Clear to Lift (14 page)

She's met him on two occasions and they've gotten along just fine. “Smart choice, Ali,” she said. “Smart choice.” It's what she always says. But I've always wondered, does “smart” equal “right”?

“Ali? Ali, honey, are you there?”

“I'm here.”

“What's the matter?”

“Mom, did you love Nick?”

“What? Of course I did.”

A defensive answer to a subject I haven't broached with her in ages. A practiced response that always begins with a question—
What?
—spoken with strident incredulity. As in,
How could you ask such a thing?
Followed by a decidedly vehement
Of course I do,
or
Of course I did,
depending on when I ask. Answers rendered with finality to prevent further questioning.

Sometimes I'll push it, selfishly asking the follow-on question, knowing the hurt to her that will inevitably result. Most times, though, to spare her this, I back off. But this time, I have to know. I
need
an answer. I need confirmation.

“Did you love
my
father? My
real
father?”

“Nick was your father.”

Boom. Standard. Pavlovian.

“Mom, please. Please, for once don't say that.”

“Ali, I don't—”

“Please don't say you don't want to talk about it. Please, can you just answer me this? Just this once. I'm about to
marry
Rich. And if he can cancel on me like this—
again
—maybe he's just like my father. Maybe he's capable of leaving, too.”

No answer, no answer …

“I'm not asking for much, Mom. I just want to know if you loved him. That's all.”

Her breathing slows, and after an interminable silence, there's an unmistakable hitch. “Yes.”

Whoa. She actually confirmed it. What I've known in my heart, because she sat with “him” all those years in her garden of larkspur, but something she's never openly admitted.

“But after he left? You still—?”

“I've never stopped loving him.”

“But … how?” I ask, a knot lodging in my throat. “He left us, Mom. He
left
us.” I reach my unsteady hand to the end table to deposit my cup of cider before it spills. “
Why
did he leave? Was it someone else? Was it—”

“No, it wasn't someone else. He loved me equally as much, if not more.”

“But … I've spent my entire life hating this man for what he did to us. To you.”

“You don't understand, Alison.”

“But it doesn't make sense!”

I pop to a stand. Years of frustration, so many unanswered questions, and finally, finally, my mom has opened the door. Just a crack. But when I see the opening, I can't help it. I burst through. Why? Why leave? For what? And does it matter anyway? How could you leave a young mother—especially one you loved—and her four-year-old? How? What was so pressing? Did they have an argument? Did he ever come back? Has she talked to him since? Did he ever ask about me? “Why?” I say, my voice finally kicking in. “Why would he leave? That bastard! Why—”

“Alison!” she shouts, stopping my ranting cold. “Don't ever speak about him in that manner! Ever!”

The laser-sharp rebuke thunders in my ears.

“He was a good man, Alison. A good man…” She has to stop to compose herself, and frankly, I'm doing the same. Because she never told me anything, I've had to fill in the blanks, concocting tales of a vile person, so callous he would abandon his wife and child when he was needed most.

Needed most …

My mom married Nick just eighteen months later.…

“I … I'm sorry,” I say softly. “I didn't…”

I can almost see her standing taller, pulling back her shoulders. “You're making too big an issue about Rich. Taking it too personally. He's just doing what he needs to do. Nothing more.”

“Um … yeah. Yeah, I guess.”

“I have to go, Ali.”

I choke down the sob that swells in my throat.

“Remember, honey, I love you. More than anything in this world, I love you.”

Somehow, I manage an “I love you” in return, before she hangs up.

No! We were just getting started!

I slump down to the couch, my head pounding, beyond frustrated. Finally, my mom opened up, talking about what I've so desperately wanted to discuss since forever, and then wham, she shut it down.

My fault for pushing it, though. Damn it.

But then … Whoa.

It dawns on me that I've just witnessed an unmistakable breakthrough. Maybe the therapy's working after all, because this is the most my mom has ever opened up about my father.

I place my hands on the sides of my head, holding it still, while her revelations ping against the sides of my skull.

She loved my father. Loves him still. And this
good
man loved her.

I don't understand. I don't understand it at all.

He's just doing what he needs to do. Nothing more.

My mother's words re-form in my mind, communicating a message—perhaps intended, perhaps not.
I did what I had to do. Nothing more.

And then I start to see things—stalks of larkspur growing up through the carpeting and peeking through cracks in the walls. Me, sitting, just like my mom …

And just like that, I'm dressed and driving to June Lake. To Jack's house.

 

16

I drive past June Mountain Ski Resort, then turn off the main road, and follow a twisty, snowy lane upward. I'm ushered along by rows of stick-bare aspen, bony sentinels directing me forward, every turn bringing another house into view, cabins quietly tucked into the mountainside forest and invisible from the main street. I move at a crawl, looking for mailboxes, searching for the right address, while passing trucks rigged with snowplow shovels on their bumpers, all jammed into the slimmest of pullouts.

Finally, I emerge into an open cul-de-sac, where at least twenty cars are parked front-to-back. A nearly hidden driveway leads downward through the trees and out of view. The airport manager's truck we used in Bishop is parked here, too. Yep, right place.

I park, step out, then follow tire tracks down the meandering drive, the snow crunching softly under my feet. Heavy-laden boughs of pine arch overhead, pencil-thin icicles dangling from the branches. I shove my hands deeper in my jacket pockets as I drop out of view of the street.

Low rumbles of laughter break the silence as I round the last corner. Here the driveway widens, revealing a nestled log cabin, the windows glowing a warm and welcoming gold. It's so embedded and tucked in, the house looks as if it's part of the forest itself. Exactly the home I would have pictured for Jack. Will's truck is parked outside the garage, right next to cars I recognize as belonging to Boomer and Hap.

I turn down the front walkway, one that has been shoveled, snow piled high to either side, to the entry alcove, which is dominated by oversized wooden double doors. The heavy brass knocker resonates with a deep bass thud.

I clench and unclench my fists in my pockets, wondering for the hundredth time if I should have come here. The correct answer is no.

I mean, what are you doing, Alison? Like, what is this? Would you have come to this party if Will wasn't going to be here? No, you would have given it a miss, because you were feeling lousy and not in the mood to see anyone. But you did come, and you know the reason why.…

The door opens with a
whump
. Will stands in the entryway, beer in hand, wearing a startled yet genuinely pleased expression. It's something I have to latch on to, though, before he slides down an invisible shield.
Whump.
Just like the door.

“Alison…? I wasn't expecting you.”

“I wanted to call, but I didn't have your number.” I look up, down, around, anywhere but into his eyes, nerves running helter-skelter. “So anyway, is it still okay?”

“Of course,” he says, looking discreetly over my shoulder and then to the sides. “So, where's Rich?” he asks breezily.

“He … he had to cancel his trip.”

“Oh, I see.”

The silence stretches. And stretches.

“Um … so may I come in?”

He jumps slightly, putting out his hand. “Oh, god! Sorry! Yes!” he says, stepping back to let me walk through the entry. He snaps to, moving past the awkwardness. “Can I take your jacket?”

I shrug out of my jacket and hand it to him. As he opens the entryway closet, my head turns upward to the triangular-shaped ceiling, ribbed with good old-fashioned cedar logs, a framed skylight in the center.

A whirl of fur circles my legs, and Mojo gives a healthy yip as his tail beats the air. I crouch, taking his head in my hands. “Hey, boy, how are you? Didn't recognize you without your vest!”

He answers with a quick lick to my face before bounding away.

I rise to face Will, who stands, arms crossed, a look of wonder on his face. “That's new,” he says.

“What's new?”

“Mojo coming to greet someone at the door tonight. He's been sticking like glue to Jack since the accident and hasn't left his side since the party started. Interesting that he felt your arrival important enough to merit a personal welcome.”

“Maybe it's that I used to have a Lab, too. Probably senses it. Anyway, I want to apologize for not letting you know I was coming ahead of time. For just showing up on your doorstep like this.”

“Nonsense, I invited you. But may I give you my number? You know, just so you have it … for something like tonight, I mean.”

I add Will's number to my phone, but when I look up, my breath catches. In front of me, a recessed central living room, one easily as large as my entire apartment, walled on all sides by glass. I turn to look behind me—modest entryway—then back to something not so modest. Is there such a thing as a log
mansion
? My god. That's what this is. All of it hidden.

Beyond the glass walls, a balcony sweeps on all sides. I spot some of my squadron mates outside, drinking and laughing with the Mono County guys. They don't appear to be fazed by the cold, although it does look like heating lamps are spaced across the balcony at intervals. I do a quick scan of the living room—close to thirty people here. Many in standing groups, some sitting on the rust-colored leather couches, and a few lounging by the hearth next to the oversized fireplace.

To the left is a large open kitchen with a granite countertop running about fifteen feet long, every barstool along its length occupied. A potluck feast stretches across the counter—a mishmash of offerings—and a large stockpot steams on the stove, hot chili spilling down the sides.

Country music plays lightly in the background from unseen speakers. I scrunch up my brow, trying to recollect. I know this voice.…

“What is it?” Will asks.

I point to the air. “This song. Who sings this?”

“This? You mean Randy Travis?”

I nod.

“You don't know Randy Travis?”

“No. I mean, yes. Sort of … well, no.”

His cheeks move like he wants to smile, but he stops before you could officially call it one.

“‘Better Class of Losers' is one of the more well-known country tunes out there.”

“I've heard it before. I have. Really. I just didn't know who sang it.”

It
is
true. I
have
heard this song before. In our aircraft—grrr—but also at the Safeway grocery store in Fallon. Country music is the only thing they play, and in the few short months I've been here, I've learned many of the songs, singing along—which, of course, I would never admit to Boomer—but never knowing the artists. And now that I know who it is, I certainly recognize Randy Travis's voice.

“Do you like it?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“I mean country music. In general.”

“Well … I'm kind of new to it.”

“Ah. Well, it grows on you,” he says, his eyes lingering. The invisible shield cracks just a bit, and something flares deep in my stomach.

Thankfully, he blinks. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Yes, please.”

He places his hand lightly on my back, steering me to the left, in the direction of the kitchen. It's only for a moment, his touch, but my back goes tingly, a sensation that quickly spreads—arms, legs, hands, feet.

We walk down three wooden steps, each at least ten feet in length, running across the breadth of the entryway to the level of the living room. And by the time we step off the bottom stair, a span of maybe four seconds top to bottom, the invisible shield is gone.

“What would you like?” he asks as we enter the kitchen.

“How about what you're having?”

“Coming up.”

He opens the door to the refrigerator side of the wide stainless-steel refrigerator-freezer just as Thomas walks up behind him. “Any ice cream left, bro?”

“I knew
you'd
be coming, so yeah, I stocked up,” Will says. He opens the door to the freezer side, pulling out one of several half-gallon containers of ice cream, this one butter pecan.

“Your favorite, right?” I say to Thomas.

“You know it!” he says, spinning away.

I peer into the voluminous freezer, spying at least ten other containers.

“Chocolate chip?” I say, motioning to the one, two, three, four containers of the flavor.

He grins. “Yes…?”

“That's your favorite, isn't it.”

“Used to be,” he says, grinning.

He closes the freezer door and pokes his head into the refrigerator side.

“Hey, our favorite pilot!” I turn to see Tawny sitting at the kitchen counter. Kelly is next to her—

And then it registers.
What did he just say?