Take Flight

by T. E. Price

  Isabel finally breaks the silence, “You know, I never would have let Branson go on that hunting trip. I didn’t trust Jonathan with the twins. I would never have told you that at the time. I couldn’t tell you what it was about him that caused such an extreme reaction inside me, but I would never have let Bailey or Branson go off alone with that man.”

  I lower my gaze. My stomach knots to the point where I think I might double over. My sister-in-law was correct in her assessment of the man I had married. It was why I secretively got the IUD put in shortly after our honeymoon. It didn’t take long for me to realize I could never bring children into that situation. I’ll never forget the day he found out about my IUD. It was the same day I got my scar.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Oh Bailey, look at your pretty, new doll,” I exclaim as Bailey timidly tugs at the last piece of red and green tissue paper, revealing the baby doll I bought her for Christmas. The wrapping gets tossed to the side as Bailey coos excitedly, hugging the box to her chest while her ringlets create a beautiful halo dropping to her shoulders.

  “What do you say to Aunt Hallie?” Isabel prompts, inclining her head.

  Bailey gingerly places the box down and tiptoes like a dainty ballerina around the various gifts strewn across the floor, making her way over to where I am seated on the couch beside the warm fireplace. “Thank you,” she almost whispers, falling into my embrace.

  “Merry Christmas, gorgeous,” I reply as she kisses my cheek before running back to her doll. Tightening my housecoat around me, I huddle into the corner of the couch. Brrr! Snowflakes kiss the sliding glass doors and melt instantly, creating a dancing glimmer of lights bouncing off the Christmas tree we decorated last week. I take another sip of my peppermint coffee and revel in the warmth of being inside. What would I do without family? What would my Christmas look like this year if I wasn’t sitting here, drawing this morning to a close with the few remaining gifts sitting under the tree.

  “This one’s for Hallie,” Harrison says as he carries a silver and red box over to where I am in the corner of the living room. “Ho-ho-ho,” he adds jubilantly as the Santa hat slides further down the side of his head.

  My fingers graze my parted lips. “Guys—you already got me that verse in a frame, which was more than enough.” Harrison and Isabel’s funds are tight. They weren’t supposed to buy me anything this Christmas. We agreed upon that before I arrived.

  Isabel waves her hand nonchalantly as I take the gift from Harrison. I open the box to find a silk, off-the-shoulder blouse. “It’s beautiful—this blush shade of pink is gorgeous. Thanks, y’all,” my southern drawl catches me off guard. Hmph. My words have been slipping between the nasally, mid-west accent connected to my upbringing in Michigan and the southern twang brought on by my marriage to an Oklahoma country boy. When my accent takes a southern turn, I’m reminded of him. In a desperate attempt to hide my shudder, I lift the shirt out of the box.

  “I was thinking you could wear it for our New Year’s Eve party next week,” Isabel starts. “I know you fly out the first, and you don’t have to stay up till midnight, but I figured it would be something to wear while we have a few friends over for the evening.”

  “It’s perfect. You guys are so thoughtful—thank you! I’m gunna put my gifts in the guest room.” I start to rise from the couch, then my eyes take in the boxes, gifts and wrapping paper scattered in disarray, leaving the off-white carpet barely visible. “Never mind,” I laugh, settling back in, “I’ll do it later.”

  “Well, Branson and I picked out that shirt, isn’t that right, bud?” Harrison says to his son who is busy wielding his new Star Wars lightsaber, completely oblivious to the comment. Isabel rolls her eyes and giggles at the fallacious statement; we all know the boys in this family get their style from Isabel’s fashionable eye. “Whoa, little man, not so close to the tree,” Harrison lurches from the recliner in an effort to redirect his son away from the Christmas tree sitting between the sliding glass door and the TV mounted on the wall, a disastrous location to slash around a lightsaber, on all accounts. The rest of the gifts are eventually opened as the kids bounce around from one new toy to the next, asking Isabel and me to help open boxes or put in batteries while Harrison attempts to tidy-up behind them.

  Yawning, Isabel asks me what time it is. I pick up my phone from the empty cushion beside me and check the time. “It’s nearly noon,” I reply. What a relaxing morning. No rush, no bitterness … just bliss. My lock screen goes black. This morning has been so different from my last few Christmases. It used to be thirty minutes of grunts and closed-lip smiles. The morning never failed to disappoint me—always one gift, something bought last minute, no thought put into the haphazardly wrapped item. Christmases with him were a bust. But what did I expect?

  My depressing thoughts are put on hold as my phone buzzes in my hand. I glance at the screen and my heart leaps into my throat as I see Jonathan’s mother’s name appear. I gulp. This day was bound to come. There’s no escaping it now. My trembling finger swipes to accept the call. “Hello?” I answer, but the sound of muffled, angry voices sends me reeling. Do I really owe this family I used to be a part of an explanation?

  A deep voice replies to my shaky greeting. “Well,” Jonathan’s father starts, “if it isn’t the little home-wrecker.” I flinch and my eyes water. That was harsh. I shoot a panicked look in the direction of Isabel and Harrison only to find them frozen in place. Pushing up from the couch, I fumble for my gifts. This isn’t a conversation I need to have in front of the kids. As I hustle back to the guest bedroom, my arms full, I let Jonathan’s father continue, “You could have told us you were leaving our son, Hallie. So, what’s your plan—going after his money?”

  “No, I … I,” comes my stammering response. Why didn’t I rehearse this? My insides lurch from the anger that slices through each of his words. They should have picked up on all the signs of our strained marriage. My in-laws are smart people—couldn’t they piece it together for themselves?

  “You what?” He continues, “You got bored? You fell out of love? You met another man? Which is it, Hallie? Take your pick … I’ll tell you one thing. You’ve ruined Jonathan.” My chin quivers as I plop down on the small, double bed situated in the corner of the tiny guest room. Don’t cry, don’t cry. I unload my armful on the mattress and stifle a quite sob as I roll to the edge. The sharp edge of the picture frame gifted to me earlier this morning bites into my leg. I wince and move the frame to the end of the bed as his father grunts, then says, “He showed up drunk to our Christmas meal, and it’s all your fault.” These words sting more than the bruise forming on my leg. I begged Jonathan to stop with all the drugs. How was I to know he would start drinking instead? Maybe this is my fault. Jonathan may have let loose in the privacy of our home, but he never would’ve embarrassed his family like this. “Do you know what this town’s going to say about him when the divorce is final?” he continues. “Do you understand what your selfish, little act will do to my son’s respectable reputation?” I open my mouth in hopes of defending myself, but nothing comes out. In my silence, Jonathan’s father persists, “No, you don’t know what you’ve done to him because all you think about is yourself.”

  Grunts of muffled support in the background tell me my former father-in-law is not alone in his perception of me. A booming voice demands to speak with me. It’s his brother. “Please, I didn’t mean anything—” I start, but the phone has been passed to the next family member.

  “Jonathan’s a good man,” his brother begins. I shudder. The lie sears my mind, but my mouth is unable to protest. “He gave you everything you ever dreamed of—the nice house, the big yard, he even bought some of those hunting dogs for you,” Jonathan’s brother bellows. I squeeze my eyes shut. This conversation is going nowhere. Time to hang-up. You can do it, Hallie—just hang-up. “And now he’s been left alone in that big house, all by himself, with no one but the dogs to keep him company.”

  “It’s not like th
at,” I whimper, “We were … he was—” I can’t do it. There’s nothing I can offer theMcClains.

  Jonathan’s brother snorts an angry chuckle into the phone, “Well, if that’s all you have to say for yourself, then just know you’re not getting a penny from him in the divorce. You’re poor, stupid, and without a hope— and it’s going to stay that way.” The line goes dead, and I fall back on the bed in a heap of tormenting sobs. I don’t want his money, I don’t want the trouble of dividing assets in court—he can keep everything—all I want is to be free from his power and terrorizing acts forever. What has he said in his drunken stupor at his family’s Christmas dinner? I bet he didn’t tell them how things actually were during those three excruciating years. Clutching my phone in my hand, I cry hard into the pillow, devastated by the injustice I just faced. If I was bolder, I would have told them the truth. If I was better at confrontation, I would have defended myself like I deserve. But no, I don’t have it in me to be upfront. I’m the same old Hallie, keeping my opinions to myself, holding it together until the next opportunity for escape comes along.

  My foot bumps against the frame sitting at the bottom of my bed. I grab at it and draw it up to my face. “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Jeremiah 29:11. If this is so true, why do I want to throw this frame across the room? My jaw aches from clenching it so tightly. I told you I couldn’t trust you, God. And now look what’s happened!

  A new onslaught of sobs sends me rocking. I’ve done it again. I can get so angry at God instead of accepting my own responsibility. I can’t keep blaming God every time something goes wrong. So what if the McClains hate me? That’s not God’s fault. I left Jonathan, I fled when a window of opportunity presented itself, I kept my mouth shut when I could’ve told his family exactly why I had to get out. Time to come clean. In a silent prayer, I beg God for this verse to be true in my life. Without the tiniest clue as to what my future holds, all I can do is pray that God has an amazing plan for me…even if I can’t see it yet.

  * * *

  The doorbell rings as I adjust the shoulders of my new, pink blouse. “The first guest is here,” Harrison announces as he bounds down the stairs to the front door of the apartment. The kids are fast asleep, like two hibernating bears. Good thing. The noise of the crowd coming from the front foyer suggests it will be a lively party. As the group filters in, Isabel greets everyone with an elated grin while Harrison volunteers to take their coats back to the master bedroom. The smiling faces of Isabel and Harrison’s church friends all turn toward me, and Isabel goes through the crowd, introducing each person.

  I offer a small smile and nod as Isabel continues, “And everyone, this is Hallie McClain, my wonderful sister-in-law.”

  Heat rises to my cheeks as the sound of my married name rings in my ears. I go to correct Isabel, but the words get caught in my throat. I can do this. I push my shoulders back and say, “Actually, I prefer to go by Hallie Reed.” Isabel flusters almost imperceptibly. She addresses the mistake with an effortless apology followed by an offhand joke, then redirects everyone’s attention to the drinks and appetizers covering the dining room table.

  “Hallie,” Isabel whispers as she pulls up beside me, taking advantage of her distracted guests, “I can’t believe I just did that.” She tucks a curl behind her slightly pink ear.

  “It’s fine,” I insist. “You aren’t the first to make the mistake, and you won’t be the last.” With a sigh, I add, “It sounds weird for me to hear, too. I mean, I still stumble over my last name when I make phone calls and stuff. I just thought here, I don’t have to deal with who I was. These people don’t need to know my past.” A pretty woman with a creamy, dark complexion meanders toward us with her plate full and strikes up a conversation. Nothing about her tone or language insinuates that she’s aware of the awkwardness that occurred only moments before. In fact, no one is lingering over the correction I just announced. Well, that proved to be easier than I thought. I want to pat myself on the back for the unusual gumption I just displayed. My chin lifts, and I immerse myself in the conversation. This is my chance to inch out of my shell.

  Most of the people at this party serve in Isabel and Harrison’s church. Too bad I didn’t get the chance to visit Nations Church Ann Arbor during this stay—we had to make a few guest visits to other churches these past few weeks so Harrison could connect with some U of M students. Ah well … next time.

  The soft jazz music plays in the background as the clock counts down to midnight. I yawn. Can I make it until the ball drops? I check the time and groan. I don’t think I can do it, not with my early flight in the morning. Maybe just a little longer. The doorbell rings again, and Harrison leaves the room to welcome the new guests. Three heads immerge at the top of the stairs, and my eyes lock on the couple standing beside Harrison.

  As Harrison gestures to take their coats, my eyes narrow. Could this couple be any more beautiful? The man, tall and dark, casts his studious gaze across the group as he re-adjusts his designer-framed glasses. He can conquer the world just by surveying what’s before him. But yet, the stubble on his face and his stylish attire suggest he’s anything but nerdy. If his air of confidence doesn’t attest to this reality enough, then the beauty of his wife certainly does.

  The woman beside him throws back her long, blonde hair as she slips out of her white, knee-length pea coat. Her perfect waves swing with the motion as she hands her coat to Harrison. She turns just as Isabel approaches her side. Is she even wearing make-up? How can she do that and still look ready to walk down the runway? Oh no—they’re coming my way. Why didn’t I go to bed when I still had the chance? My eyes shoot down to my shuffling feet as Isabel approaches my side with the couple in tow. Harrison emerges from the hallway no longer carrying their coats and moseys up next to us.

  I gulp, my gaze rising to meet the couple Isabel is introducing. “Hallie, I want you to meet Tom and Sarah Romano. They have been going to our church for almost a year now.”

  I nod my head and take a shaky breath. “It’s nice to meet you.” My voice is high, so I quickly put the attention back on them, “What do you two do?”

  Tom scratches the stubble on his face while glancing at his wife. They laugh, as if they have just had a silent conversation determining who would speak first. Wow. Their connection is effortless. It’s as if they are one being, so evidently in-sync that it makes my stomach clench. “Well, I am a professor at the University of Michigan. And my wife—” he gestures in her direction.

  “I’m a labor and delivery nurse at the university hospital,” Sarah finishes, as if their conversation flows easily from one to the other on a regular basis.

  “That’s great,” I say, my tone still high-pitched. Why do I feel about an inch-high right now? My ears begin to itch. There is nothing I have in common with this incredibly intelligent couple.

  I scramble for an excuse to remove myself, but I’m re-engaged with Tom’s question. “And what do you do?”

  “I’m, uh—well,” I start, fiddling with a hangnail, “I’m a physical trainer. I work at a gym.” Heat prickles my neck. Who am I kidding? My profession and education pale in comparison to the people standing before me. Harrison and Isabel duck out of the conversation as someone pulls them aside. There’s been a spill in the kitchen—someone needs paper towel. Harrison and Isabel excuse themselves and leave to deal with the mess. I nod, expecting Tom and Sarah to follow them. But they don’t. They stay right here with me, their gentle eyes locked on mine. Are they honestly interested in what I have to say?

  “A physical trainer—that’s amazing,” Sarah exclaims. “I’ve always wanted to do that, but I just don’t have the coordination or strength to motivate people in the gym.” My eyebrows raise. This woman’s curves are perfectly accentuated by her high-waisted pencil skirt and flowing white and gold blouse. I’m sure she has what it takes. She giggles and puts a hand on my should
er, as if we are close friends sharing an inside joke. “Seriously,” she says, “if you only knew how often I made a fool of myself in the gym, you would understand.”

  I shake my head and smile, “I’m sure that’s not the case. We all can be a little awkward when we are learning a new exercise for the first time, but I bet you could do my job, no problem.” They both laugh, showcasing smiles that must have been perfected by an orthodontist—it wouldn’t be fair if they were both born with so much natural beauty. “Do you work out at a gym here in Ann Arbor?”

  “Yes,” Tom says with a slow tilt of the head. “We did some searching around and found this great, local gym downtown. We live farther out of the city, so we wanted to find a place that’s easy for us to access before and after our work hours.”

  “We work such different hours that it’s difficult to find time to spend together and workout,” Sarah adds without skipping a beat. “If we can manage, we try to link up together at the gym as often as possible. Tom teaches me so much about different training techniques—so it’s best if we can do the workouts together.” Of course. They are that pedestal couple who trains together in the gym. They’re the ones who do partner push-ups, ab rotations, and unified squats.

  “Well, I bet we can learn a lot from Hallie,” Tom replies. Feeling smaller than a flea, my glance fleets between the carpet and his face. He’s just being kind. But his eyes spark behind those round, black frames, and his smile is sincere as he says, “Harrison brags about you all the time—it sounds like you know what you’re doing in the gym, and I think it’s awesome you have dedicated your time and effort to instill that kind of confidence in others.” I somewhat rock back on my heels as I offer a nod of gratitude. Could this perfect couple really be as humble and down-to-earth as they seem?