Above Us Only Sky (10 page)

But Wheaton wasn't there.

I did
not
jump. I know that I didn't. I wouldn't do that.

The salty spray and driving wind slicked my hair back. I licked the spray from my lips.
Dear Prudence, let me see you smile
. I started crying again, but the wind whisked away my tears. Did Freddie care about me? Did Veronica? Would I ever be whole again? I don't remember if I pulled my nightgown overhead or if it tore free. I remember the darkness, whitecaps on the water, an eggplant sky. I was perched on the ledge. I was careful, wiggling my toes. I remember thinking that I wouldn't fall because the wind was blowing against me, blowing me back toward the safety of the pier's walkway. It was nice up there. I was naked, licked clean by salt. My invisible wings expanding, growing, spreading, how they did that first time in the audiovisual room. Not heavy but pulsing. I wasn't going to jump. I'll admit that I did want to fly. I recall the wind spinning me up, tornado fashion, hurling me like a speck, and for a second, I thought I would drop safely, disappointingly to the pier, but my wings caught the wind. I ascended—for a second or more. For two seconds. Maybe three. I thought I would fly away. But these wings I carried were only ghost wings. I plummeted, dropped forty feet, my heels striking the water's surface. I submerged into the bottomless deep.

For a little bit, all was dark, murky, like that whole night. Below the surface, I awoke to luminescent jellyfish with tentacles like fingers, holding, caressing me. All around, there was luminescent plankton like stars. An octopus pulsed past. The jelly tentacles clung to me, the surf like boiling stew. Anemones and silver fish ripped past, then brighter fish, orange and green zip lines, the waves like puppet masters, maneuvering my arms and legs, lifting me up and dropping me down. I swallowed the sea and it likewise me. The puppet master left me pressed against a barnacle-­covered piling. My body was limp, my strings cut. The barnacles scraped and sliced my skin, glowing now like the jellyfish. Then I saw the winged girl swimming toward me. She was real. I could see her. I had told Wheaton that she was mine. She belonged to me. Maybe I was dead. With black hair floating and wings enormous, she came. I reached for her hand and caught it. She grabbed back. Her fingers were rough, striated, how I remembered my father's hands. She was holding tight, pulling me away from the piling, but I didn't want to go. Her mouth was open. Her eyes were green with orange starbursts. Like mine. I knew her. That's the last I remember.

11

Prudence

O
n the night that I tumbled off the pier, I thought I had died. When I saw the ghostly girl beneath the waves, I thought I was in another world. But I did not die. My savior was a homeless man curled up under one of the benches halfway between the beach and my falling-off point.

He rolled over to pull his coat tighter where his zipper was broken, and seeing something in the distance, crawled out from beneath the bench to try and make out what it was. At one time, he'd worn glasses for astigmatism, but hadn't worn them in many years. Reportedly, he saw a giant bird perched on the ledge. Then he rubbed his eyes and saw a person standing there. He claims that I stepped off the edge. Hearing the splash, he went to the pay phone at the pier's entrance and called the operator. He told her, “At first, I thought I saw a bird, but then it had arms and legs.” The operator notified the Coast Guard and the police, and they notified the local hospital.

Coast Guard helicopters were dispatched to search the choppy water. Because of the dangerous surf, I was presumed dead. I don't remember being pulled from the water or flying in a helicopter to the hospital in Jacksonville. “She's not a bird,” the Coast Guard men joked, but I was surprisingly easy to spot beneath their searchlight. Covered in bioluminescent plankton, I was a five-point star. Jellyfish tentacles were strung across my arms and legs.

When I woke in the hospital, I was examined by a smiling nurse and an icy doctor, who only made contact when he shined a light in my eye. At two a.m., I told the nurse my name and phone number. They telephoned Veronica. My next visitors were policemen. They told me that committing suicide was illegal, not just with the Catholics but also with the local government. At five a.m., I saw Veronica. She was pale, the crunchiness washed clean from her hair. Already she'd telephoned Freddie, who was still in Brooklyn. My room had its own phone, and while the nurse checked my temperature, Veronica was on with Freddie again. She told him that I would be okay, whispering, “I don't know what happened.” She felt guilty, I think, for telling me that my grandparents only wanted to meet me because they were old.

Freddie wanted to talk to me. Veronica handed me the phone. I remember telling him, point-blank, “I didn't jump off the pier. I fell or something.”

He said, “We're coming to see you. We're driving.”

“I'm going home tomorrow.” I started to tell him our address.

“Honey,” he said, his voice cracking, “I know where you live.” He said, “I love you very much.” I refused to cry. Then he explained that my Oma had a propensity toward blood clots, so they'd have to stop every two or three hours for her to stretch her legs. He said, “I'm sorry that I didn't call on your birthday,” and then he started crying. “I love you so much, little bird.” He was crying so hard that it sounded like he was hyperventilating. I was callous, a little satisfied by his tears. He could cry, but I wouldn't.

The nurses were kind. They told me, “No more night swimming.” They laughed a lot, squeezing my forearm, feeling sorry for me. Then a social worker came to interview me. I didn't mention my wings. I had learned from Wheaton not to say anything surprising or unusual, lest I get thrown into some institution like the Gardens. Instead, I told the social worker that I'd gone for a walk. I wanted to see what it felt like to stand over a dark ocean. I was pensive because I knew that my grandparents were coming. It was windy. I slipped. Basically, everything was true, except that I wanted to see what it felt like to fly. Maybe, for those three seconds, I did fly. Like Freddie and the Old Man's old man, I was an optimist. I was born with wings. How could I be otherwise?

On the afternoon of May seventeenth, a Wednesday, I was released into Veronica's care. I pretended to sleep on the car ride home. When we pulled into the driveway, Wheaton was waiting. I emerged from the car, stiff and bruised from the water forcing me into the piling, and Wheaton grabbed hold of me, pinning my arms to my sides, squeezing me harder than he ever had. I didn't think he was going to let go. Already, he was counting, murmuring, “You don't want to die,” making sense of what had happened.
You don't want to die
is five syllables thumb to pinky.
You don't want to die
is much better than
You want to die
, which would leave you one shy, hanging on the ring finger. He said another five syllables, “Don't ever leave me,” and stopped squeezing.

We spent the rest of that evening hand in hand sitting on a blanket watching sandpipers dart through the surf. Veronica packed us a picnic dinner. Wheaton never asked if I was trying to kill myself. I'm certain he knew the answer. He said that Tammy had come in second place in her cheerleading competition and he reminded me that I was his best friend. I already knew. I told him that he would always be my best friend, and we lay back, our faces to the waning light, digging our heels in the sand. Wheaton said, “I know that your grandparents are going to love you.” It was only thirteen syllables, but it was the exact right thing to say.

On June 3, 1989, Veronica gathered dishes and opened windows to air out the smokiness. She wanted to impress Freddie and the in-laws she'd never met. One day earlier, she'd had her hair cut into a bob. No more hairspray. She looked good, better than the Barbie she'd become.

I didn't want to alter anything about myself before I saw my dad or met my grandparents. In a way, I wanted to be at my worst. I wore jean shorts and black boots with the tongues turned down. My Pixies T-shirt was torn
Flashdance
-style at the shoulder. I wanted them to like me for who I was. I couldn't pretend anymore, and I was too exhausted to be nervous.

Freddie drove the rented Oldsmobile across the bridge separating our island from Saint Mark's. This would've been his first time in Los Vientos, so I imagine he saw the shabby billboard proclaiming “Welcome to Los Vientos Beach,” with “Welcome to” crossed out and the word
SUCKS
spray-painted in all caps. (We always met in Saint Mark's.) Freddie and my grandparents would've seen the neon pink and turquoise Bunny Motel, and possibly the Bunny's resident nudists, Earl and Liz—a Los Vientos treasure. They would've passed Big Sal's, serving “All-You-Can-Eat Hotcakes” and “Pig-Happy Barbeque,” and the Dunes Smacker, a hole-in-the-wall frequented by the pier dwellers.

Driving even farther, they would've seen our concrete pier. It was
the
pier, the one I'd fallen from. I'm sure that Freddie slowed down, hoping I hadn't tried to kill myself, hoping that I wasn't going to do anything irrational. He'd told his parents nothing about my recent hospitalization. He hadn't wanted to upset them. I understood. I didn't particularly want them to know.

Past the pier, there were rows of squat homes, some coquina, some wood siding, others cinder-block, and then there was our house, and then there was me waiting on the front porch with Wheaton while Veronica was indoors dusting, wearing a real apron. The Oldsmobile turned up our driveway, which was no more than scrub grass and gravel. Veronica peeked through the blinds. I didn't know what to do, where to put my hands or how to pose, but I stood tall, my hands at my sides like I was ready for the firing squad. Freddie was out the driver's door fast, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He opened his mother's door while the Old Man, who was just sixty-eight in 1989, said, “Is this the place?”

My Oma told Freddie, “Enough with the smoking.”

I looked at the Old Man and he looked back, each of us examining the other.

“Who are you?” he said, walking toward me. Freddie was still helping Ingeburg because her legs were stiff from the drive. Her varicose veins mapped the life of a woman who'd spent too many years on her feet. If you followed the blue veins north, they expanded into stretch marks, a gift from Freddie. If you followed them south, they led to hammertoes. There is something surprisingly beautiful about my Oma's imperfections, the black hairs growing above her lip, her chipped tooth and scarred lip. She is a testament to living. I watched her grab the cigarette from between Freddie's lips and drop it to the cracked walk.

“Who are you?” the Old Man said again, his voice gruff. He pointed at me. “Are you Prudence Vilkas?” Veronica was still watching from between the blinds.

“I am Prudence Vilkas,” I told him. We faced one another. His hair was streaked gray. His eyes, the same blue as my father's, were familiar. The Old Man lit a cigar, puffing away, and squinted. “Come here, woman!” he said. He was not talking to me. I looked to my Oma, who was clutching her purse, getting her bearings, the sandy earth foreign beneath her orthopedic shoes. She didn't respond to the Old Man. He raised his voice. “She's got the baby's eyes.” Then, comprehending that I was standing right there in front of him, he said, “You have my sister's eyes, the youngest sister's eyes. We called her Little Bird.”

I hadn't felt my wings move since my late-night swim, but I felt them now. They swelled like two helium balloons, like I was going to lift off. Veronica was still indoors, while Freddie was walking my Oma step by step to the Old Man's side.

The Old Man said, “My sister's eyes have shooting stars like yours.”

Freddie said, “You mean the orange starburst?”

“What is the difference?”

“Which sister, Dad?”

The Old Man and my father were practically twins except that my father's hair was still black. Around my father's eyes, there were wrinkles like pin scratches. The Old Man was seasoned—what I expected. His face was windburned, the lines around his mouth and eyes dug like ravines. When my Oma got closer, she began to cry, just a little, enough to use the handkerchief stuffed in the pocket of the jacket she wore despite the ninety-degree weather. She saw no resemblance to her own mother in me, which she'd hoped for, but that didn't matter. She saw her granddaughter for the first time. We embraced. For so long, she'd wanted to know me. Her face was round like a pie. Her eyes were brown moons. Around her chipped tooth, her skin was soft and loose. In the corners of her mouth, the pink lipstick, the same shade as her pink head scarf, bled. Even though it would take years to understand her, right away I loved her. She took my hand in hers, still holding on to me, and I remembered that Wheaton was there somewhere. I hadn't introduced him. I forgot.

Veronica finally came out wearing her apron. To Freddie, she said, “Well, just look at you! Long time, no see.” It was ridiculously clichéd, but what else was she going to say to him and the in-laws who hadn't wanted to know her? Freddie nodded and she laughed, hugging him. I rarely know what my mother will do or say, but on this particular day, when her insecurity was palpable, she was quite easy to peg. She smiled awkwardly, her hands behind her back, waiting for someone else to say something else. I imagine that she didn't think anyone cared that she was there, and maybe the Old Man didn't, not right then, but my Oma certainly cared. She was a mother. Freddie was her son. She let go of me and told Veronica, “Thank you for allowing us to come.” She knew that being someone's mother and someone's wife was very important.

The Old Man asked Veronica, “Where are you from?”

“Troutville.”

“You are from a fishing village?”

Veronica wasn't sure how to answer. “Not exactly.”

“Where is your family from?”

My Oma seemed to be worried about Wheaton, who stood there counting out the syllables of multiple conversations, none of them ending on the pinky. She reached out and patted his hand. Freddie interrupted the Old Man's interrogation of Veronica and said, “Dad, I used to call Prudence ‘little bird.' That's what you called your sister?”

“Daina,” the Old Man said.

I said to my Oma, “This is my friend Wheaton.” When I think back, the six of us were standing in a circle, like a constellation. Connect the dots, me to Wheaton, the Old Man to Ingeburg, and Freddie to Veronica. Veronica slipped a pack of cigarettes from her apron pocket. She was better at selling real estate than selling a Betty Crocker image to her in-laws. “My sister Daina had wings,” the Old Man said. I honestly think that I shook my head before blurting, “I was born with wings.”

Wheaton said, “I can see them.”

My Oma said, “What is it that you see, young man?”

Veronica said, “They weren't exactly wings, Prudence. That makes you sound crazy.” She took a drag off her cigarette. “The doctor called them bifurcated protrusions.”

Freddie said, “They looked like wings, Veronica. She was a little bird.”

My dad is just like that. Sometimes I want to kill him, and then, with one or two sentences, he's Superman.

The Old Man dropped his cigar. “What are you saying?”

He opened his mouth to speak, to answer his own question, but no words came. He pressed his right palm to his forehead.

“Is he all right?” I asked my Oma. She stared hard at me like I wasn't real, more apparition than girl. “Daina?” she queried.

The Old Man looked at me the same way. With his mouth forming an O, he seemed incapable of speech. It hadn't fully registered with me that his sister Daina had been born with both orange starburst eyes and wings.

“Frederick?” my Oma said.

His cigar burned in the scrub. I bent down to pick it up. Wheaton said, “God, the ghost of the girl. It's his sister. That's who it is.”

At first, I didn't understand. It was unimaginable. His sister? The ghostly girl? My wings? I grabbed hold of the Old Man's elbow. He dropped his hand from his forehead and, bending slightly forward, nuzzled his beard between my neck and shoulder. I felt hot tears on my back where my T-shirt was torn.

No one said anything. We stayed that way for a good while. Wheaton's fingers were quiet. While his world made no sense, mine was coming together. I was the first to speak. “I was born with wings,” I repeated.