Come to the Edge_ A Memoir - Christina Haag [106]
I put it off—the weekend away—wary that the curious alchemy of mystery and knowing might dissolve with four days in a row. But it hasn’t. It’s stronger. And like thick black ice, I begin to trust that it will hold me.
“I have a surprise for you,” he says over breakfast. We’d flown up commercial, but he tells me he’s chartered a plane back, and now we have more time. Over the years, he will say this when he does what pleases him. A surprise for you. And for a long time, I will find it charming. Like when he orders three breakfasts and tells the waiter two are for me.
The pilot greets us at the shingled terminal and drives us to the plane in a cart. It feels glamorous. “You’re lucky,” the pilot says. “Gonna be a great sunset. Clear skies all the way to New York.” It’s a single-engine Cessna with three passenger seats. Blue-winged, with a striped nose. The pilot checks wheels, pressure, flaps, gauges, and John follows him around the plane. He’s had lessons before, and they talk shop.
When they’re done, the pilot pulls me up the wing into the tilted plane, then John. Something breaks. I reach inside the pocket of my coat; there’s his stone and pieces of a scallop shell I found near the cliffs the day before. We buckle in and the tower clears us. I’ve never been in a plane so small, and he holds my hand for takeoff. His face—all of him—it’s eager. Once we’re up, he gives me the headphones. I listen for a moment to the monotone jumble of numbers and letters and codes I know fascinate him, then hand them back.
I’m entranced by the shapes from above—the coves and cliffs and ponds, the yellow borders of beach against the deep dark sea. I try to memorize and tuck them away like my life depends on it: I must have this snapshot of now. The pilot was right—the sky’s clear, only a thin bank of violet at the horizon. The din in the cabin is a dull roar—like you’re underwater. We can’t hear each other and speak in an amalgam of excited gestures and facial expressions. Below, there’s Gay Head and the empty islands we saw the day before from the cliffs—only now, from the sky, they’re complete. Naushon, Nashawena, Pasque. I say the names to myself to remember. In case this is the last time. In case it’s all we have. Just then the sun drops and floods the plane with ruddy light. Look! He lets go of my hand. He wants me to see.
The camel coat’s on my shoulders. The sky’s shot with red. And there’s something I’ve never seen. Small lines—the creases at his eyes, when he’s happy, when he’s smiling. Like bird wings.
Acknowledgments
First: Without the love and encouragement of Jennie Moreau, Fredrika Brillembourg, and Mia Dillon, this book would not have been written. They knew that going back would not be easy, and like many of my friends, they had faith when I faltered. They persuaded me to tell my story and reminded me of the heart when I veered away. In addition, I have endless gratitude for Elizabeth Auran and Tom Diggs, who read so kindly, so carefully, and then shed light. And for Bernadette Haag Clarke and Rebecca Boyd, who knew, and always said, “Keep going!”
Profound thanks to Gary Murphy and Kirk Stambler for their counsel and keen insights; Paulette Bartlett, Rachel Resnick, and Erin Cressida Wilson for their thoughtful reads and good advice; Asaad Kelada, Arye Gross, Cordelia Richards, Daniel McDonald, and Andrew Haag for braving early drafts. And to Lynne Weinstein for her beautiful photographs and her friendship.
Heartfelt thanks to my agent, Suzanne Gluck, whose steadfast belief in my story and whose guidance at every turn have proven invaluable. And to her assistant, Caroline Donofrio, who answered my questions with cheerfulness and clarity. I am enormously grateful to the fabulous Julie Grau and the superb team at Spiegel & Grau: Sally Marvin, Avideh Bashirrad, Erika Greber, Richard Elman, Dana Leigh Blanchette, Greg Mollica. And to Evan Gaffney. Special thanks are due to Hana Landes, who kept things running