The Art of Saying Goodbye - Ellyn Bache [28]
“One two seven November, no visible damage,” the voice said. And then, condescending, “Lady, you can still go back where you came from if you want.”
Anger started up in me then like it did sometimes, a small blue flame in the pit of my belly. Mason said it served me well. I was never so sure. Either way, I couldn’t help it. “One two seven November is turning final for runway nine to land,” I barked at the controller.
For a second, he sounded more official. “Everything’s clear.” And then not so official: “You sure you want to try this again, lady?”
“Yes, sir, I certainly do.”
My anger didn’t diminish, just cooled into raw efficiency. I thought, This has got to be the best landing of my life.
Throttle back, a seventy-knot glide, first flaps lowered, plane retrimmed. I pushed the voice on the radio aside, focused on what I was doing. I was not incapable, and I was not lost.
Descending through 350 feet, coming in on final, I felt fine. Came over the threshold, leveled out the glide. Controlled the rate of sink as if I’d been doing it all my life. Wings level . . . glide halted . . . just a few feet off the runway. Then the flareout: nose up just a little, power reduced. Main wheels down, nose wheel. Done. Rolling out.
I’d greased it in there. I really had.
The people who’d examined the plane’s belly were waiting on the tarmac, anxious to see who I was. When I finally emerged, their posture changed—it always did—as they got a good look at me. The women pulled into themselves, and the men registered approval. The judgmental looks disappeared.
They kept staring at me. I was used to that. I let them get a good eyeful and then said, “Somebody sign my logbook. I’m working to get my license.”
At home, Mason applauded when he saw me and gave me a thumbs-up sign. “You’ll have your license before you know it.” But I knew even then I’d gotten all I needed from flying that little plane. I told him yes, a June wedding would be fine, I’d always wanted one. I told him about the people who thought I was too dumb to land without mishap and he said, exactly as I knew he would, “Those bastards. Well, you showed them, didn’t you?” I’d loved him for a long time by then. It was a day of triumph.
When you’re down, remember your triumphs. That’s what I need to tell the girls. Sometimes you get in trouble and crash. Other times: just a bumpy landing.
Chapter 8
October 23
For the first week after Paisley returns from the specialist, most of the neighbors avoid her, except for Andrea, who wants to be with her as much as she can. After their shared experience with Courtney years ago, Andrea thinks Paisley will understand everyone’s reticence, but she seems totally baffled every time the doorbell rings and yet another well-wisher drops off a cake or casserole to Paisley’s mother, Rita, and then flees without coming in to say hello. “Oh!—look!” the neighbor will say breathlessly, tapping the face of her watch. “I wanted to see Paisley but I’m late picking up Jenny at soccer. She’ll have a fit if I don’t go this second.” Brandishing her car keys, she’ll add, “Give Paisley my love. Tell her I’m thinking about her.” Or if she’s religious, “Tell her I’m praying for her.” Then she’s out the door and down the driveway, racing as if chased by wolves.
Practically every day, Paisley puts on a comic face to hide her disappointment and says to Andrea, “Tell people they’re welcome to visit, not just drop off food.” Andrea promises she will. She never adds, “Be real, Paisley. They’re too scared. They’re afraid what they might find out.” After five days, during which Paisley becomes decidedly more jaundiced, Andrea says quietly,