On Little Wings (7 page)

“What town?” she asked.

“Smithport,” I said as I gulped down another sip.

“Hmm, I’ve never heard of it,” she said, deepening the wide wrinkles around her mouth as she thought. She looked like a spa would do her good.

You’re not the only one
, I thought wryly as I gave her a polite grin and shrugged my shoulders. An hour after our short lived conversation, the plane began its descent. I craned my neck to see the ground as we sunk beneath the solid clouds. More trees than I expected. The fuzzy texture of forest seldom gave way to the smooth carpet of open land. When the pilot made a wide turn our window tilted to the ground and I could see a river twisting languidly through the landscape.

The plane jostled momentarily and then steadied. The flight attendant said something but my ears were thundering with my own blood. Hugging myself tightly, I willed my stomach to stay where it belonged.
I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.

With a jolt the plane wheels grabbed the asphalt and the engines shrieked in protest as we hurtled toward our terminal. I’m sure the people around me thought the landing terrified me from the way my white fingers cut into my palms. My seatmate smiled at me sympathetically, but I couldn’t reciprocate. Our plane stopped. Dying in a fiery crash was no longer an option. “Oh crap,” I breathed almost soundlessly as the seatbelt light blinked off with a loud chime.

I gripped my blue duffel bag, twisting it mercilessly in one hand as I shuffled forward in the halting line. In my other hand I clung to the photograph of Sarah like a talisman. Our plane was so small we exited onto a portable, metal staircase and ducked under the nearly palpable noise of the tarmac into the airport. Nothing looked exceptionally different from Nebraska in those first hazy glances. An open field around the runway and trees in the distance. My brain took in the surroundings sluggishly, too tied up in my internal struggle to devote attention to details. The tide of passengers pushed through a glass hallway and emptied me into the bright, open gallery of the airport. I didn’t have to scan the crowd more than a few seconds. Apart from the throng, flushed, and leaning onto her toes with impatience, stood a pretty woman with caramel colored hair. She had my mother’s short, trim frame, but lighter eyes and higher cheekbones.

She was different from the ballerina in the picture, showing those vague signs of age that make even the most beautiful women different from the most beautiful girls, but still lovely and golden. Her skin had the same strange, olive tint as mine, perpetually tan without being brown. Her intriguing, slanted eyes flashed recognition and her hands jumped to her chest. She hopped once on her feet and then closed the distance between us with fast steps. When her arms grabbed me hungrily, I dropped my bag and hugged her back, aware of, but unconcerned by, the people watching curiously.

“Jennifer. . .” she breathed like a prayer against my face. I loved the smell of her – a mix of fresh breezes and dryer sheets. I surprised myself by how tightly I gripped her. I’ve always been affectionate, but never one for big public shows. At that moment my brain didn’t spare a thought for the crowd.

“Hi, Sarah,” I said without releasing her. At last she drew back, keeping a strong grip on my arms.

“Come here,” she said walking backwards, steering us to an empty seating area away from the mingling people. “Let me look at you. I can’t believe it,” her eyes traveled over my features. Her expression warmed with delight after studying me. She never tore her eyes from my face. “Those are the same tiny freckles I used to have. I couldn’t see them in the pictures you emailed. Mine faded, but they looked just like that, like tiny sugar grains.”

“Thirty seven,” I answered without thinking. Then realizing that answer required explanation I said, “My mother always told me I had thirty seven perfect freckles across my nose. I’ve counted them before and there were more than that, but we still …” I stopped talking when a stunned look came into her eyes.
What did I say wrong?

“Thirty seven,” she repeated, her hazel eyes bright and moist.

“What’s wrong?” I asked in confusion.

“Nothing,” she affirmed with a smile. “My mother always told me I had thirty seven freckles. I had completely forgotten. I guess Claire remembered.”

Hearing her name made me ache for my mother. Maybe somewhere beneath her anger she kept happy memories of her sister. I wanted her there, gripping Sarah’s wrist in excitement the way Sarah gripped mine.

I swallowed my sadness and held up the picture. “This is how I found you. I found this in a book.” She took the battered photograph reverently and skimmed her finger over her face and then the damaged part where the page had melted to the ink of the photo.

“I wasn’t much older than you here. This is my Senior Recital. I was seventeen.” She looked up and said “My mother took this picture. I still remember her telling me to smile.” And then, though she had already asked me many times before on the phone, she could not restrain the question, “How is Claire?” The longing in her voice hurt my chest.

“She’s fine. This morning she was calm when I left. I think it’s sinking in.”

“I miss her,” she stated freely.

“I know.” I wished I could say
She misses you, too.

I think she saw the conversation wading into gloomy waters and she shook her head, brightening her smile. “I didn’t know what to do with myself today. I can’t remember the last time I felt this nervous! I didn’t know what to wear. I didn’t know what to bring. I thought about flowers, but that felt awkward. So what is the appropriate gift for a meeting your grown niece? Do you have any idea?”

I laughed and waved my hand in dismissal, “I don’t need anything.”

“I can’t tell you how relieved I am after seeing you. This would have felt like a long visit if you stepped off the plane with multiple piercing and black make-up.”

I laughed again, her warm, easy voice putting my fears at ease. “I only wear the black make-up on weekends,” I replied.

“No, but really,” she said seriously, “You are beautiful. I can’t look at you enough.”

“I think I look like my aunt,” I told her.

“With several improvements,” she said as she stood up to direct me to the baggage claim. “My hair was never that light. And your skin! What do you remind me of? The sand? The sunset? Maybe the last light of day on the ocean, when everything is glowing."

“Wheat,” I told her as I set my duffel by my feet in front of the rotating carousel which was just starting to spit out battered bags. “My mother says that I look like a Kansas wheat field on a summer day.”

She fixed her eyes on me intently, thoughts spinning behind them. “I’ve never seen a Kansas wheat field, but I can imagine that is true.” Then, “Why Kansas? Why not Nebraska?”

“I don’t know,” I answered as I spotted my suitcase high on the belt, entangled with a golf bag. I grappled it to the floor. “This is everything,” I said pointing to my luggage. Sarah led the way to the parking lot while I talked. “She tells me all the time that she wishes she named me Kansas. She went to college in Kansas and thought it was beautiful. She told me a story about it growing up.” I paused there, trying to assess if I was babbling.

“Can I hear it?” she asked, unable to suppress the fascination in her voice.

“It probably sounds silly. But yes.” I had to stop while a loud, smoky bus crossed in front of us. Despite being a smaller airport, the traffic kept a steady pace and we concentrated on crossing at the right places in-between hurrying travelers and cars. Sarah’s black SUV chirped loudly and blinked its lights as we approached and I loaded the luggage.

“So the bedtime story?” she asked when we were all arranged inside.

“Right. I guess it isn’t so much a
story
story – just something she told me. She said that she looked at the fields all the time and when she got pregnant with me the fields soaked right from her eyes into me, and that is why I look like them.” I hoped she didn’t think I sounded vain and shook my head to show her I didn’t necessarily agree.

“She says it isn’t fair that we name children before we know how they turn out because when I was born I had curly black hair – nothing like a wheat field.” The truth is that my mother threatened to change my name to Kansas often when I was a child. I think a part of her hoped I’d prefer Kansas and adopt a new name just like Cleo. Unfortunately for my mother, I was perfectly content being called Jennifer. And even as a child I recognized, without being able to put the complex idea into words, that Cleo cornered the market on name changes in our town and copying her would only look affected.

“So how did you get the name Jennifer, then?” Every question rang with excitement.

“Nothing special. A pretty waitress brought some chocolate cake to their table. They read her name tag and walla - here I am.”

“Here you are,” she repeated with satisfaction. “I want to know everything. You’ll go hoarse from talking, but first, do you need food? We’re more than an hour from home so we should probably stop if you’re hungry.” My stomach was painfully empty now that it was no longer full of fear. I nodded and told her that sounded great.

“Would you like to stop at a crab shack? Or a lobster house? Whatever you want. We are celebrating. We could grab some cod sandwiches at the next town.”

“Oh,” I stalled uncomfortably. “It doesn’t matter. But I’m not really. . . I don’t, um, like … seafood that much,” I apologized.

Sarah’s eyebrows inched up. “Really? Not any seafood?”

“Fish is okay. I can do fish… sometimes.” I was stretching. My seafood tolerance usually ended at fish sticks with ketchup.

“No shrimp? Crab? Lobster? Mussels? Clam?” I tried to hide my shudder at the word ‘mussels’. I once saw a woman eat them and thought I’d be ill just from the sight.

“I’m sorry,” I answered, praying she didn’t hold it against me.

Sarah’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, still unable to believe me. “What about Claire? Doesn’t she ever cook seafood?”

“Not really. My father’s allergic to shellfish.” I cringed, waiting for her reaction. Her eyebrows contracted and she chewed softly on her bottom lip. “But we can go wherever you want. I’ll find something I like.”

“No!” she exclaimed, grabbing my knee and smiling. “No, you don’t have to eat anything you don’t like. I was just thinking. I made lobster spaghetti for your first dinner tonight and that isn’t going to work, is it? I should have asked you first.” She smiled kindly and I felt my face melting with hot embarrassment. They put lobster in
spaghetti
?

“I’m so sorry. I’m not trying to be rude,” my voice sounded small.

“Of course not!” she cried. She pushed one hand toward the windshield and extended her fingers. “Stop. Don’t worry about it for a second. I’m sorry if I made you feel bad. I’m just surprised. More at Claire than at you.” She looked at me quickly. Looked
through
me is a better description – as if she were trying to see past me to my mother. “Do you know what your grandfather did for a living?” The teacher in Sarah became very plain in her querying, expectant face and I felt like I just entered an oral test.

“Um, a factory, right? Didn’t he can fish?” I squirmed closer to the door as Sarah’s jaw dropped, dumbfounded.

“Claire!” Sarah scolded the empty space in front of her. Tears crept to the bottom of my eyes. I didn’t want to look stupid in front of Sarah, or more importantly, disappoint her already. “Jennifer,” she said firmly, throwing a piercing look straight at me, “your grandfather was a
waterman
.” The last word reverberated with authority, as if nothing could be better. “He worked on the seas all his life. Anything the sea would grow, he harvested. He eventually managed to buy his own boat and employed three men. Four families, including our own, all fed and clothed and provided for by what my father could coax out of the ocean.” She held up four fingers, looking at them like the number surprised her even now. She stared at things I could not see before her eyes refocused on the highway. “There were bad years. He worked in the canning factory across the harbor to make ends meet. That’s true. But he was not a factory worker. He was a waterman.” Sarah’s eyes blazed with the luminosity of pride.

I felt like an idiot: I had no idea what a waterman actually did. I didn’t know boats. Didn’t know tides, or stars, or engines or whatever they used these days. “I am so surprised that Claire never told you that. I guess I won’t know where to begin until I know where she left off. What do you know?”

Wild horses couldn’t make me tell the truth and say ‘nothing’, so I stalled. “About what?”

“All of this,” Sarah said, letting go of the steering wheel and throwing her hands into the air like she meant to encompass the entire world. “Our family, our home, your history, your heritage…”

“I know grandma was a teacher. I know she met your dad when she took a job in Smithport.” I let my words out slowly, monitoring them carefully. I didn’t want to hurt Sarah more by reminding her that my mother never even hinted at her existence.

“That’s something,” Sarah conceded with relief. “Have you ever seen the ocean?”

“Yes,” I answered, thankful I could give her one answer that pleased her. “We went to San Diego when I was ten. My dad has a cousin there that he really likes.”

Sarah wrinkled her nose in distaste. “I mean
our
ocean. The Northern Atlantic.” The way she said it one would think that all other oceans were second class citizens in the kingdom of Poseidon.

“No, never,” I answered reluctantly.

“Well,” she said with a strange thrill in her voice. “You will soon. I think you will love her.” The highway careened through hills covered in dense trees, taking us away from the airport until signs of humanity grew sparser. A few farm houses peeked out from intermittent clearings, showing advanced age in their sagging roofs and bowed walls. “Shelter Cove is just off the beach. Though it probably isn’t like any beach you’ve ever seen. Our bay is wild.”

A tiny shiver ran down my arms in anticipation. “What is Shelter Cove?” I asked her, picturing a park or a marina.