Mom and Grandpa talked quietly. I tried to sleep but kept jerking awake. The sensation of falling seemed to hit me every time I dozed off. I’d suddenly feel as if I were inside the plane again. Maybe this was what it was like to survive a plane crash. Maybe that falling feeling was here to stay.
I tried to stay awake so that I wouldn’t fall. I caught bits of front-seat conversation.
“I just can’t believe we couldn’t hold on to the flag, Dad,” Mom said.
“You were holding on for dear life, honey,” Grandpa answered.
“It was so frightening,” she said.
“And you lived!” Grandpa patted her hand. Mom wore her sad face.
“I don’t even know what happened. Everything went so fast. So terribly fast.”
“Now, Jennifer, you always draw the best bull. Not to worry now that you’re on solid ground,” he said. I’d heard this a million times. This was Grandpa-speak for Don’t worry.
Grandpa turned the car onto Cedar Drive. Looking at the street, I got the funniest feeling. It was like I’d been gone for a month. As if it were a different season. As if my old street had changed while I was away.
When I got inside the house, I got the same feeling. The house seemed smaller. I didn’t look at the perfect wall. I rushed into my room and closed the door.
Somehow, my room was the same as it had always been. Except there were three dried-out poinsettia plants on my desk. A few fallen, dead leaves on my floor.
I pictured them screaming to me in the voice of Tim LeMoot, the Texas Boot.
WE NEED WATER NOW! WE’RE WAITING!
Oh, you’re thirsty? Well, I almost died on the way home from a funeral. Sorry, plants.
I flopped onto my bed. I was so tired. I slapped my hand across my forehead.
That hurt.
I forgot how many stitches were up there.
It felt like there were more stitches than skin.
In the shape of an L.
That I got because I was in a plane crash.
Where was all the news about the crash? Did they know what had happened? I had to do research. Mom and Grandpa wouldn’t answer my questions. I’d tossed at least ten written questions into the front seat of the rental car. Mom replied to every one of the notes with the same answer: Don’t worry about that now, Wayne.
When was the best time to worry? Later?
Well, now it was later, and I wasn’t so much worried as I was curious.
So when Mom napped and Grandpa left to pick up Mr. Darcy from Bone Jour, the pet boarding place, I searched for information on the computer in our guest room.
The first thing I viewed on the Internet was a picture of the Flight 56 wreckage. An aerial photo showed a dark, half-mile-long gash where the plane had skidded into the earth before stopping in a row of pine trees. The pine trees nearest the crash were blackened. The plane itself looked charred and muddy. You could make out the rip in the side of the plane where the rain had come in and our things had gone out.
I’d guessed right. The pilot had regained some control. He’d been able to level the plane out so that it slid instead of doing a nosedive. Experts said the pilot’s experience saved lives. The article said that the National Transportation Safety Board was going to investigate and reconstruct the plane. The black boxes were intact. Weather was thought to be a factor. Twelve of the forty-four passengers had died, including the experienced pilot. Another dead hero.
New Internet search.
Did you know the landing tires on an airplane are filled with nitrogen, not air? Nitrogen is less susceptible to volume changes than regular air, and it’s also an inert gas, making it less flammable.
Did you know that when a plane crashes and the accident is called in, emergency responders ask, How many souls on board? They use the word souls to identify all people on the aircraft, not just passengers. It’s a holdover from the days when people traveled at sea.
Did you know that Mayday is an international distress signal? It’s translated from the French term m’aidez, which means “come help me.”
That’s a pretty good distress call for any situation, from seventh graders plummeting from the sky to guys stuck next to Sandy Showalter at the Beatty Middle School fall social who have run out of solid things to say.
Mayday.
Come help me.
My lips formed the word.
Mayday. Mayday. Mayday.
I went back to my room and sat on the bed. My body felt tired and heavy, and I finally fell asleep. I woke up when Mr. Darcy jumped onto my bed.
“I’m back with your mutt,” Grandpa shouted.
I sat up in bed and hugged Mr. Darcy.
I was so happy to see my dog. I wanted to talk to my dog. I hugged his head and tried to press some thoughts into him.
It’s okay, boy. I fell out of the sky.
Do you know what? He seemed to understand.
I like that about Mr. Darcy.
I came out of my room, wiping dog drool from my face.
“Put that in the guest room and don’t wake up your mother,” Grandpa said, pointing to a duffel bag. Then he sat down in the one big, comfy chair we have in our living room. That chair is uniquely positioned for optimum TV watching.
Do you know how I knew that? Because I had uniquely positioned it there for my own TV viewing. Next to the chair, there is a fluffy, flowery sofa, which I don’t like to sit on because it’s so girly. Epically girly. But Mom loves it. On the day it was delivered, I thought maybe she loved it the way she loved the Wall of Honor.
Look, Wayne, this is my first-ever piece of adult furniture, she’d said. In our last house with my dad, we had a futon and a rocking chair.
Grandpa was still sitting in the big chair.
“Hey, Wayne, if you’re going to the kitchen, would you bring me that sandwich that’s in the fridge?” he asked.
I got the sandwich for Grandpa to eat. It was starting to seem like this was his house. He’d spread out his shaving kit on the bathroom counter. He’d folded a laundry load of towels into precise squares. He’d even plugged in the small, fake Christmas tree.
“You’ll like this TV show, Wayne,” he said. “Oh, I put a little silver bell next to your mother’s table. Listen for that in case she needs anything.”
The bell was a good idea. Mom’s arm was still in a brace. Her twisted ankle was better but still sore. So Mom could ring for us like the English maids she loved to watch on TV. That’s all she wants to watch sometimes. Movies where people use fake British accents and run through fields and yell, Oh, I think I’ll run through this field in search of a husband.
That is a clue about why we have a dog named Mr. Darcy. We got him about the same time as the flowery sofa, which I don’t think was a coincidence. Mr. Darcy is her favorite character in Jane Austen movies. Nothing would make Mom happier than for Mr. Darcy to go missing so that she could go running out onto Cedar Drive, shouting, Mr. Darcy, Mr. Darcy! Come home, Mr. Darcy. I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Mr. Darcy.
True story.
I could feel a Jane Austen marathon coming on.
Grandpa and I watched a show about military tactics. Grandpa fell asleep in the big chair. I sat on the flowery couch at an angle that was definitely not optimal for TV watching. I found out lightning quick how to wake up Grandpa: Try to steal the TV remote from his hands. He will bolt upright in his chair and ask you what in the name of Sam Hill you are trying to do.
“What in the name of Sam Hill are you trying to do, Wayne?”
Did you know that Sam Hill was an American businessman who liked to swear a lot, so his name became a euphemism for a swearword?
Mr. Darcy snuck a bite of Grandpa’s sandwich.
“What in the name of Sam Hill is your dog trying to do, Wayne?” Grandpa leapt from his chair, shooing Mr. Darcy toward me.
I sensed that an invoking-the-name-of-Sam-Hill marathon was coming on, too.
I was trapped between Jane Austen and Sam Hill.
I beat Grandpa to Mom’s room, not because I’m faster. I am faster. Only he didn’t try to race me. He ordered me to do it.
“Can you go do that, Wayne?” he said.
Sure, have the plane-crash victim do everything. You just sit there, Grandpa, and eat your sandwich. But I couldn’t say that. Even when I had a voice, I was smart enough to keep my sarcasm to myself around Grandpa. Uncle Reed said that when recruits spouted off to Grandpa during basic training, they had to run with a concrete block until dark.
I’m not saying I’m scared of my grandfather. Okay, maybe a little. But let’s just say I never wanted to know if he’d treat his grandson like a snarky recruit.
Mom’s room was quiet and dark.
“Come sit with me and we’ll watch a movie, okay?” Her hair hung down, curtain-style. The sad face.
A movie marathon of British women with high-pitched voices running through fields looking for husbands was about to happen. I’d totally called it.
All I could hope for was that she’d let me bring a book, and I could read while she watched.
“Wayne, where does your mother keep the coffee filters?” Grandpa shouted from the kitchen. I’d brought him a sandwich. Iced tea. Given up the chair. One more thing. Fine.
“Go help him find the filters, would you, Wayne?” Mom said.
Grrr.
You would think being a fresh, new plane-crash survivor with one hundred stitches in your face would earn a little laziness.
“Show him where everything is in the bathroom, too,” Mom added. “He’s going to need your help now that he’ll be moving in.”
I wrote on my notepad: What????? Wait, living here? Here?
I couldn’t write Why? fast enough.
“It’s just temporary until I can drive again. It was either that or have us move to his house. Or, would you want that, maybe? To move there?”
I considered this option. Grandpa lived in a small town house. It had two bedrooms. I’d probably have to share with him. Or, weirder, with my mom.
I wrote: No, here is better.
“Okay, give it a chance, Wayne,” Mom said. “It’s temporary.”
I know.
“We missed Christmas.” Mom was about to cry.
Did you know scorpions can survive for a year without food or water?
Mom’s face changed from sad to sad with a smile. “I love how your mind works, Wayne.”
I went into the kitchen and pulled down the box of coffee filters.
“Thanks,” Grandpa said. I watched him heap scoop after scoop of coffee into a coffee filter. I paid attention to how he made his coffee. Because it probably wouldn’t be long before I’d hear, Wayne, go make me some coffee.
I rearranged Mom’s collection of blue glass birds on the kitchen counter. Someone (Grandpa) had placed them in rows. Mom liked them in a circle.
Grandpa poured himself a steaming cup of coffee, then leaned against the counter.
“So, Wayne, that flag, huh?” he said. “Darn shame, that flag.” His face was so full of new wrinkles.
I nodded. Do you know what it feels like to be a human bobblehead? Well, I did. In the past twenty-four hours, I’d nodded more than I had my entire life.
I was starting to get the feeling that since the volume of my voice was muted, it had turned up inside my head. It was really loud in there. Facts that I couldn’t say stood at the ready. Facts that could fill up an uncomfortable silence like the one I was having with Grandpa. Statements I couldn’t make about honor flags weighing around four pounds and being made of cotton.
I’d looked it up.
I stared at the linoleum floor and told my brain to shut up and wait for the appropriate time to bolt out of the kitchen.
“I have a flag your great-grandfather once owned,” Grandpa said. “Reed really liked that flag. You know the one I’m talking about? With the wood frame and glass case?”
Yeah, I knew the one. That was where I’d gotten the idea for Uncle Reed’s display case, which, as a matter of fact, had been on our porch when we got home. It remained unopened inside its cardboard box, stuffed in my closet. No one knew about it but me and the mailman. When the flag was found, I would fill it and present it to Mom and Grandpa. I, Wayne Kovok, the guy who let go of the flag, would set everything straight. No one would remember that I couldn’t hold on to it. That was the plan.
“I just can’t figure it,” Grandpa said. “The whole crash. Reed.”
His face went sad, remembering.
Did you know that the word linoleum is derived from the Latin linum, which means “flax,” and oleum, which means “oil”? This is because a main ingredient in linoleum is linseed oil, and will you please stop talking about a flag that couldn’t possibly have been saved from being sucked out of the plane?
“You know, you’re probably right, Wayne. A four-pound flag against that wicked wind didn’t stand a chance,” Grandpa said. His voice cracked. “Didn’t stand a chance. Maybe when you join the army one day, you’ll discover that sometimes it’s man versus nature. A man has to be strong.”
I didn’t know what to say. (Sorry my skinny little arms couldn’t hold on to the flag?) Grandpa leaned into the countertop. His shoulders shook. Grandpa served in the army for more than thirty years. He was not a crier. This was the first time I’d ever seen him with tears on his face. His eyes had deep lines under them. He didn’t look the same anymore. He looked broken.
I’d missed my chance at an exit. I’d stayed there too long, wondering what to do, staring at him.
And then his eyes met mine. In an instant, the drill sergeant was back. It surprised me how glad I was that his tough face had returned.
“Don’t you have something useful to do!” he barked.
I got out of there. Fast.
New topic.
The flag was missing. But that just meant it was somewhere else. Waiting to be found or replaced. A hypothesis waiting to be made into a true fact.
An idea for a project swirled inside my beat-up head.
A project to find the flag.
I avoided Mom. I avoided Grandpa.
I began collecting data right away.
I took a chance slipping into the guest room, but I didn’t think Grandpa would come down the hallway. I flipped on the computer and pulled up the articles about the crash. I printed out pages. Authorities were already collecting debris. I taped the data pages inside my closet door, where no one could see. I’d track the news. Monitor the collection of debris. Claim the flag once it was found. Watch the military service videos online and learn how to refold it. Present it to my mom and Grandpa.
Do you know what it felt like?
I’ll tell you.
I almost felt useful.
DATA
The American burial flag is made of cotton.
Dimensions: five feet by nine and a half feet
Weight: four pounds
Question: Can it be replaced?
Answer: No. The US Department of Veterans Affairs states that the law allows for one burial flag per veteran. It cannot be replaced if it is lost, destroyed, or stolen.
CHAPTER 8
A late-December rain poured down outside. The wind slapped it against my window. I’d pulled up the blinds in my room to watch it at night. Across the street, our neighbors still had a giant white inflatable Christmas snowman in their front yard. The snowman swayed in the wind. Most nights since we got home, I hadn’t slept all the way through. I’d had nightmares of falling. I’d wake up from the nightmare right at the moment Mom and I leapt from the plane. It will sound strange, but sometimes I wished I could stay in the nightmare five minutes longer. It might have given me a clue about how we got to the hospital. Because I only remembered the awful stink of jet fuel and then jumping. The fuselage was about twenty feet above the ground when it came to a stop in that field. Twenty feet is about the height of a two-story building.
I’d looked it up.
So
we’d leapt twenty feet into the darkness. If it hadn’t hurt Mom so much, I might have considered that a cool fact.
But once I knew that fact, I stopped having the jumping nightmare. I didn’t know facts could do that.
Several other survivors had also jumped from the wreckage. Those facts had been printed in a recent article and added to my find-the-flag project.
As far as the crash was concerned, the National Transportation Safety Board announced it had collected 70 percent of the plane debris, the black boxes, and a substantial number of items belonging to the passengers, but there was no mention of a missing American flag. The initial findings of the cause of the crash were expected in about six to eight weeks.
Mom had gone to the doctor for a new arm brace.
“Look, Wayne, I’m learning to use my left hand now,” she said. She was proud of her progress.
I went to a voice specialist and was evaluated.
“It’s going to take some time, Wayne, but you should be talking in three months or less,” the doctor said. He was proud of his diagnosis.
And neighbors brought us food that tortured my taste buds. Do you know what it’s like to look at delicious food you can’t eat? It’s like this. It’s like looking at the school lunch calendar and counting the days until it’s pizza-stick day. Pizza-stick day was a reason to go to school. Seriously. Even parents came to school for lunch on pizza-stick day. They were legendary.
All that food in our fridge? It was like getting in line to purchase pizza sticks only to have the cafeteria lady say, We just ran out, Wayne. Sorry.
True story.
The biggest new fact was that Grandpa had really moved into our house. He brought four things with him that he was very proud of.
The Car, a.k.a. his pristine 1967 candy apple–red Mustang convertible that “you may never lean against or get near under penalty of death.” A beat-up suitcase that “you may never touch.” A closetful of button-down flannel shirts that “you may get out of the dryer right now.” And Hank Williams. Hank Williams was a red-eared slider turtle who “you’d better feed right now.”
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