Flight Season Read online

  “Not really. No.”

  “I think either you have or you haven’t,” he says.

  “I haven’t. I mean, not until—”

  He sits forward and rests his elbows on his knees. He clenches his hands into a tight fist.

  “I’m a little confused,” he tells me. “Shouldn’t that be a good thing?” He’s not looking at me anymore. He’s looking at his hands, clasped together.

  “I was so sad,” I explain. “And you made me forget, I guess. I think maybe I took advantage of you.”

  He lets out a low laugh. “You think you used me? If that was using me, you can use me anytime, Viv.”

  “But you didn’t even want—”

  “I wanted.” He sighs. “Believe me, I wanted. You have no idea.”

  I watch him clench his jaw.

  “Looks like Travis is here,” he says, gesturing toward a pickup truck that has pulled into the drive. “I’ll go talk to him. Be right back.” He gets up and starts to walk toward the service station.

  I look back up to the sky, scanning the treetops for birds.

  Maybe it was that hurricane, out in the Atlantic. I’ve read about migrating birds that get thrown off course by natural events, even if they are occurring far away—pomarine jaegers, seabirds that belong in the Arctic, showing up by a river in Pennsylvania; Trindade petrels, birds that usually spend their time over the deep waters of the Atlantic Ocean, wandering around in the Appalachians.

  But the amazing thing about those birds? Their mental maps are so incredible, so wide, that as soon as the storm passes, they’re back on course, headed home.

  Sometimes I wish I had bird brains.

  * * *

  TJ comes back to the Tesla and sits beside me on the hood.

  “Caddy’s in perfect condition—I thought it would be.”

  “That’s good news,” I tell him. “Thanks.”

  “And Travis finally got the part for my truck, so it looks like I won’t be needing to bum rides anymore.”

  That makes my heart drop into my gut.

  “I can drive you for a change.” He nudges my thigh with his, playful.

  “I think maybe we shouldn’t.” I bite down hard on my lip again.

  “Shouldn’t what?”

  “Ride together.”

  “I don’t get it.” TJ stands up and turns to face me. “Is this about last night? Because you need to understand—I care about you, Viv, and I wanted it to be right. Last night was not right.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “It was wrong, and I was wrong to take us there.”

  “I didn’t say it was wrong. I said it would have been wrong for us to plow right into having sex. I mean, obviously the whole thing was incredibly intense for both of us, and with you so sad, and in the house you grew up in, and that you’re selling, and your mom upstairs having some sort of breakdown—I mean, I understand. I get that this is all really hard, but…”

  He’s pacing in front of me, talking fast.

  “Please stop,” I break in, standing up. “I’m just really confused—about everything.”

  “Okay,” he says.

  “I need to figure things out.” I head toward my car door, and he turns to walk away. “I’m sorry,” I add.

  He turns back toward me. “For the record,” he says, “I’m not sorry—not about any of it.”

  * * *

  “I said Snickers, not M&M’s.”

  I turn to look at Darren, my arms overflowing with peanut M&M’s.

  “Huh?”

  “Snickers. The snack bar needs more Snickers. And take some glow sticks out there too while you’re at it.”

  “Sorry,” I say. I am all about the apologies these days, and the mistakes. I’m big into mistakes.

  After I left TJ, I spent several days in the public library down the street from the A-frame, researching for the ghost tour. I guess you could say it was a needed distraction.

  In 1970 the lighthouse keeper’s residence went up in flames—suspected arson. I decided this would be a perfect new story for the tour. I also figured poring over newspapers from the 1970s might keep my mind off TJ and the mess I’ve made.

  I crafted an awesome story filled with gory details. But tonight, when I tried it out on my tour group, my story bombed. I knew things were going downhill when, in the middle of my description of the charred, yellow flesh of the arsonist’s ghost, a mother swept her toddler up and ran over to talk with Darren.

  I finished my story—so proud that I (weak constitution and all) could conjure up such gory details. But when I got to the end, Darren was by my side.

  “Vivi,” he said, touching my arm lightly. “We need to talk.”

  “Another failed attempt?” I asked.

  “What they want is connection! They want to feel the presence of a spirit they can relate to. These people aren’t looking for horror flicks, sweetheart. This is a family tour.”

  And that’s how I ended up consigned, once again, to the snack bar.

  I just don’t get it. I am trying so incredibly hard—I’m like that stupid cardinal slamming himself against the glass, and I can’t seem to do anything right.

  I hang a bunch of glow sticks around my neck, grab a few boxes of Snickers, and head for the lighthouse.

  I’m restocking Snickers when a FaceTime comes in from Gillian. I’m not sure I have the energy to talk with her, but I also don’t have much else to do. If I don’t answer now, I’ll have to muster the will to call her back.

  Ugh.

  “Hey, Gillian.”

  “Vivi!” she says brightly. “It’s so good to see your face!”

  “You too,” I say, placing the phone at the edge of the register.

  “What are you wearing?” she asks, her face scrunching up to look (legitimately) puzzled.

  “Oh.” I gesture toward the costume. “It’s for work—I’m supposed to look nineteenth century.”

  “I thought you were interning at a hospital.”

  “I am, but I work here some nights—it’s not bad.” I lift the phone to show her the lighthouse.

  “It’s pretty,” she says. “I’m sorry I didn’t text or anything. We’ve been doing, like, three cities a week. I’m exhausted. How are you?”

  “Yeah, we’re fine,” I say.

  “How’s your summer been? It’s like you dropped off the planet down there.”

  “It’s been—I don’t know—hard.”

  “Well,” she says, “things are about to get better.”

  As I expected, Gillian plows right past the part that might require discussion of such topics as dead fathers, mothers adrift, and deep sorrow.

  “Adeline decided to spend a semester in Japan, so we have room in our quad. Are you in?”

  The enormous number pops into my head: $30,587. That doesn’t even include books.

  I force a smile. “That’s really great of you to ask, Gillian, but I think I need a single room this year.”

  She makes a little pout with her lips. “Are you sure? You’ll be so lonely—”

  “I’ll hang out in your common room all the time, I’m sure.”

  “Okay,” she says. “I guess I’ll have to ask Hannah—she’s great, but I can’t stand William, and they’re always all over each other.”

  “Maybe they broke up over the summer.”

  “Oh no, sweetheart. If you were on social media—which you still aren’t—you’d know they have, like, a hundred-day streak of kissing for us all to see. It’s vile.”

  “That is vile. I’m glad I missed it.”

  “Have you declared yet?”

  “Declared what?”

  “Your major?” She says it as if I should know exactly what she’s talking about. I do, but I forgot. Or maybe I made myself not remember. I have to meet with my adviser in less than three weeks, and I have to tell her what I want to major in. After my experience at the hospital this summer, I haven’t got a clue.

  The evidence is mounting: I am not destined for the m
edical profession. I wanted to be a doctor because I wanted to keep people from dying. I wanted to save others from the fate my father faced.

  I thought that if I left them to pursue that future—if I went off to Yale determined to become a doctor—it would make the decision to go more palatable. It would make me regret it less.

  But I guess I’m finally realizing that I can’t keep pursuing this future that I’m not meant for. People die. It completely sucks, but it’s a simple fact of life. And I think that maybe, if my dad could communicate with me now, he’d tell me that there are a million choices I could make to honor his memory.

  I think he’d tell me it’s time to let go of this one.

  Darren walks across the lawn toward me, which I see as the perfect opportunity to get out of this conversation with Gillian. “I gotta go,” I say. “My boss—”

  “Oh okay. Don’t be a stranger! At least text me every once in a while. I can’t wait to party with you during move-ins!”

  I nod and hang up. Darren passes by, not paying any attention to me. I stare down at the tangled pile of glow sticks that I need to organize. As I sort them, my mind—finally!—produces a series of clear thoughts.

  Here is what I know:

  I don’t want to be premed.

  I don’t want to party with Gillian and her friends anymore.

  I want to do something that matters and that I actually have the skills and the heart to do.

  Right now I am doing one—and only one—thing that actually matters. And it’s not untangling glow sticks. I need to focus on doing that thing well. Starting now.

  I stand up and walk slowly toward Darren, who is sorting through electromagnetic flow meters to be sure they all have batteries.

  He looks up, flow meter in hand, and frowns. “Everything okay at the snack bar?”

  “You don’t need me here anymore,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “Nope.”

  “I suck at giving ghost tours.”

  He nods. “Yup.”

  “So … why am I here?”

  “Because you need a job,” he says. “And I’m a good person.”

  Darren is a good person, but I’m done with ghost tours. I’m not ready to help other people connect with dead strangers. I’ve got some work to do first.

  “I’m gonna quit,” I say. “Save you the trouble of firing me.”

  He smiles big and lets out a chuckle. “Okay, sounds like a plan.”

  “Want me to help you with those flow meters before I go?”

  “Nah,” he says. “Why don’t you go out and have some fun?”

  Clearly, Darren has learned nothing about my life over the past couple of months. But that’s okay, because even though I’m not sure why, I know exactly where I’m headed. I hang up my costume and punch my time card. Then I get into my car and drive west, toward the hospital.

  I’m going to see Ángel, and I’m sure he’ll be awake. Bertrand told me that he’s been suffering from insomnia. It would be nice to see Bertrand, too. He’s always such a calming presence.

  I drive to the hospital on empty streets. I relish the feel of my car’s leather seat beneath me. I turn up the incredible stereo and I open the enormous sunroof. I let myself accelerate a little too fast.

  I love this car, but I also know that it’s almost time to let it go.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ÁNGEL

  YOU PEOPLE ARE NEVER going to believe who just walked into this room.

  Go ahead. Take a guess.

  Oh. Oh yeah. That’s right. I guess you would know, since you’re already up here in my head.

  It’s midnight, and Vivi’s here. She just walked right in and gave me a big hug. And then she told me she missed me. She climbed up onto the edge of the bed and she asked me, “¿Qué pasa?”

  “What’s up?” Like it’s just another day. But for me, it feels like Christmas. Or like I’m a kid again and it’s the feast day of Todos Santos. When she walked into the room, it was like I was standing in the plaza, in front of the church. Like the gun just went off, and the Skach Koyl started, and all these guys were riding by on their horses, and I almost couldn’t handle the thrill of it, seeing those men fly past me, howling and kicking as their horses ran along the avenue, sending up clouds of dust.

  I’m telling you, I can practically hear the marimba music still. Except I’m not in the town square, watching a horse race and listening to marimba. I’m sitting up in a hospital bed and Vivi is cross-legged on the end of the bed and we’ve got reggaeton playing soft so that we won’t wake up Mrs. Blankenship next door.

  Vivi came to see me—not because she had to, but because she missed me. She wanted to hang out with me.

  Don’t get me wrong, people. I’m not saying that Vivi has a thing for me. And between us, I don’t have a thing for her, either. Not like that—not like TJ does. Honestly, I’m too tired for all that, and she’s obviously in love with TJ, even though the two of them have been expertly avoiding each other since they got back from their little trip to Orlando.

  Something happened, but nobody seems to want to let me in on it. I figure one of them will break down and tell me soon. Or maybe not. I’ll figure it all out anyway.

  I’m good at that, you know—figuring out how people are feeling, understanding what’s going on between people. I don’t know. It’s like I always have been. Like, I knew when my brother fell for that girl—I knew it was for real. And I knew the first time I laid eyes on her father, who came from two villages over, to tell him to stay the hell away—I knew something horrible would happen. I knew that man was capable of doing terrible, unthinkable things.

  And it happened. The unthinkable happened, but I survived it. I don’t know why I survived, just to end up dying in a hospital room in Florida. All I know is that here I am with Vivi and she’s got her eyes closed and she’s swaying her shoulders to the rhythm of “Me Gustas Tú.”

  She seems different.

  “Que voy a hacer, yo no sepa.” She’s singing along with Manu Chao, about not having any idea what to do, about being lost. And maybe that’s what she’s feeling, but—between you and me—the lost version of Vivi is much more calm and relaxed than the version I met a couple of months ago. The “Vivi on a mission,” I’ll call her. She was frantic, desperate to keep moving, keep doing stuff. For almost two months, I never saw that girl sit still. Never. I think she was afraid to stop—she was afraid the sadness would catch up with her. I think maybe it finally did.

  But now she’s different. She’s not exactly sad. She’s calm. Being with her, I feel calm too.

  Here’s something that sucks about my piece-of-crap heart: sometimes it makes me feel like I’m drowning, like I can’t breathe. Bertrand told me it was normal, to feel that way sometimes. He said it’s better if I don’t struggle against it, if I don’t panic. When I panic, it makes my piece-of-crap heart work even harder. But no matter how hard it works, my heart’s not getting much done anymore. I’m supposed to relax and let myself drown. Bertrand said it would be easier that way. He’s teaching me things, trying to help me find ways to stay relaxed, even when I feel like I can’t breathe.

  I’m telling you people, that shit is not easy to do. But it’s easier with Vivi here at the edge of my bed, singing about how lost she is.

  The song ends, and Vivi opens her eyes.

  “Do you need anything?” she asks. “Can I get you something?”

  “Nah, I’m all good,” I say.

  “I guess I should go home and get some sleep. I have to be back here in five hours.” She starts to stand up.

  I shrug. “You could stay. I’ll make room.”

  “¿Seguro?” Vivi asks. “Are you sure?”

  I scoot over a little and pat the empty space beside me. “I’ll even let you borrow my toothpaste tomorrow.”

  She smiles. “Yeah, that would be good.”

  “Can you make the bed go down?” I ask her.

  “You want it flat?” she asks, climbing
up into the empty space beside me.

  I nod. “And maybe turn off the music?”

  She levels the bed and turns off the music, and then she stretches out beside me, on her side. It’s a big bed, and we are both small—we’re not even touching. We look up at the origami birds that her mom made. She reaches up and runs her fingers across them so that they’re moving, like flying around.

  “Hey, Ángel?” she whispers.

  “Hmmm,” I mumble.

  “Did you know that some birds grieve?”

  I turn my head to look at her. “What does that mean?”

  “Afligirse. You know, like, feel sad when another bird dies.” Her hand runs across the birds again, sending them flying.

  “No.” I shake my head. “I never heard that.”

  “They even have funerals sometimes. When scrub jays come across a dead bird, they all gather around and cry—or who knows? Maybe it’s more like an Irish wake. Maybe they’re telling each other stories about what an ass he was. How he stole from them—scrub jays are notorious thieves.”

  I don’t know what she’s talking about. I think maybe it’s a place near England. But I’m too tired to ask her to explain. I can feel my body getting heavy with sleep.

  “It doesn’t even have to be the same kind of bird—they mourn for all kinds of other birds. Robins, chickadees.” She twirls one of the paper birds so that it starts to fly in small circles. “And crows, they sometimes bury the dead—they bring sticks and pile them on top of their dead friend.”

  “Like funerales?”

  “Yeah,” she says.

  “I don’t like funerals.”

  “Me neither,” she whispers.

  I close my eyes and listen to the sound her hand makes running against the paper birds, and we don’t say anything else about funerales.

  The quiet feels different with her here. It’s not quiet, exactly. This place is never really quiet. But it’s calm and I’m calm and I’m pretty sure Vivi feels calm too.

  Bertrand opens the door slowly, and—as always—he glides into the room, quiet, careful not to disturb me. When he sees Vivi, he comes to stand beside us and whispers in his low, soothing voice.

  “Oh my. It looks as if we’re having a slumber party.”