofreading and production team: Tracy Wilson-Burns, Ingrid Dolan, Tamara Shifman, Kristin Errico, Allison Draper, Nicole Rokicki and Peter Cronsberry. The marketing team: Bess Braswell, Brittany Mitchell and Olivia Gissing. The sales team: Jennifer Sheridan and Jessie Elliott, Andrea Pappenheimer, Kerry Moynagh, Kathy Faber, Jennifer Wygand, Heather Doss, Heather Foy, Marianna Ricciuto and the digital commerce team, and everyone else at Inkyard, Harlequin and HarperCollins who committed their time and energy to make The Speed of Falling Objects the best book possible and to put it in the hands of readers. Big thanks as well to Megan Beatie, book publicist extraordinaire!

  Stephanie Kip Rostan of Levine Greenberg Rostan, every writer needs a terrific literary agent in her corner and I’m beyond lucky to have you! Thank you for your insight, wit and smarts. You made my dream of becoming an author possible and I’m so happy we’re on this adventure together.

  Thanks also to LGR’s agent Sarah Bedingfield, for your support and input; foreign rights director Beth Fisher; business manager Melissa Rowland and contract attorney Kristen Wolf.

  I’m so fortunate to have a group of friends and family who are willing to listen to my book ideas, share their own stories, read early drafts, give honest opinions and invite us to delicious dinners as my own cooking sometimes falls by the wayside. Apologies if I’m forgotten anyone! Big thanks to Carol Holdsworth, Judy Frey, Michelle Goguen, Karen Ford, Dr. Erin Burnham, Dr. Stephen Parker, Colleen Jones, Sue Bishop, Jane and Art Richardson, Trent Burgess, Daryl Young and Doug Turich. Thanks also to Shannen Fogarty (Boone’s other mother) for your kindness and support. And a big hug to Jackie Skakel and Elda Orr, who are always game for chats and dog walks, rain, mud or snow, and put up with our mostly good but sometimes naughty vizsla, Boone.