Paper Planes and Other Things We Lost, Page 2

  Funny, I’ve yet to feel alone. Since the plane crash, Nana has done everything in her power to keep me busy and surround me with love. If anything, I’m being stifled. I’d almost prefer to feel isolated. At least being alone would allow me to have some peace and quiet. It would allow me to breathe and exist with my thoughts.

  “Write a letter to Amber. You never know what kind of a connection you might form.”

  “Actually, Nana, I already got their information and wrote one.”

  ***

  “I’m home!” The front door shuts behind me.

  “In here,” Dad calls from the kitchen. Uh oh. What’s he trying to cook now?

  I turn the corner and there he is, stirring something on the stove. The kitchen is a disaster. Used mixing bowls, pots, and pans—caked in who knows what—pile up near the sink. The cutting board and knives are strewn across the center island with onion peels and open cans. Have we been hit by a tornado of food?

  “Hey, sweetheart.” He smiles, one side of his mouth drooping lower than the other, but he tries. That’s what matters.

  His smile used to come naturally. Every time he came home from the pharmacy and found Mom and me in the kitchen, his face would ease into a sincere, upturned curve, brightening the creases around his eyes. His smile hasn’t been the same since we lost her.

  “How was dance?”

  Dropping my duffle bag outside the kitchen, I walk up to him. “Fine. Dad, what are you making?”

  “Spaghetti.”

  Covering my mouth, I conceal my laugh. Why in the world did he need all of this for spaghetti? It’s sauce and noodles.

  “I’m trying Mom’s old sauce recipe. I don’t know about you, but I’m getting tired of that jarred stuff.” He lifts the wooden spoon from the pan and places his hand below to spare the floor from any drips. “Try it for me. Tell me what you think.”

  I’m a little scared. His previous experiences with cooking have not been successes. The shrimp scampi turned into shrimp oil. The lasagna turned into tomato mush. How many meals can I choke down without him knowing my taste buds are dying?

  I take a tiny, hesitant taste from the very tip of the spoon. It’s horrible. Holy pepper! I don’t hide my reaction fast enough.

  “That bad?” He tastes what’s left of the sauce on the spoon and spits it out. “Gah! What happened? I only put in a dash of pepper.”

  Oh geez. “What’s your definition of a dash?”

  He takes the pepper and pours it into the palm of his hand. The exact measurement is lost on me, but it’s definitely not a dash. More like a tablespoon. Gotta hand it to him, though, he’s not giving up.

  “Now what are we going to do?” Dad sighs and drops the spoon into the pan, defeated.

  “It’s okay, Dad. I think I can fix it.” Mom taught me to always keep a jar of sauce in the pantry, in case of a dinner emergency. I step out of the pantry, holding it high. “We still have this on hand.”

  A rueful smile tugs on his lips. “That’s my girl. You must know me or something.”

  “Or something.” I pour the jar into his concoction. “Maybe we can cut down the pepper flavor with this, so we don’t have to waste it.”

  “So resourceful.” He draws me to his side and kisses the top of my head. “I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

  “How was work? Give everyone the right meds?” I smirk.

  “I sure hope so, or I’m going to have a lot of upset doctors and a messy lawsuit on my hands.”

  We now have a gallon of spaghetti sauce, but the jar successfully cut the spiciness in half. After dinner I spoon the leftovers into some Tupperware to freeze for later. The less Dad cooks, the better. It takes us an hour, but the kitchen is finally spotless, ready for him to make another mess tomorrow. Hopefully, he doesn’t.

  As per our nightly routine, I meet him in the family room to do my homework and watch the Monday night lineup. Tonight: The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and FBI: The Untold Stories. His quiet chuckles and side remarks comfort me. I miss Mom most on these nights and the way they used to take their places on the love seat, facing the TV, with me sprawled out on the adjacent couch. It’s the little things that cause the scars of my heart to reopen and bleed for her.

  Dad sits on the love seat by himself, laughing at the TV. His happiness makes me smile. Then he absently extents his right hand, the way he would if he were reaching for her. He catches himself and stares at his hand. Setting it gently on the vacant spot, splaying his fingers over the fabric, he gets lost staring at the empty seat. The way he misses her is half of my heartache.

  I open my mouth to call out to him, to bring him back to me, when he lightly chuckles and focuses back on the show. It’s one thing for him to miss her. It’s another when he becomes his heartache and falls into a black hole I can’t save him from.

  ***

  The glow-in-the-dark stars light up when my bedroom lights shut off. I’m not tired, but I change into my pajamas and crawl under the covers anyway. This is the one moment of stillness I’m allowed.

  The light of the small galaxy on my ceiling shines bright neon yellow. Instead of falling and crashing, maybe the airplane soared into the universe. Right now Mom could be bathing in the Milky Way and dancing across the Aurora Borealis. It’s a completely nonsensical thought, but it’s nice to have those sometimes.

  I can’t get death out of my head. How did my mom die? Did the plane blow up before they hit the ocean? Did she hit her head on impact so she didn’t suffer? Did she drown? What does it feel like to drown? It must be slow and painful. I’ll need to research that.

  In the last hundred years, more than seventy commercial planes have never been recovered. Granted, only one of those was carrying more than one hundred passengers. How fascinating. And infuriating. How is it possible to lose 800,000 pounds of metal? How does it simply disappear? It’s as if the planes were made of nothing more than paper and disintegrated into the water, impossible to collect all the broken pieces.

  Of course, maybe a lost plane would be better than finding the remnants of what used to be Flight 397.

  IT SURE IS MONDAY

  Brett

  MONDAY, JANUARY 11

  Mondays suck. Can today get any worse? Probably.

  I run through the suckage of the day as I rush to my locker. I almost ran out of gas, I argued with Carmen at lunch, I’ve received obscene amounts of homework. I’d stake my soul on the collusion of my teachers to ruin my social life. And now I have a summons from the guidance counselor. Stupid Monday. My hand jerks my locker open. One period left. I can do this.

  Floral perfume tickles my nose. Carmen. Boy, the hits keep coming. I’m not in the mood to fight again.

  “Want to get something to eat after school,” her voice asks timidly over my shoulder.

  I grab the last of my folders and stuff them in my backpack. “Oh, are you talking to me now?” There’s no hiding my frustration as I zip my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and turn. I slam my locker door, the metallic clang eliciting a flinch from Carmen.

  Her nails pick at a tear in the seam of the English book hugged to her chest. I anticipate her words coming before she opens her mouth. “I shouldn’t have blown up at you earlier. I’m sorry.”

  Ahhh, there it is folks, the lukewarm apology that always follows Carmen Raspin’s drama-filled blow-ups. She’s nothing, if not predictable. She steps closer, lifting her eyes to my lips, as though her one sentence fixed everything.

  I should kiss her. Apology accepted, move on.

  Nope. My body recoils at the prospect. I sidestep instead. “Uh, I have to work.”

  “Today?” Her tone is two octaves higher than necessary. I work every Monday, she knows this. She clears her throat. “I mean, okay. Maybe I could come see you? Get a lesson in? It’s been a while.”

  “I’m on the bunny slopes on Mondays,” I remind her, trying my best to sound broken up. She may not be an advanced skier, but there’s no way she’ll join a class of elementary
age kids learning the basics. She can’t want to spend time with me that bad.

  I retreat before she can plaster a pout on her lips. “I have to run to the office, I’ll call you later.”

  I release my tight muscles once I’m a few feet away. The move speaks volumes. Time to cut the cords to this relationship. When did that happen? When did dating Carmen become a hardship?

  The seventh period bell fills the halls as I enter Administration.

  “Hi, Brett.” Danielle Foster, from my Chemistry class, stares at me from across the office. That’s right, she mentioned working as an office assistant once. The closing door bumps into my back and I slide forward.

  “Hey, I received a note from Ms. Fisher last period. She asked me to stop by before seventh.” I fish the crinkled yellow slip from my pocket as proof.

  Danielle nods, waving her finger as she leaves the counter and disappears around a corner. She returns quickly, telling me it’ll be a moment. She slides behind the counter, resting her elbows on the countertop. Her smile grows as we stare at each other. Does she expect me to make small talk now? Um, no.

  I shuffle around the office to discourage her from talking. I’m not in the mood. Feigning interest in a bulletin board covered with flyers for upcoming school events, my back turns to Danielle. Two students enter the office and her focus switches from me to them. Finally, something goes my way today.

  Pocketing the summons to the office, I lean against a wall and wait for the guidance counselor. The fluorescent light overhead hums and flickers. I’m a moth to a flame as my eyes fixate on the blinking.

  “Mr. Pratt, come into my office.” Mrs. Fisher’s head pops out from around corner.

  I follow her down a hallway lined with offices. From behind, she reminds me of Mom. She’s wearing a crisp white shirt and straight skirt with her hair twisted up in a gold clip, the same type of outfit Mom would dress in for work. She’s about Mom’s age too.

  We enter a small office on the left. “Have a seat.” Her eyes flick to a chair in front of her desk. “Thank you for stopping by.”

  “Uh, sure.” I sink to the edge of the plastic seat. “Am I in trouble?”

  Three and a half years at Palmer High School and I’ve never been in this office. It’s a box. A dark cube with four dingy walls made brighter only by the inspirational posters. Sucks to be Ms. Fisher. She plucks a file from a pile and sits.

  “Of course not, you’re doing great this year.” She licks her fingertips as she sorts through papers. She looks up with a smile. “State, huh? After reviewing your transcripts I’m confident you’ll receive an acceptance letter any time now.”

  Please let her be right. “I hope so.”

  My fingers tap my thigh, waiting for her explanation. I’ve spoken to her in the library on college days, and one time I stopped her in the hallway about a scheduling issue, but coming to her office like this makes me feel like a delinquent. I’m not a delinquent. Mom and Dad never would have stood for that.

  Ms. Fisher sets her glasses on her desk. “Brett, I asked you to stop by because I wanted to ask about your sister.”

  “Amber?” As though I have another one.

  “I know the past six months have been difficult for you both. I commend you for the way you’ve handled your loss.” The cotton edge of my shirt fills my palm as my fingers curl into fists, and my thumb and index finger rub the material. Great, this is going to be another talk about feelings and emotions from another adult who doesn’t get it. “However, Amber hasn’t handled things as well. I’m worried about her. She applied to State, too?”

  Her eyes angle down. I follow her focus. Amber’s file. Obviously she knows the answer to her own question.

  “Brett, at the rate your sister is going she’ll be lucky to graduate.”

  “Whoa. Excuse me?”

  “She can’t continue missing school. Some of her teachers have worked with her, but it seems as though she isn’t trying at all.”

  Missing school? Isn’t trying? Tiny hammers pound inside my chest. “I’m sorry, what are you talking about? Of course she’s trying. We’ve talked about college; she can’t wait to go. She’s been sick a few days, but I don’t think she’s missed too much school.”

  Has she? My mind spins. Excessive partying, random hook-ups, drinking, I’ve dealt with all of this since our parents died. I can’t control her. She’s her own person. Am I to blame? Should I be doing more?

  Ms. Fisher’s mouth curves into an understanding smile, her brow creasing. The face of pity. I hate it. She rolls forward, the wheels on her chair squealing, and pushes Amber’s folder across the desk. “Take a look at her file.”

  ***

  “Amber!” I drop my backpack on the floor and take the stairs two at a time. “Amber?” I shout, shoving her bedroom door wide.

  No answer. She wasn’t at school, she’s not here. Where is she? I kick a pair of jeans across the room. “Okay, sis, you want to skip school and flunk out? We’ll see about that.”

  I search for clues. Her bulletin board is covered with ticket stubs and scraps of paper. A few movie stubs have afternoon showings printed on them. Shoving the clutter of make-up, magazines, and candy wrappers to the side, I search for the calendar she used to keep here. Bingo! Removing a few tickets from the board, I compare dates. School days. She’s been going to movies instead of school? With who, and why?

  The pain in my chest intensifies, the soft beats turning into a jackhammer.

  There are phone numbers tacked to her board. Should I call around? I don’t want to hunt her down. Did I honestly think Monday could get better? Her alarm clock shows I have an hour and a half until work. Fine, I’ll start my homework, eat something, and cool off. I can talk to her tonight. Yep, that’ll be my plan.

  Covering my tracks, I adjust things. My hands scatter items about her desk, knocking a pile of papers to the floor. Kneeling, I pick up homework, doodles, a note, and . . . I freeze. An envelope addressed to Amber with precise lettering stares back at me. The return address isn’t familiar, but the last name . . . it’s a name I’ve seen. A name I’d never heard of before the crash. I flip the envelope over. It’s unopened and dated several weeks ago.

  Ruby Kaminski. There was an Amy Kaminski on the plane with Mom and Dad. I visualize her name. It’s in the program that was presented to us at the memorial service the airline held after the crash. ‘Kaminski’ inscribed in little gold letters, along with all of the other letters making up an entire list of victims. I poured over the list those first few weeks, matching names to faces as we found them in national news magazines. Had Mom and Dad spoken to any of these people before the end? Had they talked with excitement about their trip while at the gate waiting for their flight?

  The questions were as pointless then as they are now. We’ll never know about those final moments.

  I leave Amber’s room the way it was, with the exception of one thing—the sealed envelope from Ruby Kaminski comes with me.

  I stuff the letter into my back jeans pocket as I leave for work. It’s one small, sealed envelope, but the weight overwhelms me as I teach eight kids how to stop on their skis. What could this Ruby be writing to Amber about? Is she related to the Amy Kaminski who died with my parents? She has to be; the name isn’t common. It’s not Smith or Brown. The curiosity nearly kills me. My hand itches to pull it out during break, but I busy myself with work. Miracles of miracles, I hold out until closing, opening it the moment I reach my car. The seal rips open. I slap on the overhead light, and read. I read again, then once more for good measure.

  Ruby is the daughter of Amy Kaminski. She’s full of random facts, is a little weird—or so she says—and she’s written to my sister.

  Her strange thoughts and curious letter plague me all the way home. She joked—I suppose it was a joke, in a morbid way—about how maybe our parents are at some big island party. Am I mad at her suggestion, or does it make me want to laugh? I don’t know. I don’t want to pretend my parents are hanging ou
t on an island, eating lobster and playing beach volleyball with a bunch of strangers. It’s a ridiculous thought. No, I want them here, at home, so they can deal with the crap they left behind. The crap I’m trying so hard to pick up.

  She’s hoping Amber might be able to relate to her. Hmmm, is Ruby Kaminski running around skipping school, risking her future, and sleeping with losers, too? I doubt it. Anyone as messed up as my sister wouldn’t bother reaching out to a stranger.

  I formulate a return letter as I drive—

  Hey Ruby,

  Did you know the probability for a woman to give birth to twins is something like . . . Well, I don’t know what it is, but I know it’s not huge. Now, do you know the probability of twins being orphaned due to their parents dying in a plane crash? Yeah, I didn’t think so.

  I don’t really care about the percentage and probabilities because truth is, it happened. To my sister and I. And it sucks.

  Sorry if that’s not what you want to hear.

  That’s rather harsh. I flick my turning signal on as I approach the intersection near home. How about—

  Ruby,

  Hi, my name is Brett and I’m a jerk. I need to tell you that first and foremost. I went through my sister’s things and found your unopened letter. Normally, a letter to Amber wouldn’t spark my interest. I swear I’ve never snooped through her things before.

  Wait, I take it back, there was this one time she stole one of my cassette tapes—but that’s different.

  Anyway, I found the letter and I read it. I said I’m a jerk, right? Now I’m writing back.

  Why?

  A horn blows. Crap. The intersection is empty and I’m sitting in the middle of it with a green light reflecting off the ice and water droplets edging my windshield. Glancing in my rear view mirror, I wave half-heartedly at a pair of headlights as I press my foot on the gas and turn. I formulate thoughts and words the remainder of the way home. Leaving the car idling when I pull into the driveway, I dig out a notebook and pen from my backpack. I jot down my mental letter and finish it—