Flight Season Page 4

  Vivi jumped right on in the back of his truck and said, “Let’s go!” I pulled off my tie and suit jacket and hopped next to her. He took us out past that old clapboard church up 301, and we pulled up next to this big ol’ greenhouse. Vivi and I jumped out and headed straight for the sweetest plum tomatoes I’ve ever seen, and cucumbers as long as my forearm, still on the vine. And inside that greenhouse, Vivi here picked up some of the most beautiful, delicate butter lettuce you could imagine. Didn’t you, Vivi?

  Growin’ out there in the middle of a Florida summer, wasn’t it, Vivi? Oh, girls! We’re gonna eat well tonight!

  That’s how my dad and I put together salad for a Wednesday night dinner. So, needless to say, when it came time for me to think about college, we were going big.

  I took every AP class offered at my high school; I sorted musty clothes every Saturday morning at the Last Stop Thrift Shop; I was yearbook editor, class secretary, and president of the Key Club. I drove forty minutes one way to practice field hockey because the Ivy League loves that sport.

  I know how to go big. My father taught me that.

  * * *

  When I get back to the house, I’m still thinking about that perfect farm-fresh salad, wondering if I can re-create it for Mom. I head through the A-shaped gate and into a dark hallway.

  “I got some mahi from Kyle’s,” I call out. “I thought maybe I’d try making it with avocado salsa, like we had in Roatán. Remember?”

  “Sounds perfect,” Mom says, poking her head out from the bedroom. “I’ll be right out to help.”

  The bedroom is behind the living area, with a soaring, pointed ceiling and a spiral staircase twisting through the middle of the room. I drop the produce bag in the kitchen and head back out to the car for the fish. I pause on my way back for long enough to notice a huge pile of bills stacked on the table by the door. The one on top is as bright red as the crown of that sandhill crane I shared a tuna sandwich with. That can’t be good. I go to pick it up, but then I see a check from CarMax sitting next to the pile.

  “Where did you say your car is?” I call out. “Back at the Winter Park house?”

  “Oh no. I sold it!” Mom says brightly. “You know I never liked that car. And the bike is perfect for St. Augustine.”

  I pick up the red envelope. It’s a water bill for our house in Winter Park, the Orlando suburb where we would be living if we weren’t here in the A-frame. The water bill has FINAL NOTICE stamped across the top in bold letters.

  Mom can be a little flaky sometimes. Dad loved that about her. He said she was like a moon, with many phases, but all of them beautiful. Sometimes she had everything together; sometimes she had nothing together. I didn’t always love Mom’s phases—particularly the ones in which she forgot to pack my lunch or send in a permission slip for the class field trip. But everything tended to work out okay. A kind teacher would share her lunch with me, or the principal would text my mom and she’d rush up to school to fill out the permission slip. I always knew she would phase back around and all would be well.

  I guess she’s in that phase where bills go unpaid.

  I put the red bill back on top of the stack, and that’s when I notice it—a letter from Yale.

  Almost all of Yale’s communication with students is by email. But I remember my resident adviser joking that, when the administration wants to be sure your parents see something, they send it the old-fashioned way. That usually means the news is bad.

  Whatever this news is, I’m not ready for Mom to see it.

  She comes out of her room, still fiddling with an earring. I hurry to tuck the letter into the waistband of my pants before she pulls me into a hug.

  “Don’t worry about all that right now,” she says into my hair. “We’ll take care of it later.”

  “I’ll grill the fish if you’ll make the salad,” I say, giving a little squeeze and then stepping back. “With that white balsamic dressing?”

  “Absolutely,” she says. “Your wish is my command.”

  I follow her down the hall, toward the kitchen.

  “Do I look sufficiently artsy?” she asks, turning to face me again.

  She’s got on a pair of cowboy boots that I helped her pick out on a trip to Big Sky, Montana, cutoff denim shorts, a fitted T-shirt, and a flowing vest with geometric prints. Her light brown hair is pulled up in a messy bun and she’s wearing her moonstone hoop earrings.

  “You look great,” I tell her. It’s true. She looks beautiful and vibrant and alive. I, on the other hand, look like the walking dead. It’s been a very long week.

  We wander into the small, open kitchen, and I look inside the fridge: milk, orange juice, and a couple of containers of Greek yogurt. That’s it. There’s plenty of room for the fish and the bag of ice that’s keeping it fresh.

  The linoleum counters are all covered with long stretches of thin cloth, dyed with angelfish, whales, manatees. I’ve gotten used to this—our kitchen doubling as Mom’s art studio.

  “After dinner Wendy and I are going to the Old City for the art walk—they do it on the first Friday of every month. Come with? There are some wonderful galleries.”

  Oh no, I will not be going to the Old City. I’ve been avoiding that part of St. Augustine like the plague, and I don’t intend to stop avoiding it now.

  “Who’s Wendy?” I ask.

  “She’s the batik artist I told you about—the one who gave me lessons last spring. You’ll love her—”

  “I’m exhausted,” I interrupt. “I want to meet Wendy, but not tonight. I’ve got big plans for a Netflix marathon on the couch.” I discreetly touch my side, where the letter from Yale is tucked away. And I have to read this letter. Alone.

  I make room on the counter for a cutting board, and I try to remember how Dad used to season fresh fish. Keep it simple, Vivi. That was always his advice on fresh seafood or produce. Let the flavor come through.

  In this case, I don’t have much of a choice, since the pantry is practically bare. I settle on a little olive oil, salt, and pepper.

  Mom makes a salad while I grill the fish and cut up the avocado. We eat on the back deck, and even though we’re a few houses away from the ocean, we can still hear the surf. It sounds loud tonight, maybe because we can’t seem to come up with anything to talk about. So we sit in silence and eat our fish, lulled by the ocean’s rhythm.

  I overcooked it. I wish I had paid more attention when Dad was around to show me how. The avocado is good, though. Perfectly ripe.

  A bright yellow vintage Checker cab pulls into the drive, and Mom stands to clear her plate. “That’s Wendy,” she says. “I’m off to the art walk!”

  “Have a great time,” I tell her, deciding not to comment on the unusual vehicle her friend drives. “I’ll take care of the dishes.”

  I sit on the deck and watch her climb into the car. Wendy’s cab pulls away, sputtering black smoke, and I take the envelope from my waistband to open the letter. No use putting off the inevitable.

  NOTICE OF ACADEMIC WARNING

  I read quickly. The letter is short, and to the point: as a result of my grade in Stipleman’s class (combined with a string of barely passing grades), I currently have insufficient course credits and, consequently, a failing grade point average. I’ve been placed on academic probation.

  In other words, unless I successfully complete this internship, I will not be permitted to continue at Yale.

  Oh no. This can’t happen.

  High school valedictorians don’t turn into college dropouts.

  College dropouts don’t get into medical school.

  And I will be going to medical school if it’s the last thing I do.

  I knew I needed this internship for the premed track, because I knew it would give me a passing grade in Stipleman’s class. What I didn’t know? This internship is the only thing that will get me back to Yale in the fall.

  Part of me wants to cry, and another part of me feels like cheering, because—if I want to cry, it
means that I care. And I haven’t really cared about much of anything for a very long time. But I don’t cry or cheer. Instead I pull out my phone and send Prashanti a text:

  So sorry to bother you on a Friday evening. I just want you to know that I am willing to do anything you need—anything at all. I love working on the heart ICU, and I really hope you’ll let me stay! Have a great weekend! See you Monday!

  Go big, Vivi.

  * * *

  I stare at my phone all weekend, but Prashanti doesn’t reply to my text.

  I do, however, get an enormous string of texts and several FaceTime calls from Gillian, who has moved on to the third stop in our epic summer music tour—without me. I guess she took advantage of the travel time between shows to send me a wide range of selfies summarizing the trip so far: Gillian with two dreadlocked hippies at the Firefly Festival. Gillian on someone’s shoulders at Bonnaroo. Gillian pressed against a stage with the Boston skyline behind her, the lead singer of a band I don’t recognize singing right at her.

  Finally, on Sunday afternoon, I relent and pick up a call. I can barely hear her over the screaming fans and blaring music.

  “Vivi!”

  “Hey, Gillian. Where are you?”

  “Vivi! It’s your favorite band!” She’s drunk. I’ve heard her drunk voice enough times to know. “We miss you! I wanted you to live vicariously!”

  Then, just in case all of this isn’t painful enough already, she lifts the phone in the air to reveal that, indeed, my favorite band is onstage ten feet in front of her, singing one of the best songs of all time.

  It sounds like crap through the phone. After about ninety seconds, it’s clear that she’s forgotten she called, since I’m still hearing one of the best songs of all time, but I’m seeing a blur of feet and legs.

  I hang up, drop my phone on the bed, and head out to the beach for a swim.

  It’s stifling hot, and the beach is crammed with people, but still. Maybe if I go out and let my head get slammed by a few big waves, I’ll forget about the summer that could have been.

  * * *

  On Monday morning I arrive early. I wait next to Prashanti’s locker, and as soon as I see her come through the door, tote bag in one arm and lunch box in the other, I launch in. “This ICU is exactly where I want to be. I’ll do whatever it takes to prove it to you, Prashanti.”

  I swallow hard and smile wide.

  “I really like it here. I think maybe I just need some time to adjust,” I continue, watching her silently stuff the tote bag into her locker.

  I worked too hard for this. I can’t let it go. I owe that much to my dad, at the very least.

  Prashanti turns and steps toward me. “Perhaps we can secure an administrative position. Or possibly something in the accounting office?”

  “But you see, I have to do this. There’s no other way.” A strange stillness has descended on me. I speak slowly, my voice even. “Do you remember what I explained in my cover letter? About last December? How I couldn’t go back to take my exams? And how my adviser made this agreement with my professor, because they knew I wanted to be premed?”

  “Yes, of course, but—”

  I need to try a new tactic. This isn’t going anywhere. It’s time to beg.

  “You have to understand,” I say, my voice rising and my heart starting to flutter. “I wasn’t being irresponsible. I mean, I know you hate it when people don’t take responsibility seriously. But that’s not it. It’s just—I had to help my mom.” Now I’m rambling, pleading, tripping over my words. “We had to deal with the body and the funeral and she was so—”

  I hate hearing myself say this. I despise it—I despise myself in this moment. Because who invokes the memory of her dead father as a way to keep a job?

  Apparently, I do.

  “Of course, of course.” Prashanti’s face goes all soft. “We’ll come up with something,” she says, taking my clammy hand in hers. “We can make this work.”

  “Really?” I ask. “I can stay?”

  “Yes, yes. Now let me get my paperwork done before rounds begin. We’ll talk after rounds.”

  Beaming, I head to the break room to pour myself a cup of coffee. As promised, Prashanti meets me there after morning rounds. She brings a thin stack of papers from her duffel bag and announces, “I have an idea!”

  “Great!” I exclaim, layering on the positivity.

  “I reviewed your résumé,” she says, waving the papers toward me, “and I think we have the perfect position for you here on ICU-3H.”

  Richard and TJ are in the break room too. I watch as both turn to look at her, clearly wondering what might be the perfect ICU position for someone with a now notoriously “weak constitution.”

  “You’re fluent in Spanish?” Prashanti asks.

  “Yes.” I nod vigorously. “That’s right.”

  “Wonderful!” she replies. “We have a patient who needs extra attention, and he also speaks Spanish. You’ll be invaluable as his interpreter.”

  “You mean Ángel?” Richard asks. “You’re putting her on full-time Ángel duty?”

  TJ grins. TJ is not one to smile often, at least not when I’m around. So I’m starting to sense how bad this assignment might be.

  Prashanti glares at Richard and TJ, head lowered slightly, eyes on fire.

  This woman is a force of nature.

  “Sorry,” Richard says, suddenly sheepish. “So, Vivi, where did you learn Spanish?” I think he’s trying to change the subject.

  “In Buenos Aires,” I respond, unable to contain my genuine enthusiasm. “I spent a glorious semester there in high school.”

  “Well, that sounds really, uh—”

  “Glorious,” TJ says, deadpan, cutting Richard off midsentence.

  And so begins my glorious first day as Ángel’s babysitter.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ÁNGEL

  “ALL RIGHT, ÁNGEL. Let’s try to make this as painless as possible.”

  Let’s do that, TJ. And, while we’re at it, maybe you can find somebody who will tell me what the hell is going on.

  But first, let’s you and me get this awkward part over with. I’m gonna go ahead and let you into my head.

  Yeah, you.

  Why? you ask. I dunno. I guess I figure maybe if I let a few more people up in here, it might keep me from losing my mind. Maybe you people can help me hold it together, you know? Or maybe not. Doesn’t matter.

  Honestly, it would be nice just to have somebody else know what I’m thinking. I mean, nobody around this place understands it, maybe because I need to explain in Mam. Yeah, Mam. It’s a language. I figure you’ve probably never heard of it. No big deal. As long as you’re up in my head with me, it really doesn’t matter much, does it?

  You don’t believe me? Okay, try this. Look out of the nearest window, and just notice what’s going on. I mean, really watch. What you’re seeing, what your brain is telling you you’re seeing—it’s not happening in a language, is it? It’s just happening.

  So, that’s settled. You’re up in here with me and I’m letting you in on all of it.

  Well, okay, not all of it. I mean, you don’t need to know what it feels like for me to take a dump, or to …

  Let’s move on to other topics.

  Those people—TJ and the pretty girl who showed up this morning—they have no clue. Nobody around here does. You want me to prove it to you? Yeah, okay. Check this out:

  TJ is standing at the whiteboard, holding tight to a big blue marker. He looks down at his phone and reads, “¿Cuál es su meta para el día?” He butchers it, as always. I can’t figure it out, but somehow his phone tells him how to speak bad Spanish.

  Wanna know why I already know what he’s asking me? Because he asks me the same incredibly stupid question every day.

  Every. Single. Day.

  I have no idea how to answer it. Since nobody has even managed to explain to me what I’m doing in this place, it’s hard to know what I want.

&nbs
p; So, no, TJ. How about we don’t make this as painless as possible.

  Hey, I never claimed to be an actual angel.

  I lift my head and shoulders off the bed, which only kinda hurts my chest.

  “¿Mi mata? Me matas? Me vas a matar!”

  I start mashing hard on the nurse call button and pick up the stupid little phone attached to my bed rail.

  “Policía! Policía!” I yell into the phone. “Me van a matar! They kill me!”

  The pretty white girl with long brown hair, who was sitting in a chair by my bed when I woke up this morning, stands up and walks over to the board. I’m not complaining. She’s nice to me, and I like watching her. But I can’t exactly figure out what she’s doing here.

  “He heard you say mata instead of meta,” she says to TJ, all patient and calm. “Matar means to murder.”

  He shakes his head slowly, looking down at the ground. “He knows what I said.”

  Yeah, sure I know. I speak Spanish, and a little English, too. I’ll admit it: I understand more than I speak. But these people don’t need to know any of that—not until I know what’s happening around here. Let me tell you something: as far as I can figure out, they might be trying to kill me. For real. Oh, you think I’m being stupid? Paranoid? I hear you. But listen to this: I woke up in a room a few weeks ago with a bunch of strangers standing around. And I’m strapped into a bed with a metal railing. I mean, I can’t even lift my arms because of these huge black straps over them. And machines are going crazy around me, making all kinds of insane noise, and a dude is standing over me with a knife. Okay, maybe not a knife, but I’m telling you, he was about to cut my chest open with whatever that thing was. Until I started screaming. What the hell else was I supposed to do? Then this lady comes at me with a massive needle, and the next thing I know, I’m in dreamland.

  I wake up here, feeling like I’ve been sleeping for a month. I can barely catch my breath, even though I’m flat on my back in bed; I’ve got strange pains stabbing my chest and my shoulders, like a sharp knife digging in; and my legs are all puffy, so I can’t even find my ankles. Nobody’s telling me where I am or what’s going on.

  Every once in a while, a doctor comes in with a lady who speaks Spanish, and they start talking really fast.