Clear to Lift

by Anne A. Wilson

  He stares out the window, remembering, while my tears join the steady downpour happening outside.

  “And there was a man there, wearing a business suit, and he had his arm wrapped around your mother’s waist—” The sobbing starts anew for him, and I turn immediately to Will, remembering what he told me about how he felt when Rich held me. For Jack, this must have been a hundred times worse.

  “They…,” he continues, choking, sniffing, “they looked so happy. Then I watched him pick you up and swing you around, and I thought, I can never get that back. Another guy is playing with my girl. He had my family … and it was all my fault.

  “I could never speak of it, Will. Shame doesn’t begin to cover it. But when I met you, I don’t know what happened. A spark. Something. I thought, I have the chance to do this over. To make it right by someone else. To show that I care. That I could be responsible. Be the father I should have been to you,” he says, looking at me tearfully.

  His eyes then focus on his wallet, still on the table. He reaches for it. Opens it. Removes his driver’s license, and then the photo behind it. “Here.”

  I take it, the white backing wrinkled, the corners softened, turn it over … and it’s me. A girl of six, midtwirl on the green grass, on a sunny day, under a blue sky, in a pink sundress with yellow flowers.

  “I took that photo that day, on your birthday. I’ve carried it with me ever since.”

  My eyes water anew. “You never forgot me.…”

  He moves his head from side to side. “Never.”

  I lean my elbows on the table, head in my hands, clutching the photo, dizzy from drink and the truth, my life’s one burning question having just been answered. But not in the way I expected. I’ve hated my father for so long, but I don’t hate Jack. I also understand what he did and why. But most importantly, now I know that he never stopped loving us.

  I give the photo to Jack, and he promptly returns it to his wallet. Tentatively, I reach my hand to Jack’s and fold it in mine. “She still loves you,” I say. “Nick Malone was a good man, but he wasn’t her true love. He died five years ago.”

  “How can she possibly love me?”

  “She has a garden,” I say, gently squeezing his hand. “She’s tended it well for the last twenty-five years and sits there often. I used to watch her, when I was little, wondering why she sat there alone all the time, looking so sad, crying sometimes. She only grew one variety of flower—larkspur.”

  At the mention of larkspur, Jack looks up.

  “One day, I watched as she planted a new hybrid. She said, ‘Your father would love this new color. It’s his favorite flower.’ I thought she was talking about Nick, but when I asked him, he said he’d never heard of larkspur. So I knew it was you she was talking about. Sitting with, day after day.” I bring my other hand to surround his. “She loves you. There’s no doubt in my mind.”

  Jack pushes his chair away and stands, leaning on the table for support. “I want to show you something.”

  He turns on unsteady legs and walks out of the kitchen. The swish of the door follows. Will, Boomer, and I look at each other before rising.

  “Whoa,” I say, grabbing on to Will for support. I blink rapidly, attempting to quell the spinning.

  “Just hold on to me,” Will says.

  We shuffle through the front door, and Jack is already halfway up the narrow path that leads upward to the main house. He moves determinedly in the twilight, no jacket, rain beating on his slender form.

  It’s an effort for me to walk steadily, but Will helps me along, Boomer bringing up the rear. None of us wear jackets, our insulation provided by scotch only.

  When we finally reach the top, we circle around the main house to the front, where Jack stands by the wooden double doors at the entry. He points to an engraved metal placard that I never noticed before. Based on its location, firmly seated in a long-bed planter running adjacent the front door, I realize it must have been covered in snow the last time I was here.

  The placard is clear now, the snow having melted down its sides.

  LARKSPUR.

  I clutch at Will to keep from falling. He pulls me close, his arm securely around my waist.

  “I named this for her. All of this is for her.” He looks to Will. “When we designed this, I was thinking about what she would have wanted. We used to daydream about that, you know. We’d lie awake at night in our tent in Yosemite, dreaming of owning a real home in the mountains someday. She said she would want glass, windows everywhere, so she would still feel like she was outside, sleeping under the stars, as we were then.”

  Sleeping under the stars …

  No wonder … No wonder she hated going to the lodge. To the outdoors. Anything that reminded her of him …

  “Wait. That’s it. You would have been to the lodge, then. In Walker Canyon,” I say.

  He nods.

  “We went every year,” I say. “Mom didn’t want to, but she did it for Grandpa Alther. I knew she hated it, but I never knew why.”

  Jack wipes at the tears on face—a useless gesture as the rain pours on all of us. “I would—”

  He has to stop to let a sob escape.

  “I would hold you on my shoulders, like this.” He puts his hands up, staring into a faraway memory. “And we’d walk along the river. You and me and your mom. And you wanted to know everything. Always questions. What’s this? What’s that?”

  I strain to remember—why can’t I remember?—but at the same time, now I know I had a father who cared. Who tried to teach me things.

  Still holding on to Will for balance, I crouch down, reaching out to touch the sign. I stay there, my wobbly brain trying to assimilate. Emotionally, I don’t think I could ever have imagined a more radically life-altering forty-eight hours.

  I straighten again, receiving a steady assist from Will.

  “She’s gonna be blown away when she sees this,” I say.

  Jack blanches. “What? She won’t see this.”

  “Yes, she will. You invited her for Thanksgiving, remember?”

  35

  The rain’s steady drone continues this morning, just as it did last night. It was still dark when Boomer called to tell me that the other pilot scheduled for duty—Danny—called in sick, so I’m driving back to Fallon to stand duty as originally planned. Happy birthday to me.

  But it has given me time to think. Due to the crazy string of events over the last two days, pitched from one emotional fire to the next, I haven’t spoken once with my mother. But what to do? Call her? Tell her I’ve met Jack? Can I even speak of something of this magnitude on the phone with her? Wouldn’t that kind of news have to be delivered in person?

  But she can’t walk into this blind, me waiting until the last minute to tell her. Surprise! Guess who we’re going to visit for Thanksgiving?

  I need my sounding board.

  I dial Will’s number, and he answers on the first ring.

  “Alison! It’s so good to hear your voice.” Funny, that was my first thought upon hearing his. An instant energy infusion. “Where are you?”

  “About thirty miles south of Fallon.”

  “What’s the storm looking like where you are?”

  “If anything, it seems to be getting worse. Why?”

  “I’ve been listening to the scanner, while I’ve been driving around town inspecting our job sites. The rain’s been nonstop since you left. Probably the heaviest I’ve ever seen.”

  “Are your sites okay?”

  “So far, everything’s holding up. But at lower elevations, the flooding … It’s just not sounding good. I’d be willing to bet your services are going to be needed before too long.”

  “Oh,” I say, looking side to side, up and down, at visibility that can’t be more than a hundred yards. “You know, Will, I don’t even think we could launch if we wanted to. The visibility’s next to nothing.”

  “Well, I’m sure it’ll be okay. Based on what I’m hearing, the county sheriffs hav
e jumped on this early. So anyway, how are you?”

  “Well, I’m stumbling over how and when to tell my mom what I’ve learned. She’s with Celia now at the lodge, which is where I’m going to meet them for Thanksgiving. So do I call her and tell her on the phone? Wait and tell her in person…?”

  As I wait for Will’s answer, I search either side of the highway for the mountains that I know are there, but that remain hidden by clouds that have practically settled to the desert floor. No way we could launch in this.

  “Will…?”

  “Sorry, sorry,” he says. But when I hear the crackle of the radio and the garbled voice of the dispatcher in the background, I realize he has one ear on the scanner. “Where did you say your mom was?”

  “She’s with my aunt Celia. At the lodge.”

  “In Walker Canyon, right?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “I don’t want to alarm you, but much of the talk on the scanner has been about the Walker River. So you haven’t spoken with her?”

  “No, I couldn’t decide—”

  “I think you might want to call her. If they’re at the lodge, they should probably head for higher ground. The Mono County sheriff is already up in the area notifying everyone, so I’m sure it’s okay, but probably worth a phone call.”

  “Okay. I’ll let you—”

  “Hold … hold on one sec, Alison.”

  I press the phone to my ear, trying to hear what’s being said on Will’s radio. Hard to know if it’s the radio static or the drumming of rain on my roof that’s making it so difficult.

  “Whiskey One copies. Give me an hour, Jack. Alison? Are you there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Sorry about that. They’re calling the SAR team out now.”

  “For what? Please don’t tell me the Walker.”

  “No, it’s for the town of Bridgeport. And actually, I don’t think it’s serious. Sounds like sandbag duty to me,” he says with a chuckle. Which helps.

  “Will, I…” I really don’t have anything to say, the phone call to my mom far more pressing, but I don’t want to hang up either.

  “What is it?” he asks.

  “Nothing. I just wish I didn’t have duty. I wish we were together. I need more time with my sounding board.”

  “Your sounding board can always drive out to see you later. Maybe after I check out what’s happening in Bridgeport, I can scoot over your way.”

  “Would you?”

  “I would, and I will. How about that?”

  “Thank you,” I say, breathing a relieved sigh. “And um … well, I love you, Will.”

  “Alison, I wish I could describe what it feels like when you say that. It’s like you’re speaking to me from the inside or something.”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  “Like it? I— Wait, uh, okay, wait. The radios are getting a little crazy now. I’ll call you in a few hours, when I’m done, okay?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “And Alison, I love you, too.”

  36

  “Beanie, we haven’t gotten any calls, have we?” I stand in front of the TV monitor, which is mounted in the ceiling corner of the SAR team’s office, watching the breaking weather news.

  After hanging up with Will, I phoned my mom, but was sent to voice mail. So I finished the drive home, ran up to my apartment, changed into my flight suit, and then checked in with Boomer at the hangar. Since I was originally supposed to be the aircraft commander on duty today, he returned the role to me, we preflighted the aircraft, and I signed for the bird—ready to go now, whenever we’re called. If the weather lifts, that is.

  I ran out briefly to try my mom again—Will, too, for that matter—without luck. So now I stand rooted in front of the TV, learning, processing. The unseasonably warm weather combined with what they’re now calling a late-season tropical storm has brought rain, and snowmelt—from a heavier than normal snowpack, no less—and now flooding. The Truckee River near Reno. The Merced in Yosemite.

  And the Walker.

  “We did, actually,” Beanie says.

  “We did?”

  “From Mono County. They called Base Ops. Said they might be needing our help. Wanted to know our status.”

  “Was it—?”

  “They didn’t mention the Walker View Lodge.”

  My shoulders drop, but only a little. I told Boomer earlier about my mom and Celia, and he said he’d pass word to the guys to keep an eye out for any news about the Walker River.

  “They didn’t set off the pagers,” I say.

  “Operations said it wasn’t urgent. They just wanted to give us a heads-up that we might be needed when we get a weather window.”

  “Oh, okay. Did you call—”

  “I just called weather,” Boomer says. “Fifty-foot ceilings, practically nil on the vis.”

  I’m about to ask why they need us and exactly where, which is when I notice the frosted cupcake on my desk. A single candle has been placed in the center. A smile inches across my face.

  “I know this isn’t how you wanted to spend your birthday,” Boomer says, “But, uh … happy birthday, anyway. From all of us.”

  I look up, and the rest of the guys have stopped what they were doing. They issue a chorus of birthday greetings, and my eyes water just that little bit.

  “Thanks, guys. You’re awesome.”

  And for a tiny moment, the world is a little brighter. Such a small gesture, but heartfelt, and so meaningful to me.

  I lower myself to my desk chair, staring at my cupcake. My cat-poster mug sits next to it. I’ve dragged that silly mug to this office almost every day since I checked in to remind myself, “Hang in there, baby!” Stupid, but it actually helps.

  “And while you eat that,” Boomer says, “you can make some headway into that in-box of yours.” He points to the stack of training folders, piled high on my desk, that need updating.

  “Thanks a lot.”

  I pull the first one off the stack, open it, and find the evaluation sheet that was scribbled for Hap’s latest check ride. Since notes are completed in flight, I have to enter the data into the computer after they return. But as I wait for the computer to boot up, I stare at the notes, the letters blurring.

  I envision the Walker River, the one from my childhood memories, flowing gently in front of Guest Cabins Nine, Ten, and Eleven—the cabins closest to the water, the ones most requested, and reserved the farthest in advance. On a day like today, the guests would hunker down inside, and Mom and Celia would remain in the main lodge—after the animals had been taken care of, that is. If Roberto’s not there, it would be Celia’s job to ensure the horses were tucked away in the barn and out of the elements.

  “Beanie?” I say, looking up. “Did they say anything else? Did Mono County say where they might need help?”

  “Not exactly, but they have their command and control center set up in Coleville. So I’m guessing the help would be needed in that area.”

  Perspiration prickles across my skin. I swipe under my hairline, my hand coming away wet.

  Okay, Ali, you need to calm down. That doesn’t mean anything. They could be having problems anywhere along the Walker. The river runs through more than just that canyon. We’re talking hundreds of miles of waterway.

  But the command center is in Coleville. You know where Coleville is.…

  I push my seat away from my desk, rise, and cross the room to the drinking fountain. Leaning over, I take a long drink, my brain turning, spinning. The river would have to widen by over forty yards in order to reach the first cabins. Forty yards. No, no way. And even if there was a chance of flooding near the lodge, sheriff’s personnel would have notified everyone. So either way, it’s fine.

  I straighten, wiping my mouth on my flight suit sleeve. Yes, it’s fine.

  I step forward to return to my desk, and run straight into Clark, who has just entered through the door adjacent the fountain.

  I haven’t spoken with him s
ince the accident. After we returned from the crash site and shut down, I wasn’t exactly in the mood to hold a conversation, but neither was he, leaving hurriedly without saying anything. But it’s clear he bears his grief alone. Bags under his eyes. Hair a mess. Flight suit looking like he pulled it out of the hamper.

  We share a long look, until he finally opens the door and motions me out to the hallway. I follow him to the far end, out of earshot of our squadron mates.

  “I, uh, I owe you an apology,” he says. “I didn’t mean … that night, I—”

  “It’s okay,” I say.

  “I also want to thank you. For what you did … for going off-mic … for your discretion.”

  Our eyes hold, the understanding passing between us, just as it did the night of the crash.

  “Alison…,” he says, hands fidgeting, rolling over each other. “No one knows. No one can know. Not ever.”

  “I understand.”

  Those are the words that leave my mouth, but I don’t understand. I don’t understand why two people in love can’t be treated like two people in love. Clark and Snoopy threatened no one. Both brilliant officers, skilled pilots, courageous, reliable, competent. I don’t understand why, in this day and age, Clark still feels he has to hide. That his personal life would matter one iota to anyone else and that this would have any bearing whatsoever on his job performance.

  I don’t understand this.

  But I do understand treating a fellow human being with respect and compassion. Like Clark, who stands in front of me, his lips pressed together, grief ripping him apart beneath the surface. A fellow human being, who has lost the love of his life.

  “I’m so very sorry,” I say. “Shane was my friend. I’m going to miss him dearly.”

  He squeezes his eyes shut, bringing his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose.

  “Ma’am? Sir?” Hap says, poking his head around the door. He holds his hand over his eyes, looking for us at the end of the hallway.