The Idea of Him. Holly Peterson

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СКАЧАТЬ held my hand and kissed my forehead. “It’s okay, honey. A dozen guys I know have flown to this paradise in weather like this. All good.”

      The plane made a high-pitched whine as we sped down the runway into a cloudy, billowy, late-afternoon haze. The takeoff was absolutely normal, save a few little bumps when we made the initial ascent, and I let out a small breath. Dad patted my thigh. “You see, honey. It’s all fine. We’ll be above the clouds soon and see the sun.” Our craft coasted up toward the sky.

      OUTSIDE THE WINDOW of the taxi, I could see we were now speeding west across Forty-Second Street, past a seedy commercial section of town, heading toward the flashing lights of Times Square and standstill traffic. I said through the glass, “You might want to loop over to Ninth …”

      The guy slammed on the brakes and turned around. “Look, lady, I’m gonna get you there.” Two blocks later, we were parked in traffic. I did the math: it would take me about twenty minutes to walk, but if this traffic jam broke after five minutes, then it would only take fifteen more to reach home. Same difference. Same exploding anxiety over something with the same result that I couldn’t change. I sat back against the seat again, frustrated and sweaty, my hands clammy from the plane ride down memory lane.

      “YOU’RE NEVER GOING to forget the first time the fish bite, it’s so exciting out there, the nature so delicate,” Dad yelled over the whirl of the propellers, still gaining altitude. He cradled me in the crook of his elbow and kissed the top of my head.

      My dad couldn’t contain his excitement about introducing me to his greatest joy, and I couldn’t spoil everything for him, so intoxicating was his commitment to seek that thrill with his own daughter. I wanted to warn the pilot that I felt we were in serious trouble, but I kept silent. I felt we shouldn’t even take off in this weather. Maybe I was too young to protest, to be taken seriously. And I loved my dad too much to drag him through my worries. Downers were anathema to everything he stood for.

      But there was that unmistakable ice on the wing. I’d seen something on TV about ice buildup that doomed a big plane, and I wasn’t sure if it was the same thing. Or was it just beads of water pooled out there that would slide off somehow? Or was my mind conjuring up troubles? It sure looked like little bubbles of ice were popping up. Maybe the lights on the wing were just reflecting off beads of water. But would there be water at this altitude and at this temperature? I had reminded myself the takeoff was absolutely normal. Surely my mind was playing tricks.

      It was getting dark and the lights on the wings were flashing intermittently so I couldn’t tell how bad the storm was. The snow socked us in with zero visibility. We did not see one ray of that sun Dad had promised me.

      “Dad. It’s, like, pouring snow. Are you sure …”

      “Allie. Don’t worry, we are doing just fine.”

      Ten minutes passed, and the plane dipped into a mini wind pocket and then jerked up again. It felt like we just dropped fifteen feet, hit something hard, and bounced right back up. The metal on the wings rattled. I gasped.

      “Hey, pull those belts extra-tight back there; it’s getting pretty damn windy,” the pilot yelled to us. “We’re beginning our descent, but it’s gonna be bumpy.”

      The wings now alternated up and down like a seesaw with our passenger capsule in the middle. Dad tried to get my mind off things. “What about the summer? I don’t want you selling T-shirts at that ratty shop downtown. Scooping ice cream just off my dock will be easier to get to and …”

      He paused and looked out the window; the last bump was so big he had to rest his arm on his head for protection. “Now I know teenagers veer toward doing whatever their friends are doing downtown, but …” Dad’s chatter went on, with him talking faster and faster, while the teeny cabin shook so much his words came out all jumpy.

      I think he might have been scared too and wanted to distract us both. He kept looking out the window, pausing, then talking again quickly. “I sure don’t want you in cars of any teenagers, so I’d have to drive you, and that won’t work for my early morning work schedule …” I don’t know what was really going on for him. God, the number of times I’ve wondered. How I wish to have been able to ask him. I’ll never know if he knew what I felt at that point.

      My father grabbed my hand. The plane seemed to fall twenty feet and then lunge forward.

      The pilot yelled. “We’re descending fast. Hold on!” Dad’s eyes grew large. He then knew what I knew. For a millisecond, part of me felt relief that my fears were justified, but then seeing him anxious did anything but quell them.

      “Hold on, honey!!!” he screamed at me.

      I’d never seen fear in his eyes before. Ever. I screamed. I think everyone did, but I’m not sure. Seconds later, metal crunched everywhere around me.

      I remember every jolt of force throwing me forward as we bumped along the icy grass. They say I must have blacked out for a while after the crash, but I know I remember it. Blood sloshed around my mouth. I smelled the burned fibers of the synthetic royal blue seat fabric.

      After we slowed to a deceiving, gentle stop: total silence.

      “Dad!” I screamed. “Dad!”

      Wind whistled through the cracks in the metal, and snow started whirling into the now shattered front windshield. It was way too calm inside. And next I knew, maybe three full minutes later, the skidding sound of vehicles outside the craft penetrated the eeriness inside. A man in a yellow suit with reflective silver stripes started coaxing me through the wreckage, the gusts of snowfall obscuring the beam of his flashlight. I couldn’t see my father or the pilot. I knew they were hurt. I didn’t hear them and they weren’t taking care of me, the child, in the wreckage. And I had the sudden sense they were dead.

      Once they pried open the window, the men asked if we could move. I was curled upside down and waited for my father to answer.

      “Dad?”

      That was the worst moment of all: the silence after I asked again. I would have actually been relieved to hear him screaming in pain at that point.

      Freezing wind was now howling through the front window and the sides of the open plane. The men asked again if we could move, if anyone heard them. I finally said out loud, “I’m okay.”

      “Good. That’s good. Can you try to get through this window?”

      “I don’t know if anyone else is okay.”

      “C’mon, sweetie, we’ll get them; you just get yourself through the window. Undo your seat belt if you can. There’s room for you to get out from under the seat. Crawl through right here.” The top of my hand was cut badly and my bones felt rattled, but, as far as I could tell, nothing was broken. The red light of the ambulance siren reflected off the snow and metal, blinding me every time it whipped around like a lighthouse beam. I did not want to leave that plane.

      I shook my head. “I gotta get my father. I gotta get my dad!”

      “We’re going to get him for you. We have to get you out first; you are next to the exit.” He grabbed my upper arm with one hand and supported my lower arm with the other. “Can you get out this way?” I thought that metal had somehow gotten lodged in my mouth. My tongue felt jagged, shattered teeth on the right side. I remember worrying the edges were going to cut СКАЧАТЬ