Out of My Mind (21 page)

At the airport garage we have no trouble finding a row of empty handicapped parking spaces. We unload me, my chair, our bags, and Penny and Doodle. Mrs. V snaps more photos.

It seems like hours, but in minutes we’re at the check-in gate.

Mrs. V pushes me. Mom carries Penny. Dad pulls a cart loaded with the luggage and Doodle. It’s ten o’clock on the dot.

“Hi!” Mom says cheerfully to the uniformed lady at the desk. “We’re here to check in for the noon flight to Washington, D.C.” She hands the lady our tickets.

“The noon flight?” the woman replies with a frown. She types and clicks, purses her lips, then types some more. Finally, she looks up. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but that flight has been cancelled. We’ve had loads of
cancellations today—a late-winter snowstorm in the Northeast has caused backups all over.”

Cancelled?
My stomach starts to gurgle.

“Snow?” Mom’s voice sounds thick. “But the weather here is sunny and clear.”

“They’ve got five inches on the ground in Boston already, and more is predicted for this afternoon farther south. The FAA won’t let planes take off in weather like that, so our whole system gets gummed up. Planes due to arrive here and then return eastward get cancelled, meaning our afternoon flights can’t depart. It’s complicated. Sorry.”

The desk agent continues to type rapidly. She tells Mom, “I can get you and your daughter on the next direct flight out, however. It leaves here at 7:23 p.m. and will get you into Washington at 9:07. The weather service has predicted that the storm system will have fizzled by then, so we can start getting folks where they need to be. Actually, tomorrow it will all be rain.”

My heart is thudding now.

“Would you like me to rebook you now?” She smiles cheerfully. She doesn’t get it.

“But the competition
starts
at seven,” Mom mumbles weakly.

“Excuse me? I didn’t hear you,” the desk agent says.

I can’t breathe.

Mom speaks a little louder. “What about the rest of our group? We’re traveling together—a group of schoolchildren—a quiz team, actually. They were also booked on this flight. We’ve got a competition this evening.”

“Oh, I remember those kids. They were here early this morning. Great group. So polite and well mannered. They told me all about the competition and the huge trophy they might be bringing home.”

“They came
early
?” Mom croaks.

“It seems they all went to breakfast together, then came straight here. It’s a good thing they did too, or they wouldn’t have gotten out.”

“Where are they?” Mom asks.

“Oh, they got switched to the nine o’clock flight—the last eastbound plane to get out before flights started getting cancelled. They had to run down to the gate, but they made it just in time. I made sure of it.” She looks down at her computer. “Yes, that flight left about an hour ago.”

“They’re gone?” Mom whispers.

I feel like I’m going to choke.

“Are you and your family going to D.C. to cheer them on?” the woman asks. She still doesn’t get it.

“No, my daughter is on the team,” Mom explains. “We
must
get to Washington. Isn’t there another flight— perhaps on another airline?”

The woman looks at me and blinks. “She’s on the . . . ?” she starts to ask, but then she catches herself, returns her gaze to her monitor, and begins typing furiously once more. I can hear her fingernails as they click on the keys.

Dad places both hands on the ticket counter and leans in toward the agent. I’ve never seen him so angry. “How could this happen? Shouldn’t we have been notified that the flight was cancelled?”

“We try, sir, but it’s not always possible,” the lady replies, sounding truly sorry. “We do always advise passengers to call ahead and check their flight status.”

“But this was the trip of a lifetime! You can’t possibly understand how important this is to my daughter!”

I squeeze my eyes shut. Stupid elevator music floats from the tinny airport speakers. I hear no beautiful colors. I smell no lovely aromas. All I can see is the darkness behind my eyeballs.

“I’m really, really sorry, sir,” the lady says.

“What about a connecting flight? We
must
get her to Washington this afternoon!”

The woman types and clicks for what seems like hours. Finally, she looks up. “There are no other flights to D.C. on any other carrier, sir, nonstop or otherwise. That weather system has grounded everything. There
will be nothing until later this evening. I’m so sorry,” she whispers.

I open my eyes because they are filling with tears.

Dad walks away from the ticket counter, his face scrunched into tight wrinkles, then, without warning, he smashes his fist into the wall right next to where I’m sitting.

I jerk my head up. I know that had to hurt.

“Ahhh! I shouldn’t have done that!” he admits, holding one fist in the other.

But if I could have smashed my fist against a wall, I would have as well.

Mrs. V looks from Dad to me. “I don’t understand how this could have happened either,” she says to Mom. “Shouldn’t someone from the quiz team have called you?” Her voice could crush bricks. “The teacher, perhaps?”

“Maybe there wasn’t time,” Mom says helplessly. “At least that’s what I hope. Surely they . . . surely they wouldn’t have left her behind on purpose.”

I still have not taken one deep breath.

“I really do apologize, ma’am,” the gate agent finally says. “I’ve even checked airports in nearby cities. There are no flights out of the area until this evening. I have plenty of seats on our seven o’clock flight if you’d like me to book you.”

“No, thank you,” Mom says quietly. “It’s too late.”

The entire airport feels like a vacuum to me. No sound. No voices. No air.

Mom walks slowly toward me.

I sit there in my new blue and white outfit with new matching tennis shoes, next to my new shiny red suitcase, feeling very, very stupid.

And angry. How could they
do
this to me?

And helpless. I
hate
feeling like this—like when I was little and got stuck on my back like a stupid turtle. There was nothing I could do. Nothing.

“How long does it take to drive to D.C.?” Mrs. V asks. I don’t even look up. I know the answer.

“Ten hours at the very least,” Dad replies, his voice soft.

“Go fly airplane?” Penny asks.

“No fly today,” Dad says, touching her gently on her head with his good hand.

Mom rolls me over to a bench on the other side of the check-in area. She kneels down in front of me. She’s crying.

I don’t think I’ll ever breathe again.

Mom hugs me. “It’s gonna be okay, sweetie. You’re still the best, the smartest, the most wonderful girl in the world. Somehow we’re going to get over this.”

No. I won’t.

Mrs. V wipes her eyes as well. She sits on the bench
and takes both my hands in hers. “Oh, baby girl, I know this is hard. But there is just no way to get you to Washington.”

I just sit there. The morning started out like crystal, but the day has turned to broken glass.

When we get home, I ask my mother to put me in bed. I refuse to eat lunch. I try to sleep, but quiz questions and why questions keep flying into my head.

Why didn’t they call me?

Why didn’t they tell me about breakfast?

Why can’t I be like everybody else?

I finally cry into my pillow. Butterscotch nudges me with her nose, but I ignore her.

They left me on purpose! How could they do that? They left me on purpose!

I feel like stomping on something. Stomping and stomping and
stomping
! That makes me even crazier because I can’t even do that! I can’t even get
mad
like a normal kid.

Penny peeks into my room, then, when she sees I’m awake, she climbs up on my bed and snuggles close to me. She smells like watermelon bubble bath. She tries to count my fingers, then tries to count her own, but all she knows is one, two, three, five, so she says that over and over. Then she tries to teach Doodle to count. “Two, Doodle! Two!” I feel myself relaxing a tiny bit.

“Oh, here you are, Penny!” Dad says from my doorway. “Are you making Dee-Dee happy?”

“Dee-Dee good girl,” she tells Dad.

“Yes, she is that. The very best,” Dad agrees. “You okay, Melody?” he asks as he comes over to stroke my hair.

I nod. I point to Dad’s left wrist, which is wrapped in an Ace bandage.

“Yeah, it hurts,” he says. “That was a dumb thing to do, but I guess it made me feel better.”

I nod again.

He lifts Penny from my bed with his right arm. “Ready for a snack, Miss Penny?” he asks her.

“Hot dogs!” she demands.

“Do you want me to fix you something, Melody?” he asks me.

I’m not hungry. I shake my head, then point to the clock.

“Maybe later?” Dad says.

I smile at him, and he quietly leaves the room with my sister.

The phone rings.

I hear Mom say, “Oh, hello, Mr. Dimming.” She walks quickly into my room, portable phone to her ear, her palm so tight around the receiver, I can see the veins on the top of her hand.

“No, I
don’t
understand,” Mom says curtly. “Why weren’t we called?” She listens to him for a minute, then bursts out angrily, “We could have easily been at the airport an hour earlier. We could have been there at dawn!” She’s almost shouting. “Do you know how much this has devastated my daughter?”

A pause.

“Yes, I’m aware she’s probably the brightest person on the team. Was. The word is WAS. There is no IS.” Mom pauses to listen again. “
You’ll make it up to her?
You’ve got to be kidding!”

Mom hangs up on him and flings the phone into a corner. She wipes her eyes, pulls a tissue from a box on
my desk, and sits down heavily on the chair next to my bed. I listen to her blow her nose, then I turn over.

“Oh, Melody, if only I could make your hurt go away,” she says plaintively.

I blink at my own tears.

She pulls me up onto her lap. It isn’t the snuggly fit it used to be, but it feels good. She rocks me, humming softly. I finally fall asleep listening to the rhythm of her heartbeat.

What happened today was all my fault. I should have listened. We should have all stayed home and spent the day together. But we didn’t. Because of me.

When I awoke this morning, it was raining. Thunder. Lightning. Wind. A constant, soaking downpour that laughed at umbrellas and raincoats. The air itself was gray and heavy, thick with too much moisture. I could hear it pounding on my window.

Dad came into my room and sat down in our old reading chair. He held his wrist carefully. Mom had put his arm in a sling. “Messy day out there,” he said.

I nodded.

“Your team got beat in one of the late rounds in D.C. last night,” he told me. “They got ninth place—a little bitty trophy.”

But they weren’t
my
team anymore. I tried to pretend like I didn’t care. I blinked real hard and faced the wall.

“I wish I could fix this for you, Melody,” Dad said quietly as he headed out of my room.

That made the tears fall for real.

At first I didn’t want to go to school. I’d been excused because I was supposed to be in Washington, and if I went in, I’d have to sit all day in room H-5 with Willy and Maria and Freddy. It seemed pointless.

But as I thought about it, I changed my mind. I felt the sorry for myself shift to mad again. And the mad me decided that I was
not
going to sit at home like a kicked-around puppy. I was gonna show up and let everybody know they didn’t beat me.

Mom leaned on my door just then and said, “You want to stay home today? No one will blame you.”

I shook my head forcefully.
No! No! No!
I kicked the covers off my feet.

She sighed. “Okay, okay. But the weather is ugly, and I woke up with a migraine. Plus, Penny is sick, and Butterscotch threw up on the carpet. I had to put her in the basement.”

She got me bathed and dressed and took me downstairs. Usually, Dad carries me up and down the steps, but with his arm out of commission, Mom just grunted, lifted me, and did it herself. She eased me into my manual chair (my electric chair and lightning storms don’t mix well), hooked up my old Plexiglas talking board (ditto for Elvira), then sat down to catch her breath.

“It looks like we’re going to have one stormy day, honey,” she said as she glanced at the wet mess outside the window. As she ran a brush through my hair, she whispered, “I’m so sorry, my Melody, so, so sorry about everything.”

I reached up and touched her hand.

The rain continued to fall.

She fixed me breakfast—scrambled eggs and Cream of Wheat—and fed me, one spoonful at a time. She kept placing her palm against her forehead. She was unusually quiet. I wondered if she was thinking about how many times she had fed me, how many more times she’d have to do it.

Wearing a floppy yellow hat and yellow duck-footed sleepers, Penny wandered into the kitchen, coughing and sneezing.

Mom stopped feeding me, found a Kleenex, and wiped Penny’s nose. She hated that, of course, so she screamed like she was being tortured by enemy spies.
Normally, Mom makes a game of it and wipes Doodle’s nose as well to make Penny tolerate it better, but I guess she didn’t feel up to it this time.

Then the phone rang. Mom answered, a spoon in one hand, the dirty Kleenex in the other.

“Hello. You what? You need me to come in? But I’m off today. I’m supposed to be in Washington.” She paused. “Long story.”

I cringed. Penny continued to howl.

She ought to put Penny in the basement with the dog!
I thought, frowning.

Butterscotch scratched furiously at the basement door.

“Penny, please!” Mom cried out, cupping her hand over the phone. “I can’t hear!”

Penny quieted a little, but only because she had squatted down on the floor and put both hands in Butterscotch’s water bowl—sloshing water all over the floor.