Over the Rainbow

by Brian Rowe

  and launched high in the sky

  1 more year

  12 more months

  365 more days

  and you're free

  like the chickadee

  i love you my darling z

  #

  Saturday, June 12, 1999

  Someone lifted me in the air again. I closed my eyes and braced for impact, but this time I landed on my stomach. I tilted my head back, looked out the tiny slit. I was on another conveyor belt, this one aimed straight for the airplane. The suitcase crawled toward it, closer and closer. I saw the large wing of the plane, the outlines of people’s blurry faces in all the passenger windows. And then I was inside the aircraft. I’d pulled it off. Mira would never believe this. I wasn’t even sure if I believed it yet.

  I presumed the worst was over. I relaxed—just in time for another set of hands to grab the suitcase. I had no time to prepare myself. The person hoisted me up and threw me across the small space like a javelin. The bag smashed against the wall and landed hard against the black metal floorboard. I bit down on my tongue; the ensuing pain was so intense that tears welled up in my eyes.

  I didn’t panic. I refused to. I pressed my lips together and closed my eyes, again. As the pain washed over me, I distracted myself by thinking of my father, and how he revealed his true, awful self to me last Sunday night.

  #

  Sunday, June 6, 1999

  I wasn’t home when my stepmother found Mira’s e-mails stuffed under my mattress. She claimed she was gathering dirty clothes for the laundry, but I knew she was snooping. I was her least favorite of my dad’s three kids, and she’d been looking for a reason to get rid of me.

  When I came home from school, my dad was in the living room, alone, sitting upright. He wore a fancy black business suit. Papers and brochures were sprawled out over the table.

  He turned his head toward me in a slow, robotic fashion. “Sit down,” he said.

  “What’s wrong, Dad?”

  “Do what I say.”

  “But I have homework to do—”

  “Zipporah Green!” he screamed, way louder than he needed to. “I’m not going to say it again!”

  I sat down and tried to pinpoint my crime. And then there it was, in printed form at the edge of the table: one of Mira’s recent e-mails, the one in which she said she wanted me to come visit her this summer. My dad tapped his sharp fingernails against the table. The expression on his face suggested I wouldn’t escape this little chat alive. “I know about Mira,” he said. “I know all about your little friend from Seattle.”

  The immediate pain in my gut almost doubled me over. For my father to be so condescending to call her my “little friend” made me want to pick up the living room table and throw it against the wall. “I’ve been meaning to tell you about her.”

  “You’ve been talking to her online for two years? Honey, I know you’ve struggled trying to follow the righteous path of Jesus Christ. But never in my wildest nightmares could I have ever conceived you, my own flesh and blood, to be the most blasphemous of sinners.”

  Was he being serious right now? “Dad, it’s not like that.”

  He brought his fingers up to his sweaty chin. “What’s it going to look like if my own child is a homo...” He struggled with the word.

  I didn’t want to finish the word for him; he was a big boy. “A what, Dad?”

  “A homosexual.”

  I should have been cordial. I should have just sat there with my little hands in my little lap and agreed with every statement he made. But that would have been too easy. “I don’t understand why you have to come down on me for this,” I said. “You're overreacting.”

  “I'm not,” he said. He hadn’t locked his eyes with mine since the start of our conversation. I always thought my dad to be close-minded, but I never took him to be a wimp. “I'm running for Kansas State Governor next year, Zipporah. If my opponents find out I have a lesbian daughter, I won't have a chance.”

  I rolled my eyes. “So this is just about your career.”

  “No. It's about way more than that.”

  “Like what? Don't you want me to be happy? Mira makes me happy, Dad.”

  “Of course I want you to be happy,” he said, his eyes still fixated on the table. “Just not like this. I love you, sweetheart, you know I do—but what you’re doing is wrong.”

  “But Dad. It’s the only thing to me that’s right.”

  I don’t think he heard me—at least, he pretended like he didn’t. “Promise me, here and now, that you will suspend all communications with this girl.”

  “No.” I didn’t hesitate.

  “No?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Zipporah, I’m not asking. And I’m not gonna say it—”

  “You don’t even know her!”

  He sighed. “I don’t want to know her.”

  I didn’t give in, didn’t nod my head in shame. I brought my hands to the table and stared him down. “If you could look past your hate for one second, you’d be able to see that she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  “You can’t mean that.”

  “I do,” I said. “She’s my best friend.”

  “Your best friend? But you’ve never even met her. For all you know, she could be—”

  “I love her, Dad.”

  He finally looked at me. His neck turned so slow I heard his bones twisting. His eyes glowed a vengeful orange-black, like I had stepped into a cheesy Halloween movie about an Evangelical robot. “What did you say?”

  “I love her. I do. And I know in my heart it’s right.”

  “I can’t listen to another word of this.” My dad pushed away from the table, like just sitting near me made him uncomfortable. He shook his head and stood up, his hands shoved into his pockets. “Connie and I had a long talk about this. We’ve decided to send you away this summer.”

  “Away? Where?”

  “It’s… a camp.”

  “A camp?” I shuddered. I didn’t know what to think. “What, like a summer camp?”

  “It’s called Moral Inventories. It’s in Memphis. And it’s for teenagers like you who suffer from…” He searched for a word. “…abnormalities.”

  “Abnor-what?” I looked away. I didn’t want my father to see me cry.

  He approached me from the side. His chiseled face emitted strobes of anger, and lots of resentment. “I’ve tried to guide you on the righteous path, but clearly I haven’t done enough, Zipporah. You need proper, around-the-clock assistance if you want to have any chance of being cured of this… disease.”

  I sat there stupefied. I tried to think of something to say. I had nothing.

  “You’re young, honey,” my dad said, in a calmer tone, “and I thank the Lord for that, because there’s time for you to be set free through the power of Jesus Christ. When our Lord and Savior returns to Earth and takes the Chosen up to Heaven, I don’t want you to be left behind.”

  I finally opened my mouth to speak. “Are you talking about the rapture?”

  “It could happen any day, sweetheart. You have to be prepared. We all do.”

  My dad had passed over from closed-minded to crazy. “You really think this camp is going to make God love me more?” I breathed in. “You really think this camp is going to make me straight?”

  “It better.” My dad stared at me. But he didn’t see me. Not at all. “Because if it doesn’t, you’re staying at the camp for your entire senior year.”

  When he let me leave, I ran upstairs to my bedroom and slammed the door so loud my framed Spice Girls poster dropped to the carpet.

  I raced over to my desk. I wanted to write to Mira. Tell her what happened.

  But my computer was gone.

  #

  Saturday, June 12, 1999

  Two hours into my flight to Seattle, I unzipped part of the suitcase and breathed in the cold, stuffy air.

  The actual liftoff had been less traumatic than I expected. I h
ad to cover my ears when the engines roared to life, but the speed of the plane and the long climb into the air didn’t impact me any more than if I had been a passenger in coach.

  I had no idea if I could pull off the Seattle end of my master plan—I didn't have Mira's phone number and wouldn't be able to call her—but I was ecstatic at the thought of seeing her. She didn’t know I was on my way, of course. She didn’t even know I had been sentenced to gay rehab.

  What would Mira say to me if she knew what I was up to? I wished I had access to a laptop and a modem so I could sign onto AOL and instant message her, right there in the cargo area of the Boeing 737.

  I imagined our conversation going like this:

  zippitydoodah: Hey.

  SparkleFlower: Z! Where have you been?

  zippitydoodah: Not enough time to explain. I have a surprise for you.

  SparkleFlower: Oh I love surprises.

  zippitydoodah: Can you be at the Seattle airport in an hour?

  SparkleFlower: What? Why?

  zippitydoodah: I'm on my way to see you.

  SparkleFlower: Shut up.

  zippitydoodah: Mira, I'm serious.

  SparkleFlower: No you're not.

  zippitydoodah: I'm an hour away. I swear!

  SparkleFlower: Oh my God. Oh my God, I am freaking out!

  zippitydoodah: I am, too. I'm so excited!

  SparkleFlower: I have to get ready!

  zippitydoodah: Hurry! One more hour!

  SparkleFlower: I'm coming. Oh my God, Z. We're finally gonna meet.

  zippitydoodah: I know. But before we do there's something I want you to know.

  SparkleFlower: Okay, what?

  zippitydoodah: I've been thinking it a lot lately.

  SparkleFlower: What is it?

  zippitydoodah: Mira, I think I might be in lo—

  The turbulence broke me out of my daydream. I opened my eyes to see a dozen suitcases slide from the right side of the cargo area to the left. I stayed put for a few seconds, but then started tipping over.

  “What the hell?” I whispered.

  I didn’t have time to lift my arms to protect myself. The suitcase slammed against a golf bag, then tumbled up against the wall.

  “Oww! What! What’s going—”

  The plane spun out of control. I screamed, and reached for the zipper, but I was too late. All the suitcases launched toward the ceiling, including mine. I stayed in the air for what seemed like a full minute, then soared back down and crashed against the metal floor.

  I started crying, hyperventilating. The plane was barreling toward the ground. I was seconds away from dying, and I didn’t even know why. Had something happened to the engine? The pilot?

  The suitcase launched back up toward the ceiling and spun through the air, from the left to the right, and back down again, like I was being bounced around a pinball machine.

  I didn’t know if I was safer inside or outside the suitcase, but in my panic I grabbed hold of the zipper and tore it open. I looked out in full for the first time. At least fifty pieces of luggage were getting tossed around the cargo area, like sheets of paper in a wind tunnel.

  The plane barreled to the right and catapulted me from the suitcase down toward the metal floor. A large animal carrier smashed against my shins.

  The end was coming, faster and faster, as the plane plummeted. I peered into the carrier to see a little white dog staring back at me.

  When I closed my eyes for the final time, two warm tears rolled down my aching cheeks.

  “Mira… I love you… I love you… I—”

  The plane collided against the Earth, and I launched forward, struck my head against the cargo door, and blacked out.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Saturday, June 12, 1999

  The sun wanted to swallow me whole.

  I lifted my arm, tried to block the harsh light. I was sprawled on rocky dirt, not the cargo hold of the airplane. People typically don’t survive airplane crashes so I figured I was dead.

  Except when my eyes adjusted to the light, I didn’t see Heaven or Hell. I didn’t see God—a woman named Rochelle, I always liked to imagine—in front of me. I saw the airplane, the back spitting out waves of smoke, the front protruding through a two-story home. I glanced all around. Not a single person. I listened for the screams. Nothing.

  “Where am I?” I said.

  I turned to my right to see the cargo area, the door to it teetering against the side of the plane. I wasn’t dead, at least not yet; I had been ejected on impact.

  I stood up, shaken but in one piece. I glanced to my left, past the destroyed house, to see a medley of mountains. I had no idea where I was, but nothing surrounding me looked like Topeka.

  “I have a feeling I’m not in Kansas anymore,” I said, as I brushed dirt off my Converse.

  I moved toward the aircraft. The left wing had split away on impact, and the nose of the plane had destroyed almost the entire second story of the house.

  “Hello?” I shouted. “Is anyone there?”

  Nothing.

  I couldn’t believe what was happening, and I had too many questions to count, so I just shuffled forward, past a small line of bushes and a faded welcome mat, and knocked on the front door of the dilapidated home.

  As I waited for an answer, I cracked my neck and looked for a road. There was none. This was the only house around, surrounded in every direction by green-brown mountains, and a reservoir to the south of me. A dirt trail lined with daffodils ran in front of the house, but it looked to go back up into the mountains, not the nearest town.

  I knocked again. This time the door opened a crack. “Is anyone here?” I said, and stepped inside.

  The house smelled of burning chicken. Avoiding the rubble on the left side of the house, I made my way into the few rooms that hadn’t been destroyed. The walls were lined with cheesy family photos—a mom and dad, and four young boys—and I heard water running from a faucet. To my right, a dining room table was covered in an orange silk cloth and set with six plates, silverware, and tall water glasses. I looked for something that would tell me I was in an abandoned home. I glanced at the windows for spider-webs and surveyed the table for soot—but the place was clean.

  I stepped into the kitchen. I saw, but more smelled, the makings of a home-cooked meal, including buttered peas, sweet potatoes, and a spicy chicken dish wallowing in what looked like the world’s biggest crockpot.

  When the oven blasted its buzzer behind me, I jumped so high my head almost hit the ceiling—remarkable given I had the height of a mouse. I pushed every button on the oven until the annoying noise ceased.

  I turned to the crockpot and lifted the lid. The aroma of berries and ripe tomatoes wafted through my nostrils and greeted my stomach with a hard punch.

  “Oh wow,” I said.

  #

  Wednesday, September 1, 1993

  “Zippy, slow down.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “You’ll get a stomach ache.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Even before the cancer started eating away at her bones, my mom was super tiny, like me. Her long, auburn hair was pulled into a ponytail that warm September night, flies dive-bombing into her pools of sweat. My brothers had just left for a weeklong mission, and my dad was in Kansas City for a business meeting. It was just my mom and me at the house.

  She nibbled at her dinner, like a bird searching for the perfect kernel. “I should’ve cooked the chicken longer. It’s not hot enough.”

  I stabbed my fork into the tomatoes, the melted cheese, the chicken, and shoved it all in my mouth. “What are you talking about? It’s perfect.”

  I had just returned from soccer practice. I was covered in grime, and my pits smelled like hardboiled eggs, but my mom let me eat dinner before I took my shower.

  “How was it today?” she asked. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stay for the whole practice.”

  “That’s okay.” It was difficult saying much with
my mouth stuffed with food.

  “I can’t wait to see your first game. Are you making friends?”

  I finished swallowing. “Uhh, some.”

  “Be honest with me.”

  “I’d probably be more popular if you hadn’t named me Zipporah.”

  She shook her head. “What? Why would you say that? You have a beautiful name.”

  “I’m not saying I don’t like it. It just makes me sound… I don’t know… old-fashioned?”

  “It does not. There’s nothing old-fashioned about you.”

  “But didn’t you and Dad consider anything else? Like what about Sarah? Or Kelly? Even Margaret I could have lived with.”

  My mother set her fork down and took a sharp breath, like she was about to upchuck the small amount of food she’d been able to get down. I knew she was sick, but I didn't know how sick—I was eleven years old and still believed life went on forever.

  “Are you okay, Mom?”

  She picked up her plate and set it in the kitchen sink. “Fine. I’m just worried about you.”

  “About me?”

  “Yes, you, silly.”

  She sat on the chair next to me and placed her cold, soft palm on top of mine the way only a mother could. I missed that touch.

  “Zippy, you know you can do and be whatever you want, right?”

  I narrowed my eyes a little. “Uh huh.”

  “Your father means well. But he doesn’t get you the way I do. I know you’re meant to do great things. You’ve always been an ellipsis with a question mark at the end.”

  She grabbed my plate. I stopped her.

  “Wait, I’m not done,” I said.

  “But you ate every last crumb.”

  “Not yet.” I ran my tongue all the way up the center of the plate.

  My mother laughed and snatched it away from me. “You’re not old-fashioned. You’re unique. And you know what? I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

  She walked across the kitchen. But before she reached the sink, my mom stopped, like she hit an imaginary wall. She wrapped her arms around her belly.