Panic consumes me when I think that perhaps I’ve stood here daydreaming too long and missed my flight. Quickly, I edge my way to the Delta ticket counter line with one hand gripped to the handle of the duffle bag and the other clutching my purse and overnight kit. I’m in line along with everyone else who is sharing this day of travel with me. Strangers—all kinds of faces, all sorts of eyes, all with pasts, and destinations.
———
After I reluctantly check my duffle bag onto the plane, hoping that Sazae and I will be reunited in Osaka and that she won’t be rerouted to Madrid, I purchase a Sprite at a kiosk. Once I spend five minutes making sure I’m at the correct gate, I find a seat in the lobby and take a sip of my drink. I heard Sprite is good for an upset stomach. I pray it’ll calm my nerves, but even after three sips, I’m still too jittery to read my Redbook.
Salvador said the plane ride shouldn’t be as scary since I’ve been on his motorcycle. But Salvador doesn’t know me. Of course, I wonder if I know myself anymore. How did I just ride ninety miles to the airport on the back of a motorcycle?
Inhaling and exhaling, I listen to the conversations of others as they discuss people and cities I’ve never heard of. One girl, looking to be no more than sixteen, keeps talking about how she can’t wait to get to Alice Springs. I wonder where that is—is it in America, or in another country, or just the name of a spa with a Jacuzzi? I have never been fond of geography.
Then a young man in his twenties, wearing khakis and a splashy Hawaiian shirt, bends toward me from his seat, asking if I know the time.
“I don’t have a watch. Well, I mean I do, but it’s at home.”
He doesn’t seem to care. He tells me he’s from Mebane and is on his way to Argentina. At least I know that Mebane is just down the road from Greensboro, where I went to college, and that Argentina is somewhere in South America. His girlfriend is in Buenos Aires. She owns a salon and makes “good money” cutting the hair of tourists who have “lots of money to burn.” He visited her at Christmas and is now making another trip. “This time,” he says as his eyes shine as bright as his shirt, “I’m giving her a ring.”
He continues on, even as my mind wanders to Ducee. When he pauses to take a breath, I ask if he knows where a pay phone is.
“You need to call someone?”
Well, I think, that is usually the reason people want to know where a phone is.
“I need to call Mount Olive.”
And even though we are at an airport in North Carolina, and he claims he’s from Mebane, he has no idea where Mount Olive is. “Israel?”
His geography is worse than mine. “No, no,” I tell him without sounding like a teacher. “North Carolina.”
“Oh, sure.” He hands over his Motorola cell phone and then shows me how to use it.
I dial the number from memory and listen as the phone rings once, twice, three times.
“Hello?”
“Iva.” Have I ever been this grateful to hear my aunt’s raspy voice? “Is Ducee there?”
“Not for much longer,” Iva says, clearing her throat.
“What?” Anxiety grips me.
“She is being discharged.”
“Really? Really?” And that is when I start to laugh. Discharged! How did she finagle that? Last I heard, Ducee was to be in the hospital under observation for at least two more days.
“Yes, she’s telling me to hurry up. I’ll call you later.” Aunt Iva coughs and hangs up.
I give the cell phone back to the young man and laugh.
“Must have been funny,” he says.
The thought of Ducee in her white tennis shoes with the green laces, heading out the door of her hospital room, Iva lagging behind and calling, “Wait up! Don’t you want to take these flowers home with you?” causes me to continue laughing. I imagine my grandmother running to get out of there, to get back home to her ginger tea brewing in her bone china teapot, to her beloved Maggie McCormick, to her maroon-covered Bible and her chair where she can fall asleep with ease during episodes of Columbo.
Funny. “Yeah, yeah, it is,” I reply, trying to absorb the impact the conversation with Iva has had on me. I produce a smile for the young man. “Thanks for letting me use your phone.”
Settling against the black chair in the airport terminal, I take a moment to let relief filter over me. Yes, yes, Ducee might live to see the year 2000, after all. Unless, of course, Iva’s computer blowup fear comes true.
A twinge of loneliness surfaces as I realize that I won’t receive any phone calls from Aunt Iva for a full two weeks. Upon my return, Iva will just have to call every hour to catch me up on all the Mount Olive gossip I’ve missed. And I am sure she will.
From the large window across the room, I watch a plane land. How do those tiny wheels keep it steady? It seems airplanes, like people, should have feet in proportion to their size.
Someone—it sounds like a child—says, “That’s our plane!”
Nausea wells up in me and I know I need a Dramamine so that by the time the flight takes off, I will be relaxed. From my purse, I take out a pill and down it with the last of my Sprite.
Right at that moment, a woman announces that the flight to Atlanta will be delayed. Passengers groan, as though on cue.
The young man from Mebane turns to me and continues where he left off. “The last time I was in Argentina I rode a bull.” There is pride in his voice. “I stayed on for about three seconds and then was knocked off. That bull started rushing toward my head and I don’t know how, but someone picked me up and got me out of there.”
I really don’t know what to say. I chew a nail as my nervous stomach rumbles.
When he leaves to find a restroom, I’m relieved. Closing my eyes, I take Ducee’s advice again and think of one of the most pleasant aspects of my life—my fish. I picture them swimming joyfully in their salty water. I wonder if Monet has fed them yet today. Last night after Kristine and Salvador left my house, Grable called. She apologized for the late hour of her call and said she’d decided that after the reunion she and Monet were going on a trip.
“Costa Rica?” I guessed and she said, yes, that was where they were going.
“The travel brochure looks nice,” she told me. “I hear the weather is great there in January.”
I wanted to say, “See, Grable, your life isn’t over yet. You’re going to get your dream of going somewhere. You’ll see the palm trees you’ve been eyeing in the brochure. Dennis just won’t be accompanying you.”
But, strangely, I felt sadness mixed in with the joy for her. Both emotions were wrapped up like a giant burrito and yet the sorrow was seeping through the flour tortilla, sorrow that couldn’t be contained.
“Monet will enjoy it,” she told me.
And, I let myself think, Costa Rica will never be the same after a visit from the wild one.
When she said that Monet wanted to come visit my fish, I asked, “How would she like to come every day for two weeks?”
Grable was all for the plan. I told her I’d leave a key to the house with Hilda. I could tell my cousin was distraught over Dennis, though. You don’t get over an unfaithful spouse in one afternoon. The trip to Costa Rica would do her good, but she still had a lot to deal with.
Quickly, before asking to speak with Monet, I added, “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m on my way to Japan. Only Ducee knows.”
She said that even though her mother and grandmother were unable to keep secrets, she could.
Soon Monet took over the receiver—she only dropped it once—and I chatted with the wild child.
“Nicccc houuussss?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Nicccc fissssszz!” Monet shouted so loudly I had to keep the phone at a distance.
“Yes, but feed them only a little. Okay?”
“Okaaaaa!” Then she screamed, “Dolll!”
“You like your new doll?”
“Yeessss.” I heard her laughing. “Thannn yooooo.”
“Yo
u’re welcome.”
“Nicccc.” She breathed heavily into my ear. “My doooolll izzzz Nicccc!” Then she squealed, dropped the phone, and I listened as she asked her mother for a hooot dooo.
She didn’t return to the phone.
I guess the anticipated hot dog with the tiny pool of ketchup on the side took precedence over me.
I hung up and shortly after that got ready for bed.
Now, I sit upright, look in all directions around me, and gulp. Was I sleeping? Snoring even? I can’t fall asleep here before getting on the plane. What if the plane takes off without me?
The guy from Mebane is back. Standing in front of me with worry in his eyes, he asks, “Is everything all right?”
I was resting my head on my overnight bag while thinking about my fish and Monet and recalling the conversation with Grable and, goodness, I must have dozed off. I blink. None of that would mean anything to him because he knows nothing about me. I just reply, “I’m a little sleepy.”
He wanders off. Minutes later, when I’m turning the pages of my magazine, he comes back with two cups of coffee. “You look like you need coffee,” he tells me, thrusting one of the cups in my direction.
I wonder just how bad one who needs coffee looks. “Thank you.”
“Cream or sugar?” he asks, waving paper packets of each.
Since I’m not a coffee drinker, I’m not sure what to do, so I add a packet of sugar and one of cream. I stir the beverage with the wooden stick he provides. I sip the coffee, burn my tongue, and after a few swallows, realize my aching tongue and I are now fully awake.
———
A perky voice announces that the flight to Atlanta is ready for boarding. Smiles break out on the faces around me—faces I’ve grown quite familiar with over the past hours. Bags are lifted; other people snap shut laptops. An elderly couple ambles toward a forming line.
The man from Mebane says, “Aren’t you getting on this flight?”
“Oh.” I take hold of the situation by changing my tone from bewildered to assured. “Well, it will be good to get on board at last.”
I heard sometimes if you proclaim something in a positive way, you can actually convince yourself to be positive.
I stand on wobbly legs and swing my overnight kit and my purse—both so heavy with the jar of chutney and other items for that re-routed flight to Morocco or Mozambique—over my shoulder. Then I smile nervously at no one in particular and moisten my lips. I can do this. I can do this. It’s all working out. So far, so good.
And then, since the creek has not risen and the Good Lord is willing, I step onto the plane headed to Atlanta.
An airline attendant looks at my boarding pass and directs me to my aisle seat.
The guy from Mebane secures my overnight kit in the compartment above my seat.
I look around the cabin as I’m bumped by a few passengers making their way past me, and then decide the only thing left to do is to sit down.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
“First time flying?”
I wonder why this seatmate, seated in the right window seat, is asking. I’ve glanced at her—a woman in her late forties, dressed in a gray business suit, with mauve lipstick and eyes hidden by a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. She holds a slick briefcase on her lap, takes a paperback from it, and then sets the briefcase near her shiny black leather shoes. Her nails are painted scarlet. True, she could be a hand model.
How can she tell? I pry my hands from the armrests where they’ve been glued. My feet are two blocks, stuck to the floor. My smile is forced and weak. I want to say yes, it is my first flight, but that’s not true. There was that time I threw up when Father and I returned from Japan.
The need to say anything leaves me as the plane picks up speed down the runway.
My seatmate looks out the tiny window. Then she opens her paperback novel and lets it absorb her.
How can she calmly read at a time like this?
My eyes automatically shut, and I hope the second Dramamine tablet I took will kick in quick.
This flight is only to Atlanta, I keep telling myself. This is cake compared to the thirteen-hour nonstop ride to Osaka yet to come.
The skin over my knuckles stretches tightly as the plane races faster and faster along the runway. I know for sure now that we are all going to die. There is no way that this plane is going to glide into the air like a bird. It’s about to collide with a wall and everyone will splatter like eggs in a hot pan.
I am unable to swallow. It’s humanly impossible to do so when I’m plastered against my seat and sure that soon my life— all thirty-one years of it—is ready to flash before me in a brief second. This is it.
But instead of my life, I see the faces of Ducee, Clive, Monet, and Iva. Then like a puff of smoke, their faces dissolve and I see the smile belonging to Salvador. Salvador, my new motorcycle hero. I will have to find some bizen in Kyoto to bring back to him as a souvenir.
I moisten my lips and consider biting a nail, and then wait to catch my breath. There’s a significant bump and then the plane is soaring, no longer on the ground, but suspended in the air, just like a bird.
I look around the cabin and see the heads of other passengers seated in front of me. Everyone’s still attached—arms to shoulders, knees to legs—and in the seats to my left, a couple is even laughing. Suddenly, without any notice, the aircraft coasts into the clouds, as smooth as a fish with fins gliding through water.
There, right outside the window, if I look over my seatmate, who has not bothered to lift her head from her paperback, is the most fantastic sight.
The sky is a canvas of orange threaded with wisps of pink clouds. The orange looks like the belly of a goldfish and the pink clouds, like ocean coral. Who would have thought the sky could hold similarities to the ocean? Who would have thought?
The Fasten Seatbelt light disappears, but I keep my belt secured around my waist.
Passengers are standing now, some heading to the restroom, others smiling, reading, talking. A few have headsets on, listening to music.
Like this is just another day. Like they fly all the time. No big deal.
I feel sleep fill my eyes, but I’m not ready to succumb to it. Outside, the sky is an array of orange clouds, a sea of the bellies of hundreds of goldfish, all crowded together so all I see are the shimmering orange undersides. It is as though the fish have taken over the sky, swimming in this sea-sky of tranquility.
Ducee’s words flow through my mind. The words she said to me that night when I asked, “How does the duck know she can swim in the pond?”
She doesn’t. But there is a good chance she can.
Am I swimming now?
I make a conscious effort to relax my arms and cross them against my stomach. I glance at my salmon-colored nails I painted last night after Kristine and Salvador left my house. I smudged one while waiting for the polish to dry and one got chipped when I placed my duffle bag on the scale at the check-in counter, but other than that, if I do say so myself, my nails look rather nice.
Did anyone ever tell you that you have hands like your mother?
“Pretty,” my seatmate says, looking over the edge of her book and out the window. As she starts to yawn, she covers her mouth with an elegant hand, returns her eyes to the novel, turns a page, and continues to read.
My ears pop, so I swallow hard. Harrison gave me this tidbit of advice. He also wrote that chewing gum helps ease the popping sensation that comes from being at a higher altitude. So I bought three packs of spearmint and two packs of cinnamon.
The captain of the plane welcomes everyone aboard with a cheery voice, as though he just ate a plate of pancakes covered in whipped cream and the sugar has him electrified. “Folks,” he says, “if you need anything, anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask our flight crew. We thank you for flying Delta, and we hope you’ll enjoy the flight.” And for the third time this afternoon, he adds, “Once again, ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the delay. We�
��ll try to get you safely to Atlanta as soon as we can.”
Soon, two flight attendants push a metal cart loaded with canned soft drinks, bottled water, cups, ice, and peanuts.
I think I’ll ask for a Pepsi. Then I can tell my great-uncle that I drank his favorite soft drink at an altitude so high that I don’t even care to hear what it is.
Maybe I’m not going to throw up. Maybe I’ll be okay, able to enjoy a drink.
I tilt my head against the headrest and close my eyes.
Ducee should be home now, Iva by her side. Maggie McCormick will be braying so loudly with pleasure that I bet she’ll be heard all the way in Havelock. What will they do about preparing all the food for the reunion? Surely Ducee won’t have the energy to cook. And no one else has the time. What will happen? Will they bring in food from Howie’s sub shop?
I guess I’ll just have to wait to find out. After all, there is nothing I can do about it. I’m sort of suspended in the sky right now.
It gives me a jolt of amusement to think of the email message I plan to send from Harrison’s computer to the group gathered this week at the family reunion. I’ll send it to Aaron, of course. No one else has a computer.
I only wish I could see the expression on his face as he reads my words from thousands of miles across the ocean: “Arrived safely in Kyoto. Wish you were here.” And I might even add, just for his sake, “Decided it was finally time to get to know the Japan side of me.”
I picture them all around the new picnic tables, framed by the oak trees, cucumber and egg salad sandwiches before them, asking Ducee, “Where is Nicole?” They will make some comment that I wasn’t there for the Friday night dessert time, and that was unusual; however, not everyone makes it to the Friday night part of the reunion. But Saturday at Ducee’s. No one misses this event.
Rain Song Page 20