Rusty Summer (18 page)

(Yuh, gulp, I imagine he is—look how well you turned out. He's the lucky one.)

I must have sighed. He glances at me. Then he tears his scone in pieces and gives me half.

Omg, just like in my cave-people story . . .

“Thanks,” I manage over the deafening wind tunnel that only I can hear when he's near. The real wind rustles through The Bomb's fluffy white ruff. She licks my sticky fingers.

Shane sees. He smiles at us.

“Such an amazing girl,” he says softly. I don't know if he means The Bomb or Leo . . . or me.

Then he lays back on the rock, his hands under his head. His flannel shirt comes untucked and a little of his tummy shows. The golden hairs glint on his gut. I gasp. Silently.

I am almost overcome by an urge to push his shirt up and touch his abs. I can tell they're cut.

After a minute he sits back up. The world calms down. I try not to show how spazzed out I got.

For one second. Till he looks over at me again.

“Here,” he says and reaches out to me. I freeze and look at him, and he brushes a crumb off my cheek.

Then he smiles and licks it off his finger.

He smiles into my eyes with this freaking joy of life.

And the glacier rock becomes the Titanic and upends and I am lost at sea—utterly freaking gone into that good night.

Then he puts his arms around—his knees—and we sit, me trying with all my might just to breathe rationally, and him so serene.

The sun shines on us as we reflect.

After enough time that the shadows move, we bury our biodegradable muffin papers, which Shane says will be uncovered and eaten by wild animals as soon as we leave because they like sweets.

Lucky we showed up! Poor things were probably just dying for some banana muffin crumbs!

As we begin to hike back, it's now Shane's turn to open up.

“Can I ask you some stuff about Leonie?”

I am jerked back to reality at light speed. Gut-punched, I grimace and roll my eyes invisibly.

“Um, first let me ask you something,” I jibber to divert him. “Why do you guys always say ‘niner' instead of just ‘nine'? When you're flying?”

I actually do want to know. Why not all of the numbers; one-er, two-er, three-er?

He looks at me and I can see him changing gears. HA! Then he answers me in detail.

“Well, that would date from near the beginning of aviation, back in the very early years of the twentieth century. America was flying airplanes in both world wars, as were the Germans. I imagine there was some—probably lethal—dick-up that happened because their word for no is
nein.
Pronounced exactly like the number. Hence our invention of
niner
.”

“Ohhh . . .” I think this info is cool, but before I can wind up and ask more, he reverts.

“So, Leonie . . .” His amazing gaze is focused, as he resumes his fave new topic.

Hub-boy . . . here we go again.

“Why, certainly!” I over-nod my head like a bad actor and smirk toothily. He does not hear the snark in my tone, which to me is unmistakable. “Yes, indeed, let us talk about Leonie!”

(Yes!! Let us please
always
talk about Leonie! All the time—from here to eternity, forever!!!!!)

His face is quite serious. He nods.

“Good, because I was wondering . . . she doesn't have a boyfriend, does she?” Shane looks quite agonized as he waits for the answer.

I blow out my cheeks in a huge sigh.

“No.”

He lights up like a stupid, extremely handsome Christmas tree.

“All right!! What a relief! That is awesome! Man, I was worried! But how can she not?”

Oh, gawd. No way am I getting into that.

“You'll have to ask her . . . I'm sure she'd tell you, though. Eventually,” I stress, to remind him they only have a little time before we leave.

He looks so sad that I stop.

 

When we get back, Beau and Leo are up. Leo looks agitated—and cranky.

“Oh, there you both are!” she says, the second she sees us.

Oh-ho, so now
Leo
is jealous for a change. Shane is unaware but to me it's as plain as the skinny little nose on her skinny little face! Well, well, well! Her turn!

“Hey!” he says, all alight with delight at seeing her. “Should we get breakfast—all of us?”

I look at him pointedly. What exactly did we just have?

He doesn't notice. He's so joyful to see Leo. I immediately feel cross. And deflated.

Beau's cross too. He's been getting texts for the last day. When I asked what was up he said he would tell me later. Uninformed, I still assume it's the evil Kurtis. Hopefully he's just urging mayhem, not anything mushy. Hopefully Beau knows he's way too good for Kurtis. I feel my mood worsen.

We sit down in the dining room and have breakfast again. I watch the way Shane's dark eyes glow when he looks at Leo, in a way they don't when he's talking to me. I don't know why I'm so riddled with jealousy. I didn't even think I was wired that way. But I am.

I feel excoriated, a new word I heard recently that I've been wanting to use, which means “abraded, chafed, or criticized brutally.” It now feels totally appropriate.

I smash my eggs till the yellow yolks run like a river of blood.

 

After breakfast II, we get packed up with a minimum of effort. It's our last hop.

We taxi down the long lake, and turn for takeoff. The feeling in my gut when we disengage from the water is like an elevator going up fast.

As soon as we are safely airborne and Shane can talk, he turns to Beau and me in the back.

“Get the binoculars again,” he hollers. “I want to show you some stuff while we're here near Kenai. This place is cool.”

Of course we fish them out. We are all for it.

We can see the shadow of the plane on the ground as we look out the window. Soon we approach a river. More bear blobs. We check out bears by binocular. Then Shane points to a hill near a highway.

“Look on the hill and down to the highway.”

We see white blobs. Then they come into focus.

“Dall sheep and a mountain goat . . . check them out.”

I look through the binoculars. They seem to be grazing on asphalt.

“What are they eating?”

“Salt. That's what draws them so near to humans. The DOT salts the roads when it snows, so they're salty after it melts and the sheep and moose and deer and elk all come like it's a salt lick. It's crazy—people get so excited when they see the animals up close, they pull their cars over and dart out into the road to take a pic and end up getting hit by someone else who was driving while staring at the wildlife—it's happened more than once.”

We take turns and get a good look as he circles back around.

Then we fly off down the river.

“Oh, yeah,” Shane exclaims. He sounds thrilled. “They're here!”

We look down again and in the water we can see large white blobs and small brownish blobs.

“Beluga,” says Shane. “I was hoping they'd still be here! The big white ones are the cows. They're adults. The little brownish ones are the calves. They'll turn pure white too, soon.”

Because they are underwater, the Beluga still look like blobs when we magnify them with the binoculars. But playful blobs. I see a little brown blob swim around his/her mother in a frisky way.

We turn and bank and watch the whales play for a while. And feel very lucky.

Finally, Shane waves the plane's wing in a farewell flourish and away we fly.

This last flight is shorter. This sucks because of my nerves and worry.

I'm not ready.

Thankfully it's still a few hours long, which gives me a chance to sooth my troubled mind. I take out an earplug and put in an earbud. I listen to tunes in the air while we skim above the water. More old protest songs from the '60s, which I found on YouTube. So I can relate to my dad. Though he wasn't in Vietnam; he was way too young.

As we near Kodiak Island the sun subsides and the sky becomes gray. Then we run into the fog.

I have never flown in heavy fog before. I have driven in it and it terrifies me. It's like running with your eyes closed. It just gets denser. It's murky and opaque out the windows. Even out the front.

I was none too steady before and the fog certainly isn't helping my butterflies.

Shane drawls into the squawk box and we start to descend.

“Sorry it's so soupy, guys,” he shouts as we start down. “It's a pretty descent when it's clear.”

The lake appears much sooner in this fog than I'd have reckoned. Not a problem though.

Shane brings the plane in like butter. We taxi around the lake after connecting almost imperceptibly. Seriously, barely a bump.

In spite of my worries and woe, I eyeball him admiringly.

Such a great pilot!
I flutter to myself . . . and pitter-pat goes my lil' heart.

Oh, fer gawd's sakes! I've gone moony for him—as my Facebook friend Winnie would say. In fact all my funny girlfriends, both Facebook and IRL, would be rolling their eyes at me and posting snorty memes—Karen and Cory and Lissa and Shazzie—if they knew how I'm carrying on internally.

However soon enough I am distracted by my circumstances.

We park the plane in the lake. The airport is on the same lake as my grandma's house.

This is where my dad lives, just a few miles down that road.

 

I'm feeling lightheaded as we unload the plane one more time. I sit abruptly on a bench while Shane is digging around inside the plane. I don't want him to think me weak.

I think this is a panic attack. My hands feel numb. I feel like crying. Also screaming and thrashing and running . . . if I could catch a deep breath. I can feel my eye and cheek twitch.

I look at the guys. Beau sees the expression on my face.

“Dude, are you okay?” His voice is quiet. His face is concerned.

“You'll be a good nurse,” I say strangled-like. He's so observant. Seriously, I'm not making a fuss.

“Take it easy.
Breathe.
It's cool, Rye, you're not alone. We're here . . . right, Lee?'

“Yeah.” Their chorus is anxious. Bommy wags and whines. I bury my hands and face in her mane of coarse yet soft white fur and feel better. I can even smile. She smells like pinecones.

Love is all you need.

“We'll just take our time, see what's up and then figure it out, 'kay?” Beau says, vaguely and soothingly. “The first is the worst. And now you've landed! You're here! The worst is over.”

This is so sweet—if completely fictional.

Shane jumps out of the plane. I try to find my game face. I manage to breathe deeply and feel much better. Whew!

That sucked! Completely brought about by dread. I hate the unknown. I like it so much better after I learn a little something about it.

After everything's out of the plane, Shane turns to us.

“Let's make sure everything's okay, and then I'll take off.”

I gasp. The crew glances at me and I turn it into a cough.

I was not expecting the lurchy gut scud my heart just became at the news that he's leaving. For some reason I thought he would stick around longer. I scowl at the ground as I absorb the 411. I glance at the guys.

Leo looks as bad as I feel. She's suddenly a whiter shade of pale. Beau's gone quiet too.

“So soon?” Leonie ventures.

“Yeah, Greg texted me that he's having trouble getting some parts in a reasonable amount of time, so he asked if I would pick them up in Anchorage and bring them back with me. I said sure.”

Beau speaks up. “Yeah, he texted me last night too, saying they were more expensive than he thought and hopefully that was okay. That's one thing I was texting about, Rusty, when you asked.”

“Oh.” I'm engulfed with guilt again. “Dude . . . sorry.”

“Nah, it's cool; you know my mom . . . she'll be fine.” He grins ruefully. “She's way into it.”

“Thanks,” I say, gratefully.

I still haven't told my mom yet. Hopefully I won't have to till I get back.

I stand up. Yup, I'm good. Better, at least. Not so dizzy.

“Okay, then. Let's call my grandma and then we'll get this baby in the air!” I say, goofing to distract them from looking at me.

And of course, there is no answer when we call my grandma's house.

“Listen,” I say to Shane, “you go. We can do this. She just lives a couple of miles down the road. We can easily walk there if we have to.”

He looks at Leonie. Then he looks at his watch and sighs.

“I do kind of need to get back, to help fix the van,” he tells her.

“I know,” she says. They look deeply into each other's eyes.

They are the only two people in the world. I should make a movie—a really, really sad one.

“Oh, brother,” I mutter as my eyes roll completely into the back of my head.

 

Off Shane flies.

He banks the wings in a wave before he goes. We wave back. He disappears.

It's very quiet.

 

“I can't remember the name of this lake,” I realize aloud, after he flies away.

I feel forlorn. The guys look like I feel. We are glum. Even The Bomb's ears have wilted, sticking out from either side of her head, disconsolately.

“Well, let's get going,” says I, watching the plane grow into a silent speck of horizon. “Ain't no time like the present!”