Free Above Us Only Sky by Michele Young-Stone Page B

fish, just an occasional skate, their tails and wings twitching, the whiteness of their underbellies writhing on the concrete. The black storm clouds came in from the north and settled over us like squat men in capes. We could feel the darkness pressing down.
    In Brooklyn, the Old Man kept dreaming, and in Los Vientos Wheaton had his visions. He gave them permanence in his brown notebook, sketching my wings. Like the rendering of the ghostly girl, they were veiled, not fully realized. But I knew them. Meanwhile, I felt them: long feathered things tickling my ankles, making me feel that any four walls were too cramped. We were three individuals feeling global shifts, cosmic ripples, a wall cracking, an iron curtain torn like dusty drapes, the reunification of the Vilkas clan. These things filled us from the inside, a collective breath holding.

    It’s a bumpy landing, and we’re in the back of the plane. Sam Kirk and I wait patiently for the other passengers to gather their carry-ons. I wonder how the pilot would react if I ran my fingers through his candy hair. Not very well, I think.
    â€œI need a glass of water,” he says.
    He’s sticky with booze. Apparently, neither of us is in a hurry to get up. I pass him my water bottle. “It’s been opened, but you can have the rest.”
    â€œLuckily, I’m not a germaphobe.” He guzzles it down, confessing, “I’m better at flying than being a passenger.” He sits up straighter. We watch the other passengers hurrying to disembark, pulling down square suitcases, mothers grabbing hold of children’s hands, middle-aged women complaining about the rough landing, the businessmen folding their papers, their Wall Street Journal and New York Times , securing their laptops, looking anywhere but at the other passengers. Sam Kirk, my new friend, says, “I’m going to see my mother.” He reaches in the seatback for a spiral notebook and a pencil.
    â€œThat’s nice,” I tell him.
    He holds up the pencil. “Not really. I come once a month to write down her memories.”
    I’m perplexed, and it shows. Is the pilot also a writer?
    He says, “Usually, I drink too much, but it’s not like she notices. She has Alzheimer’s, and it’s getting worse. The only thing she wants is for me to write down her stories and then, when it’s worse, and she doesn’t know who she is, to read them back to her. She lives in Greenpoint, Brookyln, and last month, she asked me, ‘Do you know where I am? Am I still in Greenpoint?’” He grimaces. “She whispered, ‘I don’t know where I am, and I’m afraid to ask anyone.’ Then she said, ‘I’m scared. I’m really scared, Roy. I don’t want to lose my mind.’ Roy was my brother. He’s been dead ten years.”
    Sam Kirk looks like he’s going to cry, and I think about the Old Man. Is he really finally old ? Will he know me? Does he know Oma? Nothing is more important to him than his family. He can’t lose us . Then, I do the unexpected. I slip my fingers under Sam Kirk’s blond curls. Instead of pulling away, he leans closer, and we stay like that, his sour breath under my nose, on my collar, and in my ear. We look like lovers.
    The flight attendants have begun sweeping and collecting trash. Sam Kirk touches my hand, my fingers still twisted in his hair. His eyes are filled with tears. He says, “There’s a woman who comes during the day, and my mother has neighbors and friends who stop by, but I don’t know for how much longer.” We separate slowly, gracefully. He opens the spiral notebook. The pages are filled with blue script, the pilot’s hand. “I never dreamt that my mother would have so many things to say. I never imagined that it would get worse so damn fast, and that’s what it is now. This month, I’m reading to her.” I squeeze his hand, and he squeezes