Cloud Nine. Luanne Rice

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      ‘“Susan”?’ Secret said, barely looking up. ‘There’s no one named Susan here.’

      ‘That’s right, I forgot,’ Mimi said, grinning. ‘Secret. You changed your name. What’re you doing?’

      ‘October is the month for witchy doings, and since you know I’m a witch, I’m painting my nails accordingly,’ Secret said patiently, as if she were explaining something terribly obvious to a dim but cherished friend. She wiggled her fingers at Mimi, casting a spell.

      ‘Wow,’ Mimi said, admiring the artwork. Secret had used India ink and a crow-quill pen to paint delicate spiderwebs on her iridescent pale blue nails. Being right-handed, her left hand was more intricately done, with microscopic spiders clinging to the silken strands.

      ‘You brought that lady here for her plane ride, I see,’ Secret said, looking out the window again. The airport was tiny, and there wasn’t much activity. ‘Was she surprised?’

      ‘Very surprised,’ Mimi said. ‘I’m glad you suggested it.’

      ‘Mmm,’ Secret said, taking the compliment as her due. She was known for her great surprise and party ideas. Watching the woman walk toward the plane, she noticed a few things: She was too thin, her hair looked terrible, and she had the nicest face Secret had seen in a long time. ‘Is that lady really sick?’ she asked.

      ‘She was,’ Mimi said. ‘But she’s getting better. My mom takes care of lots of people, and for a while she said Sarah was going to die. But now she says she’s probably not. I’m really glad, but I don’t get it.’

      ‘You’re too young to get it,’ Secret said benevolently, although Mimi was older than Secret had been when her brother died. Secret’s throat began tickling. Her chest got that heavy feeling, and she reached into her father’s top drawer for the inhaler they always kept there. She took a hit.

      ‘Are you okay?’ Mimi asked, always looking so worried when Secret had an attack. This was nothing. Secret had asthma and allergies, and she had first met Mimi because Meg Ferguson had been her nurse. After a really bad attack, when she had stopped breathing and started turning blue, Secret had needed inhalation therapy for a few days, and her mother had called the visiting nurse.

      ‘I’m fine.’

      ‘Good thing you have your inhaler.’

      ‘I didn’t have it at school today, so I had to come home early.’ As soon as she said it, Secret felt bad for lying – to Mimi and to the school nurse. She had had her inhaler; it was buried deep in her book bag, beneath her art supplies and Franny and Zooey. But she had been bored at school, feeling lonely, and when the opportunity had presented itself with a choking fit, she had asked them to call her father.

      Lonely: Secret felt it all the time, down to her toes. She missed her brother. Living with her mother, she missed her father. Right under the same roof, Secret missed her mother. Half the time she missed people when they were sitting right next to her. Walking through the mall with girls from her school, she missed her friends and they were right there.

      Like now: Sitting here with Mimi, gazing out at the airstrip, she watched the sick lady with the terrible hair get into the plane, with this beautiful radiant look in her eyes, and Secret missed her. Missed her so badly her chest began to hurt, even though Secret had never met her before and didn’t even know her name.

      They flew north. The pilot took her over the lake and western ridge, where the leaves blazed in the orange light. The craggy rocks glowed red, and the lake itself was deep blue-black. Sarah pressed her forehead against the cold window, looking out. She watched red-tailed hawks circling below the plane, their shadows dark and mysterious on the lake’s smooth surface.

      ‘Ever been up in a small plane before?’ the pilot asked.

      ‘Yes,’ Sarah said.

      ‘Don’t know why, I thought it was your first time,’ he said. ‘The way Mimi and her mom were so excited about arranging it for you.’

      ‘I think maybe I mentioned to Meg that I love flying,’ Sarah said. ‘Although I don’t do it as much now as I used to. Lots of weekends, I’d be on a plane just slightly bigger than this, flying home to Maine from Boston.’

      ‘I’m from New England too,’ he nodded. ‘That lake’s pretty, but it’s not –’

      ‘The Atlantic,’ she said, grinning.

      He laughed too, the response of a man who had saltwater in his veins, who for some reason, like Sarah, had found himself living in upstate New York after a lifetime by the sea.

      ‘I’m Will Burke,’ he said, taking his hand off the controls to shake her hand.

      ‘Sarah Talbot.’

      ‘Hi, Sarah.’

      ‘Who was that I saw in the window back at the airport?’ Sarah asked. ‘That young girl looking out?’

      ‘My daughter, Susan,’ Will said.

      ‘A teenager?’

      ‘Fifteen,’ he said. ‘Going on thirty.’

      ‘I know the syndrome,’ Sarah said, glancing east, as if she could see across four states to a tiny island off the coast of Maine.

      They kept heading north, even though they had reached the midway point, been in the air for seven and a half minutes, and should have turned for home. Down below was an endless pine forest. It covered the hills in all directions, an unfathomable expanse of green, and the dying sun threw glints of gold in the tall treetops. Sarah felt her eyes fill with tears.

      Will glanced over.

      ‘I didn’t think I’d be here,’ Sarah said. ‘For another birthday.’

      ‘But you are,’ Will said.

      He pulled back on the controls, and the plane began to climb. They left the earth behind, flying straight into the sky. Sarah felt the exhilaration of adventure, something new, of being alive. Her heart was in her throat, gravity pulling her shoulder blades against the leather seat. Will glanced quickly over.

      The plane dove down. Holding tight, Sarah felt the plane do one loop-de-loop, then another. Will’s hand was so close, she wanted to grab for it. It was a sudden, mad impulse, and it passed. The plane steadied off. Sarah’s fifteen minutes were up, but they kept flying north for a while longer before they turned for home.

2

      ‘Did she like her ride?’

      Sitting at the kitchen table, reading the paper, Will didn’t quite hear the question. He had been up since five, servicing the planes and flying a mapmaker around the state. Updating his topographical maps, measuring elevations and plotting railroad lines, he had spent the morning directing Will to fly low and come around again for a better look; he’d be back again before dawn tomorrow.

      ‘Sorry, Susan,’ he said, yawning. ‘Did you ask me something?’

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