Before Wings (10 page)

“Use the foot rests,” Paul hollered as the engine roared to life. “And hang on. I’m your seatbelt.”

She hesitated. This was starting to feel like a massage parlor. Then he gunned the bike, it jumped forward, and she had to grab something to stay on. By the time her head cleared, they were passing the corrals, and her arms were wrapped around him in a death grip. How embarrassing. But this was nothing like being in a car—the ground went by at an alarming speed, and it looked so close. Instinctively, her arms tightened. Paul stopped at the edge of the grounds, where the camp road connected to a highway. A few cars whizzed by.

“You all right?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said to his helmet.

“Don’t let go,” he said, and turned onto a well-worn dirt path that ran parallel to the highway. The track dipped and swerved through blond grass that rose to her waist and brushed her bare arms. There was the constant thrum of the engine beneath her, the warm shift of Paul’s back against her chest. Everything was sun, wind and sky. They came to
a split in the trail and he took the path leading away from the highway, across a scrubby field and up a hill. When they crested, he stopped briefly. Ahead lay a series of hills, laced with dirt paths. Several bikes jetted puffs of dust as they skidded and swerved.

Paul turned his head. “Cousins.”

Great, a family reunion. “You’re not going to do that, are you?” she asked, pointing to a bike that was mid-air, coming off a ridge.

“You’ll be okay if you keep hanging on like that,” he grinned.

Flushing, she let go. Paul took her hands and pulled them back around his waist.

“Keep your seatbelt fastened.” He revved the engine.

Adrien gave an exasperated snort, but lost the irritation. She couldn’t stop breathing the warm grass scent, couldn’t stop
knowing
she was breathing. Above spread a sheer blue sky. It felt like the dome of her brain, as if her skull had lifted off and she was one with an endless blue, floating above the rippling blond hills. “It’s so pretty out here.”

“Yeah,” said Paul, “it is.”

A shout came from below as the other bikers caught sight of them. Paul stuck two fingers into his mouth and gave an ear-splitting whistle. Ear-splitting whistles replied.

“Found your wings yet, Angel?” he asked.

“Adrien,” she said automatically, still watching the sky.

“Well, Adrien.” He leaned forward, pulling her with him. “Let’s fly.” With a spurt, the bike careened downward, leaving her scream at the crest of the hill. The next hour was a blurred weave of beige grass and brown earth, following
paths that rose toward sky, then descended again. She soon felt it, a liquid ceaseless flight that could have been a fantasy of riding the wind, but for the sound of the engine and the feel of Paul’s body pulling her into the swerve of the bike. After a while, she lost even this and became only motion, riding earth, cresting sky, catching the sun in her mouth and letting it out again into the endless blue. When Paul finally cut the engine, the silence was shattering. She pulled off her helmet, and her ears vibrated with the quiet. As she slid off the bike, every part of her body ached—her arms, the inside of her legs, even her butt. Gradually, sound returned and she could hear the wind sighing in the grass, the distant whine of the other bikes. Paul spoke, his voice so complete, it seemed to rise out of the earth.

“How’d you like it?” He stood beside her, running his hands through his sweaty hair. The usual heaviness that sat on him was gone, as if he had dumped his sixth sense for the day and was living inside the other five.

She breathed the deep warm scent of grass and earth. “I want my own bike,” she said. “I want my own bunch of hills. And I want this sky.”

He grinned. “You want a smoke?”

“Yeah,
and
lunch.
And
a bathroom.”

He pointed to a large rock with a small shadow, the only privacy the area offered. As she squatted, her knees creaked and the ground still seemed to be moving, but desperation made do. When she returned, Paul was sitting on the ground, talking to one of his cousins. The other bikers were a crest of noise, cruising toward them.

“So, who’s your girlfriend?” asked the skinny nervous-looking cousin, obviously known for his tact.

“Adrien,” said Paul, handing her a pack of cigarettes. “She works at Camp Lakeshore. Adrien, this is Rene.”

Rene had mastered the art of checking out a girl with his peripheral vision. He gave her a sideways grin. “So, you like biking?”

“Paul’s giving me his bike,” Adrien said immediately. “At the end of the day it’s staying with me and he’s walking home.”

Paul gave a soft laugh.

“Engaged already.” Rene gave Paul’s shoulder a congratulatory pat. Adrien concentrated on lighting a cigarette as the other cousins pulled off their helmets and were introduced—Claude, Philippe and Bette, a burly short-haired red-head who could be taken for a boy at a glance. As they talked about an upcoming rodeo, Adrien sat stripping grass, watching from her usual position outside the conversation. Except this time the earth vibrated like the roar of a bike, and her blood was madly cruising every artery. Her stomach let loose with a loud grumble and she stood.

“I need food,” she said to Paul.

“Yup, me too.” He pulled on his helmet. “See you guys.”

“Invite us to the wedding,” Rene called as they got onto the bike. Adrien’s body settled into its worst aches. Paul waved and they swung onto the track. Now that she had been called his girlfriend, holding onto him was different. When they touched, her skin felt warm and sweet. Why hadn’t Paul told Rene they just shared smokes and talked?

“Where are we going?” she yelled at his helmet. “Food,” he yelled back. A short while later, they pulled up in front of a farmhouse. Paul cut the engine. In the sudden quiet, she tried but couldn’t move. The slightest shift was torture.

“Stiff?” Paul slid awkwardly off the front of the seat and turned to help her.

“Rigor mortis,” she groaned.

He gave a soft grin. His eyes were like moss, velvety. “Hold still.” He undid her helmet and took it off. Then he reached into her hair and gently removed something. It was a mayfly, its pale wings slightly mangled, but alive. “Hitched a ride,” said Paul. They watched it wobble off his hand, flutter a short distance and disappear into the grass.

“Won’t last long.”

“Who does?”

“I’m glad I lasted longer than two days.”

“Two days is eighty years to them,” said Paul. “Imagine what it’d be like if life was just water and grass and sky. Heaven, don’t you think?”

“Earth,” said Adrien. “What kind of life is it to live at the bottom of a lake for two years, so you can fly for two days, spawn and die?”

“I like the middle part,” he said. “I bet they make every second count.”

She had never felt so much heat. Concentrating furiously, she lugged her aching body off the bike, just as a small girl in overalls and braids came running up, an aging collie loping along behind her.

“Who’s she?” demanded the girl.

“
She
is Adrien, Michelle,” said Paul.

“Why is her face so red?”

The red deepened. Desperately, Adrien wished for The Big One.

“Windburn,” said Paul. He touched her arm, and Adrien managed a sideways glance. “C’mon in for lunch.”

They headed for the front porch, Michelle trailing behind. “She’s your girlfriend,” the little girl announced, “because Leanne dumped you, and now you don’t got one.”

Something shot through Adrien, hot and painful.

“Leanne moved to Regina,” Paul said stiffly. “And we were just friends.”

“I saw you kissing her,” Michelle insisted shrilly.

Paul took a deep breath and glanced at Adrien. “How stiff are you? Need help climbing the stairs?”

She looked away. “I’ll be all right.”

“Hope you’re hungry.” He took the steps in a single bound. “We’ve got loads of food.”

Food
turned out to mean everything from baked beans to leftover lasagna to angel food cake, with a few sardines thrown in for dessert. Paul’s mother hovered about the kitchen, wearing overalls and braids like her daughter, constant movement and chatter. She watched Adrien, and Adrien watched her.

“Now Michelle, you’ve already had your lunch, and you had two pieces of cake, and why are you wearing your shoes in the kitchen? Take this out to Sheltee, she’s losing too much weight. Adrien, Paul tells me you’re Erin Wood’s niece. She’s been a good solid camp director all these years, don’t you think? This is the day I always think of it, all those
young ones packing their suitcases and sleeping bags for their first week at camp. I remember when your city cousin Annette used to go, Paul. Always wanted to take half the house. Couldn’t fit it all—”

The window curtains gusted sharply, and the air changed. City air—Adrien could smell the difference. As she watched, the Marchands’ kitchen walls darkened to burgundy-blue, Paul and his mother faded, and then a different room came into view—a bedroom that looked normal but felt too intense, like breathing in a dream. A girl walked into this bedroom, set a suitcase on the bed and opened it. It was one of the girls from the photograph, the one who laughed the loudest, the one Adrien would have chosen first as a friend. Pulling out a dresser drawer, she started chucking underwear and socks into the suitcase as if it was a basketball hoop.

“Roberta,” called a voice. A look-alike woman appeared in the doorway, carrying a load of folded laundry. “Seven pairs of socks and seven pairs of underwear,” she admonished. “Last year you took twice as many and lost most of them.”

“The guys do panty raids, Mom,” Roberta protested. “I need extra, or I won’t have any left.”

“Seven of each,” her mother said firmly. “Your jeans are in the dryer.” She went out again.

Roberta turned toward the suitcase, muttering, “How can I help it if my gotch are popular?” Dramatically, she counted out seven pairs of socks and underwear, and tossed the rest onto the floor. Then she began to pack the laundry her mother had brought in. She hummed to herself, an old tune about a bullfrog named Jeremiah who liked to share wine.

Something else drifted into the bedroom, a human shape twisting in a gray smoky haze—one of the five spirits from the lake. The girl continued to hum and pack, not noticing as the spirit tucked extra articles into the suitcase—a skull, a femur, part of a pelvis. Spirit bones, they shimmered with a gray glow, Roberta’s hands passing directly through them as she folded, patted and counted. She and the spirit looked so comfortable together, the spirit weaving itself in a caress about the humming girl, as if it was nothing more than the lilt of her voice.

Then it turned, and Adrien felt the spirit look directly at her, as if it knew she was watching, as if it had brought this moment to her and laid it open in her mind like a gift.

She was back in the Marchands’ kitchen. The radio was tuned to a golden oldies station, and Three Dog Night was singing “Joy to the World.” Mrs. Marchand was still talking, Michelle calling to her from outside.

“What could that girl want now?” Mrs. Marchand sighed, going out the door.

“Adrien?” Paul leaned forward, watching her closely. “Where the hell are you?”

She stared at him, her eyes straining to return to the bedroom where a girl and her spirit packed life and death into the same suitcase.

“I—” stammered Adrien. “I just had a daydream, but it was so real. I saw a girl Aunt Erin counseled twenty years ago. She’s one of the ghosts from Prairie Sky. She wasn’t dead yet, she was getting ready to come to camp—packing, like your mom said camp kids would be doing today. In my daydream, the girl’s spirit was beside her, outside her body, like she was both dead and alive at the same time, and it was
packing
bones
into her suitcase. She must’ve died while she was at
camp
. I bet you that’s what it means. I bet you Aunt Erin had five campers who all died at Camp Lakeshore while she was their counselor. That’s why Prairie Sky is haunted. That’s why their spirits are on the lake.”

Paul let out a slow whoosh of air. “So you
did
see ghosts in Prairie Sky.”

“I’ve been seeing them all over the camp,” Adrien muttered. “Almost from the minute I got there. Don’t you see them?”

He shook his head. “I just feel something. The dead don’t talk to me.”

“They’re not talking to me, just ... showing me things. Their lives.” Her eyes hung onto his face. “I feel like they’ve got something to tell me.”

“But they’re
dead
,” he said intensely. “Why would the dead want to talk to you?”

“They don’t feel dead,” she said. “They feel ... like me.”

“They don’t creep you out?”

“Do I creep you out?”

“You’re not dead.”

“Yet,” she said.

He went still as caught breath, and she watched thoughts pass through his face. Finally he nodded, as if they had come to an agreement and the understanding between them was complete.

“
Yet
,” he said softly. “That’s what we’ve got—you and me.”

That afternoon they rode for hours, just the two of them, past fields of wheat and canola, farmhouses and barking
dogs—a world they passed through, but were no longer part of. They knew now, accepted, that they had been set aside, chosen for a mystery that was fast approaching. They could ignore it, try to hide from it or ride toward it in a thin grim line, seeking its face. All afternoon, they rode seeking. After a while, they removed their helmets. Paul strapped them to the bike and they rode full into the wind, Adrien resting her face on his back while her hair flew free. She no longer thought about holding onto him—they had become part of sun, sky and wind. For hours that afternoon, they did not touch ground. They lifted above the sound of the bike and flew in their wild seeking heartbeats, until it was time to return to earth again.

When Paul turned onto the Camp Lakeshore road, Adrien came back to herself, the stiff ache of her body, the warm sweat of his back.
Paul’s back—she was all over him.
She tried to straighten, but the ache in her muscles let loose with pure fire. When he stopped a short way up the road, out of sight of the office, she dragged herself off and stood holding her back in disbelief.