Taking Flight (5 page)

Several times a year we would make the drive from Minnesota to Missouri to visit our family. I frequently resented being an only child but during those nine-hour long car trips I relished having the entire backseat to myself. I could stretch out comfortably and devour my backpack full of novels. For family entertainment, you and Mom would search the a.m. radio stations for crazy Bible belt evangelical preachers with call in shows. Nearly everything was a sin – some of the preachers even made a point of saying that just listening to them on the radio was a sin!

We didn’t have the money to fly all three of us home, especially for all the different reasons we were obligated to return to Wentzville. That drive was a pain in the ass, but I’d give anything for one more trip.

Our last visit to Missouri as a family of three was for Angela’s wedding, and due to the fact that we had to leave on Friday and be home in time for work and school on Monday, we decided to spend the money to fly. The flight takes a little more than an hour, and somewhere between taking off in Minneapolis and landing in Saint Louis I contracted a nasty flu bug. It hit hard and fast. By the time we picked up our luggage from the carousel I was thoroughly miserable, struggling at times to throw up while attempting to breathe through a stuffy nose.

I didn’t want to be anywhere but in bed. The last thing I wanted to do was go to a wedding.

To make things worse: Angela was having a Catholic wedding. 

She wasn’t the first one in your Baptist family to cross over to the dark side, but it was still an odd and somewhat frowned upon conversion. From what I have been told, Grandpa skipped Uncle B’s wedding altogether when he married Catholic.

The three of us arrived at the large and ornate church ahead of schedule. I said hello to my family as best as I could while keeping my germ-infested body at a distance. When the organs began to play we filed in and found our seats and I was relieved to slump over into the hard wooden pew and close my eyes. My relief was short lived, however, because Catholic weddings don’t allow for rest. Every other minute we were told to stand, to kneel, to shake hands, to sit, to kneel, to stand. I was getting dizzy with the effort of trying to keep up to the hokey – pokey directions being called out by the priest.

I had the aisle seat and you were to my left. As the ceremony wore on you began to notice my weakened efforts, my lackluster involvement.

You were mad at me.

You may not have agreed with the pageantry of the church or understood why anyone would “go Catholic”, but you always showed respect in a house of God and expected me to do the same. You jerked on my arm hard and whispered harshly to me. “Pay attention! Stand up straight!” I never dared to argue with you, but in that moment I didn’t care what the consequences might be. After you let go I gave in to my illness and sat down, putting my head between my knees.

After the ceremony, and photos – our last Norton family photos, as it would turn out – you decided to let me go back to Grandma’s house for some much needed rest before the reception started. When you picked me up I had changed from the dress I hadn’t wanted to wear in the first place into jeans and a warm sweater. “Sarah, you are really pushing it,” you said as I buckled my seat belt.

I wasn’t surprised by your lack of sympathy. You never missed work, you never admitted when you were sick – even when it was obvious that you were ill. You raised me to believe that unless I was on my deathbed, missing school, work or any other obligation just isn’t an option. I can’t shake this lesson, probably to my detriment. While supervisors tend to admire the employee who shows up to work the morning after being in the hospital or following surgery, I’m sure I will pay for the stress and strain I’ve placed on my body. But I don’t know how to rest. This was a problem before you died, but it worsened after.

By the time the music began for the first dance I was finally feeling better, thanks to a cocktail of cold and flu medicines I had downed while at Grandma’s. I was trying to eat some dinner while watching my cousin and her new husband dance when the best possible thing that could have happened, happened.

You caught my flu. 

You were talking with Uncle B at the other end of our table when I saw you cough into your hand. I watched as the color drained from your face. You stood from the table and went to the bar for a drink and when you returned you set the drink down without taking a sip. You stared blankly into the crowd with glassy eyes. 

I scooted over to you. “How ya feeling, Dad?” I asked smugly.

You looked at me and moaned, though I’m not sure if it was from the flu or because your teenage daughter had busted you.

“You’re not really that sick,” I taunted. “Come on, get up. It’s not that bad.” Oh, I was enjoying myself.

“I’m sorry.” You chuckled, which promptly turned into a cough. “I deserve this, don’t I?”

“Oh yeah.”

We were both laughing when Mom appeared. “You guys look like death warmed over,” she said, staring at us like we had gone crazy. She pulled her camera out of her purse. “I can’t resist.”

We look terrible in that photograph. Pale, red nosed, and if you look closely enough you can see my jeans peeking through in the bottom corner. I’ve got my arm around your shoulder, my head resting against yours.

You died six months later. That photo probably wasn’t the last one that we took together, but it has become the one I can’t let go of, the one that is always in a frame somewhere in my house. That photo represents everything I love about the person you were, and the person you raised me to be.

After the reception ended, after Mom and I had drugged you with Nyquil and put you to bed, she and I sat together in the living room. I complained about you. “He was so mad at me, Mom. He can be such a jerk sometimes.”

“Don’t I know it!” she agreed. “But you know what he said after we dropped you off?”

“What?”

“We were driving back to the church, talking about Angela and the wedding and he said ‘Jan, I don’t know if I can ever do it. I don’t think I can ever let Sarah go.’ ”

I married Dustin in 2011 and as it would turn out I would be the one spending
eleven
years trying to let you go. Some days have been easier than others; my wedding was not one of the easy days. There are times when your absence is so apparent that even the people who want to pretend that Mom and I have completely moved on are forced to see the hole we live with each day.

The only peace I found as Mom walked me down the aisle came from the memory of the wedding we went to together, the picture we took, and a deep conviction that neither of us
has
ever let the other go, that death nor time
can
break the bond between father and daughter.

Mom and I were scheduled to fly home to Missouri for your funeral on the 4th of July. A couple of hours before we had to leave for the airport I ventured from the oppression of our house to spend some time with my friends. They picked me up and took me to the annual beach party at Lake Ann.

I wasn’t expecting to see so many people at the beach who already knew about the accident. Kids who had never spoken to me stared and pointed as I walked by them. Kids who had beaten me up in middle school tapped me on the shoulder to offer an apology. I didn’t want to talk to any of them. I brushed off as many people as I could and joined the rest of my friends as they were crafting a giant pair of flip flops into the sand on the beach for the sandcastle contest.

I found a place in the sand and began to help them. I quickly, gratefully, felt normal. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around to see a girl who I wasn’t friends with looking down at me. This girl frequently stopped people in the hallways at school to tell them their clothes were out of style. I pulled away from her, knowing full well I wasn’t in the mood to have my shorts and t-shirt critiqued.

“Oh, my God. I am so sorry,” she said, mock sympathy on her face. “How are you out in public right now?” She didn’t wait for me to answer. “If it was my father I would get into bed and never get out again. Like, never again. You’re so strong.” She shook her head, frowned, and walked away.

I knew I wasn’t strong – I was in shock. I learned a lot about post-traumatic stress disorder after the accident, a year before 9/11 made PTSD the psychosis de jour. Mom made me see our family doctor shortly after your accident. At the appointment he explained that feelings about your death would come to me when my mind felt safe enough to handle them. He warned that it could take years, if ever, to break down the barrier between the pain and my psyche. That explained why I could feel normal building a sandcastle hours before flying to your funeral. My pain was locked in the recesses of my mind, which was probably the only thing keeping me (and Mom) functioning. 

But that’s not how grieving is supposed to work. Not in America. Not in a society that demands schedules and sensors feelings from family, friends, employers and colleagues. One year later, a decade later, I’m not
allowed to break down crying. I
should be over your death, moved on and living my life.

I left the doctor’s office feeling wary about my future. My mind was in survival mode, but it could turn against me at any time. Everything was out of my control.

I only had a few hours to enjoy the beach before I had to return home to leave with Mom to catch our plane. Once we had checked in I became jittery, like I’d had too much soda. I didn’t want to let Mom out of my sight. It was so lonely, just us carrying our bags, just us making the trek down to the gate. We rode the moving walkways in silence.

Before we boarded the plane Mom stepped into the smokers’ lounge outside of our gate. I had to position myself in such a way that I could see her through the thick glass just to stay calm. I could have been five years old and lost in the grocery store, that’s how panicked I felt separated from her while in the airport. 

Your death had awarded us a special upgrade reserved for the bereaved, bumping us up from coach to first class. As if bigger seats and ample leg room would make everything better.

We took our seats. I had the window. I made the mistake of looking out at the conveyor belts loading suitcases into the belly of our plane. Nausea rushed through me as I realized that you were in a cargo hold below us, your body in a box being shuffled around next to dog kennels and packing crates.

I didn’t realize how hard I was working to hold myself together during the welcome announcements and safety instructions. But when the plane started to race down the runway, my heart began to beat wildly in my chest. As we lifted off of the ground I watched the telephone poles pass under us. We were where you were, sort of, when you fell from the sky. 

I wasn’t scared of crashing. (In fact, ever since your death I’ve been convinced I am exempt from death by airplane; God just isn’t that cruel.) But the feeling of the plane bouncing and dropping in and out of pockets of air was more than I could handle. Every time my stomach tingled with the briefest loss of altitude I would scream, clawing at Mom, crying hysterically. “This is what he felt! This is how he felt when he died!”

Your family, my family, was everything to me, and yet I was nervous as hell to see them.

I was a bit surprised when Angela’s husband picked us up from the airport. I realized as he babbled on about the weather that he was there because he had drawn the short straw. Who in their right minds would want to be the first to break the ice with us? Or risk being the first to say something stupid? As three of us walked through the familiar terminal to his truck I did my best to ignore the excited squeals of reuniting families. I looked instead for downcast eyes and tightly stretched smiles. So many lines had been drawn in such a short time between joy and sorrow, belonging and loneliness. I was beginning to recognize the difference between a genuine smile and a forced one.

It was muggy and drizzling as we drove to Grandma’s house. There were cars parked all along her street, and her carport was packed with people, watching for us to pull up. I jumped from the car, running blindly into their arms, finding no difference between the soaking rain and the tears spilling endlessly from the eyes of the family I loved. 

Aunt Diana clung to me so tightly I was sure my ribs would crack. Her hug said nothing about the will of God or empty words of sympathy. Her embrace was full of the unjustness of our family gathering. We were all so very sad, and she was brave enough to be honest about it instead of covering it up with empty platitudes.

When Stephanie came outside, I crumbled. Stephanie, who had been my surrogate big sister, was the first person I loved without rhyme or reason. I wanted to be just like her someday. Stephanie was always composed, always confident, always wise. When I stretched up to hug her she started to cry, and seeing her so shaken up made me believe I couldn’t survive the days ahead.

Mom snuck up beside us and joined in on our hug. “Where’s Lotus?” she asked weakly.

Stephanie sniffed. “Inside, on the couch. She’s not doing very well. I...think it will help that you’re here.”

Grandma’s house, so small that I could never imagine you, Becky, Diana and B all living under its roof, suddenly seemed enormous. The kitchen was dark. Thunder boomed outside, threatening us and shaking the photos framed on the walls.