by Lynn Austin
Fly Away
A Novel
By Lynn Austin
"Fly Away"
Published by Lynn Austin at Smashwords
Distributed by Smashwords
Copyright © 2017 Lynn Austin
384 Lakeshore Drive
Holland, MI 49424
http://www.lynnaustin.org/
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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*****
Dear Reader,
The first thing you’ll notice about “Fly Away” is that it takes place in 1987. That time period is too new to be a historical novel like most of my other books, but too old to be a contemporary novel. That’s because “Fly Away” was one of the very first books I wrote when I was just starting to dream of being a writer. The story came to me so effortlessly that I remember writing it out longhand on a yellow legal pad. Later, I typed it into my computer and saved it on several 3 ½ inch floppy discs. It was published by Beacon Hill Press in 1996 and has since gone out of print.
I remember very well the genesis of the story. Within a short period of time, our family struggled with a series of losses. My father, a World War II veteran like the main character in “Fly Away,” was hospitalized with a stroke and died a few months later at the age of 62. Dad had been caring for my grandmother so she had to be moved to a nursing home. My father-in-law also had a stroke and was moved to a nursing home because my mother-in-law was diagnosed with terminal colon cancer. Mom and Dad Austin both passed away within a few months of each other.
My husband and I and our three children drove down to Michigan from our home in Canada to take care of my mother-in-law in her final weeks so she could remain at home rather than be hospitalized. Our daughter Maya was a newborn when we left Canada and one month old when Mom died. We took care of Mom and Maya simultaneously, one at the very beginning of her life, the other at the end; one growing stronger each day, the other weaker. After just experiencing the miracle of birth, we learned that death is also one of God’s holy moments.
As you read “Fly Away” you’ll probably see how my own thoughts and emotions became intertwined with my plot and characters. The book deals with dying and loss, but I didn’t want it to be a sad book. All of my beloved family members had loved life and lived it well. They taught me that our faith in Christ gives us the strength and courage we need to face whatever plans He has for us—even when it means saying goodbye.
Telephones still had cords when I wrote “Fly Away” and hung on kitchen walls. Shag carpeting and Star Wars figures were all the rage. But I hope you’ll find that the themes of God’s goodness and love are timeless. Enjoy!
Lynn
*****
Chapter 1
Wednesday, September 2, 1987
Mike Dolan was snoring when the telephone rang. He rolled over to focus on the bedside clock and was startled to discover that he had overslept by nearly an hour. He stumbled out to the kitchen to grab the wall-phone, feeling every one of his 65 years, and nearly tripped over his canine roommates, Buster and Heinz, as they wove between his legs. He cleared the sleep out of his throat before answering. “Hello?”
“Hey, Dad. We just got a last-minute request for a charter flight today. I’m already booked up with that fishing party, but do you want to do it?”
Mike reached down to scratch Buster’s head. “What time?”
“Right now. As soon as you can get to the airport. The guy says he needs to get to Springfield right away. But he wants you to wait for him there—says he’ll need an hour, maybe an hour and a half—then he wants you to fly him home again.”
“Did he say what it’s all about? Why the last-minute rush?” Mike was stalling as he calculated the flight times in his head. He had a doctor’s appointment at 4:00 this afternoon that he didn’t want his son Steve to know about.
“Not a clue. But you don’t have anything going on today, do you? There’s nothing on the schedule.”
“Right. Okay, tell him to meet me at the airport in an hour.” Mike hung up again, knowing that the sooner he got his aging body moving, the better his chances of getting back by four o’clock. He opened the back door to let the dogs out while he quickly dressed. Maybe this unexpected charter flight was just what he needed, something to occupy his day and distract his thoughts from whatever the doctor might have to say.
Ninety minutes later, Mike had checked the weather conditions, filed a flight plan, run through all the pre-flight checks, and was helping Mr. Stanford Blake climb into one of Dolan Aviation’s charter planes. Blake was fortyish, stony-faced, dressed in a pricey, pin-striped suit, and cradling a briefcase. “Heading to Springfield on business?” Mike asked. He’d learned over the years that chatting with customers who were nervous flyers sometimes helped ease their fears.
“It’s personal.” Blake fastened his seatbelt and opened his briefcase without even glancing at Mike. Judging by the way he began pulling out files and examining them, Mr. Blake wasn’t in the mood for conversation.
“Well, it should be a nice, smooth flight,” Mike said as he adjusted his own seatbelt. “And a gorgeous one, too. Leaves are just starting to turn. I never get tired of seeing them from the air, you know?” He taxied and took off, not expecting a reply, not hearing one.
A hired car was waiting for Mr. Blake in Springfield, engine running. “Okay if I leave my briefcase in the plane?” Blake asked, spinning the little dial to lock it.
“Sure. The plane and I will be right here.”
Blake consulted his watch, and after informing Mike that he would be back in ninety minutes or less, rode off. For the first time since leaving home, Mike remembered his doctor’s appointment and his stomach squeezed. He adjusted his baseball cap and sauntered into the hangar to find someone to shoot the breeze with.
Ninety minutes later, almost to the second, Mr. Blake’s hired car skidded to a halt. Once again, Blake busied himself with work for the entire flight and never seemed to notice the soaring blue skies above them or the palette of fall colors painting the hills below. He didn’t speak at all until they were back on the ground again.
“I may need to hire your services again at a moment’s notice,” he said. “I don’t know when.” He looked at his watch. “They say my father is going to die soon, and I’ll need to make another quick trip up and back for the funeral.”
“I’m so sorry,” Mike said. “Losing your father—that’s a real tough thing.” He wanted to ask how long his father had been sick, and if the two of them had been close, and how he was handling the tragic news. He searched Blake’s face for signs of grief, prepared to listen if he needed to talk. What he saw instead was cold impatience.
“This couldn’t have come at a worse time,” he grumbled. “There’s so much going on at work, right now. As it is, I had to miss an important meeting this morning.”
Mike was about to say that death was rarely convenient for anyone, but he swallowed the comment “I guess your work must be real important,” he said instead.
“It is.” Blake turned and strode to his car without a word of thanks.
The sun disappeared behind a cloud as Mike went inside the office he shared with his son. He and Steve ran Dolan Aviation together, a comfortable little business that Mike hoped to pass along to his grandchildren someday. He was sorry not to find Steve sitting behind their cluttered desk or tinkering beneath an engine on one of their planes. He needed Steve’s solid warmth and vitality after his icy encounter with Mr. Blake. But Steve was busy
with work too, flying a fishing charter.
Mike sank into the desk chair, suddenly tired. He would need to leave in a little while for his doctor’s appointment. But for now he closed his eyes, wondering if Mr. Stanford Blake’s father had been cheered by his son’s hasty visit, grateful for it. Mike hoped with all his heart that the dying man hadn’t been aware of the inconvenience his death was causing his son.
*****
Wilhelmina Brewster was in her bathrobe and pajamas when her grandmother’s antique mantle clock rang the hour. She counted twelve chimes. Noon. And Wilhelmina wasn’t even dressed. She had remained in her pajamas all day yesterday, too. Illness had been the only acceptable excuse for such slothful behavior when she was growing up, yet she wasn’t ill. If asked for a reason, Wilhelmina would have huffed and replied, “Why get dressed when there’s no place to go and nothing to do?”
She stared out her living room window at the maple tree that was just beginning to change color. Fall had always been a fulfilling time for Wilhelmina; preparing lectures, planning recitals, advising students, hearing auditions, and rushing to complete her much-too-busy schedule. But not this year. After 41 years as professor of music at Faith College, she had turned 65 last spring, the age of mandatory retirement.
She returned to the book she’d been reading, her mind not on the words but six miles away on the Faith College campus. As her thoughts drifted to her former office, wondering who was now practicing etudes on her baby grand piano, Wilhelmina realized with a start that she did have somewhere to go today and a very good reason to get dressed. She had agreed weeks ago to give an informal piano recital this afternoon at the Cancer Center. The music she had chosen to perform lay neatly stacked on the table beside her piano bench. Wilhelmina rose from her chair, pushing her malaise aside along with her book, and hurried upstairs to bathe and change into her dark brown suit.
Of course she arrived at the Cancer Center in plenty of time—a half-hour early, in fact—and felt her good spirits slide back into the doldrums as she surveyed the timeworn room, the handful of lounge chairs and folding chairs her audience would fill, the second-hand piano that faced a windowless wall. She would have to perform with her back to her audience, and who knew how well the sound would carry. Or if the pedals even worked. The bench was not adjustable—and Wilhelmina was taller than the average woman. Nevertheless, she silently vowed to perform at her very best.
How many concerts and recitals and performances had she given over the years? Wilhelmina almost smiled when she recalled how much joy they had brought her. Perhaps today’s recital would bring her joy, too. Then her smiled faded as she thought of her brothers. They would tell her that performing in a place like this shabby out-patient lounge was beneath her. “What’s next?” they would ask. “Sitting in some dingy barroom with a tip cup on the piano?”
Wilhelmina sat down on the wobbling bench and was placing her music on the stand when the Cancer Center’s director hurried into the room. “Professor Brewster! Thanks so much for coming to play for us today. I know you must be very busy with your work at the college, but I’m sure everyone will enjoy hearing you.”
Wilhelmina could only nod, biting her lip to hold back the tears that stung her eyes.
*****
By four o’clock, Mike Dolan was sitting in the examining room, kneading his baseball cap in his sweating hands. Any minute now the doctor would enter and Mike would learn his fate. He shifted in his seat, wishing he could move around and walk off some of his anxiety, but the room was too cramped. He had flown in cockpits that were bigger. He’d already studied all the diplomas on the office walls, but they hadn’t distracted him from his fears for very long. He could scarcely make heads or tails of them, with their fancy foreign words and swirly script.
He stood up, kicked off his work boots, then stepped onto the doctor’s scale, fiddling with the shiny weights, sliding them back and forth until they balanced. One hundred and sixty-three pounds. Not good. He had lost more weight. He considered playing with the sliding height bar, but he already knew what that would tell him. He stood exactly five feet, seven and three-quarter inches in his stocking feet. Forty-some years ago his muscular build had turned a lot of gals” heads, especially when he wore his U.S. Air Force pilot’s uniform. He glanced in the mirror over the sink and smoothed down his receding ring of white hair. Every Christmas his grandkids tried to convince him to pad his belly, grow a white beard, and play Santa Claus down at the mall. “You’d be perfect, Grandpa,” they insisted. He studied his reflection, stroking his smooth chin. Resembling Santa Claus wasn’t all that bad, he decided. Mike sat down again with a weary groan and bent to retie his shoes.
He looked at his watch. Ever since the nurse had parked him in this windowless cell 12 minutes ago he had been forced to listen to a piano playing classical music somewhere in the distance. Now it was starting to get on his nerves. Mike was no musician, but even he could tell that the blasted thing was out of tune. It seemed like a bad omen. Piano music in a medical complex? Where could the sound be coming from? It didn’t tinkle from a speaker like the usual canned office music but drifted, soft and muffled, from behind the thin wall of the room next door. Mike pondered the mystery for a while before remembering that the Cancer Center had a lounge for outpatients in this building. He thought he remembered seeing a piano in the lounge when he visited the center after his first cancer surgery a few years ago. That must be it.
With the mystery solved, once again Mike had nothing to do. He leaned forward to study the wife-and-family snapshots on the doctor’s desk, while the piano hammered away like a hailstorm on a hangar roof. He didn’t care much for that fancy, highbrow music. Made him restless.
The doctor’s outer waiting room had been crowded with people, and Mike wondered how many of them had come for their test results as he had. It occurred to him that this little drama must take place dozens of times a day in offices like this one, all over the country, maybe all over the world. Some folks got good news and went home to their families breathing easy and smiling again. Others got bad news. He wondered how most people handled that kind of news. He’d had plenty of time to think about it in the week or so since taking the tests, and Mr. Blake’s last-minute charter flight this morning had solidified Mike’s decision. He knew exactly what he was going to do.
Now it sounded as if the pianist next door was trying to do loops and dives and barrel rolls on a keyboard. As soon as his appointment ended, no matter what the outcome, Mike decided he would drive back to the airport and take one of his planes up for a few loops and dives and barrel rolls of his own. He shifted impatiently in the chair, anxious to grab some sky.
Finally he heard footsteps and Dr. Bennett’s mumbling voice outside in the hallway. He perched his cap on his head for a moment and wiped his palms on his thighs. He couldn’t greet the doctor with a clammy handshake. Mike could picture the doctor removing his chart from the plastic holder on the door and studying it: MICHAEL G. DOLAN, MALE CAUCASIAN, AGE 65, CANCER: COLON [C2] Right Hemicolectomy 1984, suspected recurrence.
Mike waited, unconsciously holding his breath. He remembered the last time; the ugly helplessness of lying flat on his back in the hospital, the pitying looks everyone gave him, their forced smiles and the hushed tone of their voices. No matter what, he wouldn’t go through that again. Nor would he get fogged in with a lot of self-pity if the cancer had returned. He had lived a long, happy life, full of fun and adventure, and if this was the end for him, well, he shouldn’t complain. He didn’t know much about the hereafter, but he figured it would probably be the greatest flight of his life—like flying without the plane.
Next door, the music soared in altitude to the top of the scale, then crashed with a resounding finale. Mike shook his head. That un-tuned piano made for a pretty rough landing.
Finally the door opened and Dr. Bennett entered with a folder. The doctor was in his 50s, tall and angular, with unruly black hair and dark circles under his eyes. His grim
expression made Mike’s heart race. They shook hands.
“How are you, Mike?”
“Well, I guess you should know.”
“Pardon?”
“Fine, Doc. I’m fine.” Why did people always say fine whether they were or not?
The doctor’s chair squeaked as he dropped into it. He took his time studying the test results, tapping his bony fingers on the desk, pursing his lips. He looked down at the papers, not meeting Mike’s eyes. A bad sign.
“Mike, according to these lab reports it appears there are liver metastases.” Mike felt his stomach flop over, as if he’d suddenly hit an updraft “What does that mean?”
“It means the cancer has spread to your liver.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Mike thought he’d prepared himself for this, but a surge of panic rushed through him, the same gut-twisting fear a novice pilot feels when his engine suddenly cuts out on him during flight. If Mike was sitting in a cockpit he would know from years of experience what to do. But he wasn’t in a cockpit now. He was in uncharted territory. And he was flying blind. A surge of emotions pulled him steadily down against his will, and he fought with the desperate instincts of a pilot in a fatal flat spin to regain control. As if on cue, the piano next door began to play a slow, sad song in sympathy, just like in the movies.
“I’d like to schedule you for some tests to determine if you’re a candidate for resection,” Dr. Bennett continued. Mike barely heard him. It wasn’t true. They’d made a mistake. His thoughts whirled dizzily, out of control.
Suddenly he thought of Helen, and the memory of his wife’s courage as she’d faced death, unexpectedly quieted his racing heart. He was in command again, his emotions responding to his control, his will determining his course. With a faint smile and a barely perceptible nod, he affirmed his calm acceptance of the truth. Don’t play any sad songs for me, he wanted to tell the pianist. Let me go out with a jig.