The Art of Floating
Page 8
“Me and what?” Sia said.
“Jackson’s disappearance.”
When those two words popped out of Jilly’s mouth, paired so matter-of-factly, Sia heard them like this:
Jackson’s disappearance
Jackson’s disappearance
JACKSON’S DISAPPEARANCE
JACKSON’S DISAPPEARANCE
JACKSON’S DISAPPEARANCE
Her heart raced and sweat gushed down her torso, soaking her breasts and belly. Within seconds, the waistband of her sweatpants was drenched. She felt dizzy, and the room blurred into a smear of yellow and black. She put her hand on the arm of the couch to steady herself and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she was floating. Well, part of her was floating. The other part?
She looked down and saw herself—her corporeal self—and Jilly, sitting in the sunroom with serious looks on their faces, but she, Floating Sia, was up near the skylight.
What the hell?
The skylight was, of course, closed and still covered with a large swatch of tar paper, but the tar paper had absorbed the heat of the sun and its warmth felt good on her back.
What the hell is going on? she thought. What’s happening?
Floating Sia tried to reach down and grab Jilly’s hand, but she only managed to knock herself off balance again. This time she tipped sideways.
Dammit, she thought. Am I dreaming? Did I fall asleep? Am I dead?
Though she still could hear Jillian down below, nattering on about Jackson and Raj and the unfolding of Mrs. Wysong’s crimped limbs, it was as if she were very far away, like a radio turned low in a distant room.
Breathe, Sia told herself. This is nuts. Get your ass back down there.
Like a good yoga student, she dropped her breath down to her belly and slowed her racing heart, but instead of sinking back into her solid self, she slipped right through the skylight and found herself outside in the shockingly bright sunlight. She squeezed her eyes closed. She hadn’t seen sunlight in over two months, and even the orangey-black brightness that seeped through her eyelids hurt like crazy. She waited, tipping this way and rolling that way, and when she finally managed to open her eyes again, she started to cry. The sky was perfect . . . a perfectly stirred cobalt blue . . . the kind she and Jackson used to leap out of bed for in the morning, the kind under which she’d been born.
• • •
Up there in the brilliant blue, Floating Sia could see the spot where she’d slipped into the world. While she bobbed like a buoy in the sky, she watched a flock of seagulls scatter, then land, on a spot in the ocean below. To calm herself, she imagined settling among them, the waves gently pushing her up and down, and after a while with this thought in mind, she was able to hold herself in an upright position for minutes at a time before tumbling either backward or forward.
Strangely, she could still see herself and Jillian in the sunroom below. It was as if the roof of the house didn’t exist or as if she had X-ray vision. The two of them were a little fuzzy around the edges, but aside from that, things were quite clear. Solid Sia, as she began to refer to her corporeal self, was dutifully taking in Jilly’s lecture about having to get back into the world again and not allowing this tragedy to ruin her life. Solid Sia nodded every few minutes as Jilly spoke, but getting her ass back to bed was looking more and more appealing by the second.
On the other hand, Floating Sia felt good, better than she had in months. The sun was warm. She’d forgotten how much she needed it. She got brave and stretched out as if she were flying. Within seconds, she was halfway down the beach, where she spotted her friend Mary by the lifeguard’s chair with her children, Simon and Amanda. The kids were digging in the sand and Mary was lying on a pink towel reading Oprah.
“Mary!” she called. “Mary!” Sia waved but quickly realized that Mary couldn’t hear or see her. She stretched out again and floated away.
Across the lane, she saw M perched like a lovesick bird in the tree, the whiteboard resting faceup on the branch next to her with the word Love written in bright purple letters. M looked terrible. Worse than terrible. She was thin and brittle. Her hair was greasy and flat, pressed close to her head like a pale swim cap. Sia had never seen her mother like this, and instead of sticking around to get a better look, she balked and wheeled, then tipped over backward and continued on in a wild spin. It took more than a few moments to slow and right herself.
When she was able to move on, Sia discovered that no matter in which direction she floated—north, east, west, south—she could still see herself and Jilly below. It was like a magic trick, and when she got too overwhelmed with the notion of what she was doing, she took a deep breath and visualized her heart safely locked away in the tiny birdcage. A few minutes later, when Jilly stopped talking about Jackson and started talking about watermelons, she dropped smoothly into her sitting self.
• • •
That was fucking weird, Sia thought. She ran her fingers across the fabric of the couch, then reached out and grabbed Jilly’s hands. She needed to hold on to something.
• • •
Because they’d had no secrets since that first day of kindergarten when Jillian had dragged Sia to the seesaw and demanded to know what her father did, what her favorite food was, how long she’d been able to hang upside down on the monkey bars by her knees, if she wore shorts under her skirts so the boys couldn’t see her underwear when she hung upside down, and why the heck she had such a weird name, Sia’s first instinct was to tell Jilly about the floating.
In Jillian’s world, boundaries were something dreamed up by other people to crush her natural curiosity. She had no sense of privacy, about her life or the lives of others, and she’d been this way forever, butting in where she wasn’t wanted and joyously blurting out things other people only thought.
But Sia didn’t tell her about floating. It was just TOO fucking weird and it made her look even more vulnerable than ever. That bugged her. Jillian would never have floated away . . . no matter how sad or pissed or heartbroken she was. Jilly was harder than rock; she was diamond. A glimmering gem that couldn’t be broken by hammer or stone or life.
But after Jack disappeared, Sia was the exact opposite. Just the wing of a bird . . . a mishmash of hollow bones and wispy feathers.
Squish.
Squash.
Splat.
• • •
As soon as she was able, Sia crawled back to bed.
CHAPTER 25
“What do you mean, you found a man, Sia?”
“On the beach,” Sia whispered into the phone. She didn’t want Toad to hear her. “This morning. A man. I found him.”
“It’s not . . .” Sia’s therapist let the space where Jackson’s name would go hang between them.
“No,” Sia said, “it’s not Jack. I don’t know who it is.”
“Are you going to make it to your appointment this afternoon?”
“No, I brought him back to my house and don’t want to leave him alone.”
“Sia, you brought this man back to your house?”
“It’s fine. Don’t worry. He’s fine.”
“I’m not worried about him. I’m worried about you. What do you need right now, Sia?”
Good question.
“Sia?”
“I need this fish to stop flopping.”
“Fish? What fish?”
Sia rubbed her belly. Toad was in the other room . . . out of sight . . . and still she could feel his sadness.
“Nothing. I’m fine. I just need to take care of this. I’ll be there for my appointment this week.”
“Sia, it sounds like you need to come in this afternoon.” Her therapist’s voice dropped an octave; Sia hated that.
“Probably, but I can’t make it. I’ll see you Thursday.”
Click.
�
�� • •
Twenty minutes later, Jilly. “A young Robert Redford.”
“Jil?”
“Yeah, it’s me. I figured out who Toad looks like. Or at least who he’ll look like once we get all that awful puffiness to go down.”
“This is what you’re doing? I thought you were going to work.”
“I’m multitasking.”
“I gotta go, Jil.”
“Wait. Either a young Robert Redford or a non-druggy Robert Downey Jr. Which one?”
“Those two don’t even look alike.”
“Yes, they do.”
“No, they don’t.”
“Okay, what about Hugh Jackman?”
“I’m hanging up, Jil.”
“Wait . . .”
Click.
CHAPTER 26
Eight months after Bolt rocked the reading world, Sia suffered a writerly crisis. She was hunkered down in a monthlong writing retreat in a cabin somewhere in the New Hampshire woods where the squirrels were making a heck of a lot of noise getting ready for winter and the other guest writers were making a heck of a lot of noise trying to figure out if Sia was brilliant, lucky, timely, and/or (considering the swaggle of that beautiful ass) easy.
“Richter scale?” Jackson whispered into the phone.
“Nine point one.”
“Oh, babe,” he said, “not good. You can do this. It’s just a story. You’re the grand dame of story.”
“But it’s my sophomore novel. No one kicks ass on a sophomore novel.”
“You will.”
“I won’t.”
“Call Jilly.”
“No, and you can’t tell her I’m freaking out. She wants the final draft in her hands when I get home.”
“She’ll wait.”
“The only thing that would make Jilly wait for this manuscript is a natural disaster.”
“Sweetie?”
“Yeah?”
“Just tell them you’re easy.”
CHAPTER 27
Scavenger Hunt:
NOTE #1
Need
2 onions
oil
2 peppers (red or yellow)
Sia drove to Market Basket, rounded up the goods, and headed to the checkout line. With her change, the checkout girl handed Sia a second note.
NOTE #2
Go to Deer Island.
Once Sia had crossed the Chain Bridge, run down the slippy path, and dipped into the trees to the water’s edge, another note:
NOTE #3
Catch two stripers.
Bring them to the fire pit.
Next to the note? Sia’s fishing rod and tackle box, along with a box of worms.
She turned, looked into the trees for a glimpse of Jackson. Nothing.
She scanned the short, rocky river’s edge. Just one guy in a bad fishing hat studying the current.
She looked up at the bridge, thinking Jack might be lingering to see how quickly she could bait the hook, but nope, not even his shadow.
She settled on her favorite rock and tossed a line. As always, the current was strong, but the Merrimack cooperated. Thirty minutes later, stripers in hand, Sia headed for the fire pit on the other side of the small island.
At the pit, another note . . . taped to a bottle of wine:
NOTE #4
Pour yourself a glass.
Watch the sun set.
And oh yeah, start the fire.
“No problem,” she said. It was one of the best sunsets she’d ever seen with a tremor of orange along the horizon, and by the time she was pouring a second glass, she saw Jackson walking toward her along the trail. He was grinning and toting a bag of goodies: skillet, spatula, knife, salt and pepper, plates, silverware, one more wineglass, and so on.
Later, after a tasty meal, one more note. This one taped to a small velvet box.
NOTE #5
Marry me?
• • •
“Did you know?” Sia asked Jilly later that night at the pub.
“Of course. Who do you think delivered your tackle box and rod to the island?”
Sia turned to Jackson. “How in the world did you convince our Jilly to touch a box of worms?”
Jackson laughed. “Joyful Jilly will do anything for you, the future Mrs. Odyssia Dane. Even handle a box of worms.”
“Unbelievable,” Sia said.
“You owe me,” Jilly said.
“Big-time,” Jack said.
CHAPTER 28
Definition of Fledge
Pronunciation: /flej/ (rhymes with ledge and hedge)
Usage: verb (fledges, fledged, fledging)
[NO OBJECT]
(of a young bird)
to grow or acquire the feathers needed to fly
to leave the nest after growing or acquiring the feathers needed to fly (as in, fly the coop, say sayonara, cut loose, hightail it outta there, clear out, cut and run, skedaddle)
[WITH OBJECT]
to care for until ready for flight or independent activity (as in, rear, parent, nurture, raise, mother)
to decorate with feathers (for example, an arrow or headdress)
Used in a Sentence: Piping plover chicks fledge when they are three to four weeks old.
CHAPTER 29
On the hard, poky branch of the tree, M once again consumed The Odyssey in great gulps. When she got lonely, she read aloud to the mosquitoes that buzzed in her ears and gnawed her ankles:
So seizing the fire-point-hardened-timber we twirled it
in his eye, and the blood boiled around the hot point, so that
the blast and scorch of the burning ball singed all his eyebrows
and eyelids, and the fire made the roots of his eye crackle.*
• • •
Inspired by Odysseus’s drive—his single-minded determination—she wrote note after note to her daughter on the whiteboard.
NEVERTHELESS
WE SAIL ON . . .
And when she got to the part where Odysseus flagged—where it seemed he could take no more, go no further, stab no more Cyclops in the eye(s)—she pleaded.
Odyssia . . .
Then shouted.
ODYSSIA!
And when nothing worked, she—like Odysseus—appealed to Pallas Athene.
CHAPTER 30
By late afternoon, Sia knew that Toad carried nothing that could identify him. No ID, no photos of children or a wife, no discount card to a grocery store, no credit cards, no driving license, no passport, no cell phone, no business card. He didn’t even have a wallet. All of the items that normally define humans, the things they are so accustomed to keeping on their person and pulling out at a moment’s notice, seemed to have been either removed or purposely taken from Toad. Even the tags on his clothes had been clipped off: sizes, washing instructions, brand names, everything.
“Even the tags?” Sia asked.
Richard nodded. “I checked everything.”
“Underwear?”
“Tag was clipped out.”
“Undershirt?”
“Tag was clipped out.”
“Pants?”
“Nothing.”
“This implies intention.”
“Seems so.”
“It’s so strange,” Sia said. She closed her eyes and shook her head.
Richard nodded again. “His clothes are stiff as boards with salt. And the guy could really use a shower. He must be itchy as hell.”
“If he is, he doesn’t show it. He’s been as still as that chair over there since he got here.”
• • •
Sia thought of Richard as a lumbering king. He was tall and thick and had an unusual sense of nobility for a modern-day man. Unlike the rest of the officers in his station who jib-
jawed to one another about cases and ran around half-assed like the yahoos in movies that spoofed police squads, Richard exuded a calm sense of propriety. Never ruffled. Never panicked. He was smart, too, in a quiet way that made Sia trust his choices.
Thankfully, he’d been the officer in charge when Jackson disappeared.
“What do you mean, Jackson has disappeared?” he’d asked slowly and evenly when Sia had called the station. The idea of it was so absurd that not even a logical man like him could wrap his head around it at first.
“He’s gone,” Sia had said. “I don’t know what I mean.”
He’d been the first to arrive at the house after Sia called and the last to leave once they’d completed their initial questioning.
• • •
“So tell me, Odyssia,” Richard said, “how did you find this guy?”
Sia liked that he used her full name. It always reminded her of M. “Good question,” she said.
“And don’t leave anything out. Even the stuff you think I already know.”
Sia looked at him. Richard knew a lot about her. Way more than most people. He’d scoured her house for clues about Jack. Talked to her for sobbing hours about Jack. Eaten muffins in her kitchen while gathering information about Jack. He knew where Jack’s junk drawer was, the color of the walls in their bedroom, how she looked after not sleeping for five days straight, and tons more.
“Pretend you don’t know me,” he said. “I’m going to pretend I don’t know you.”
“Okaaaay,” Sia said. “Here goes. Gumper and I were out for our morning walk. Every day around five A.M.—rain, snow, sleet, shine, whatever—the two of us walk to the old clam shack on the bay side, around to the ocean, and then home.”
“The clam shack?”
“Richard, you know the clam shack as well as I do.”
Richard shook his head innocently. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t.”