As Far as the Stars. Virginia Macgregor
so I’m not sure he’s really tested the theory.
I’ve got enough cash in my wallet to get us a couple of coffees from the dispenser. I get some chips too, from the guy at the counter. He’s so busy watching the highlights of the Red Sox game that he doesn’t even look away from the screen as he hands me the change.
We sit at a round, rickety metal table by the food machines, the only table in the store. I feed Leda some chips under the table. I know it’s not good for her but Leda looks like she could do with some comfort food. And, more to the point, Blake’s not here so he doesn’t get a say.
My phone sits on the table in front of me. It keeps lighting up. More messages from Mom.
Messages from Mom asking when Blake and I are going to show up.
I type a quick message: Blake messed up his flight. I’m waiting for him. We’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t stress, Mom. I pause and then add: Love you.
Then I switch off the phone.
I know Mom. On the face of it, she’ll seem totally calm. Make a joke of it – that it’s Blake’s thing – to turn up late. That we should have banked on him not making the family breakfast. That the main thing is that he’s there for the wedding. That I’ll get him there. Because that’s what I do.
But inside, she’ll be going crazy.
Because the events Mom plans never go wrong.
Mom sees every festive occasion (Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, birthdays and a few other religious festivals to which we have no known affiliation) as some kind of Olympic-level competition. When we were kids, she hand-sewed every one of our Halloween costumes and baked, carved and frosted every one of our birthday cakes and, every Christmas, she scales the roof putting up Christmas lights – bolder and brighter and blinkier than any of the neighbours.
She’s totally exhausting to live with. Like Martha Stewart on speed. Except that stuff isn’t even her day job. She’s an amazing lawyer too.
So, how does Mom do it all, I hear you ask? Simple: she never sleeps.
You’ve got it, Mom’s both a superhero and totally annoying.
So, you can imagine that her eldest daughter’s wedding was going to be a big deal. And it’s an even bigger deal because Mom knows that, more likely than not, she’ll only get one stab at it. Blake doesn’t believe in marriage – or anything else that involves long-term commitment: he’s had a steady stream of girlfriends since middle school. As for me, having a husband and kids doesn’t really mix with zooming off into space.
So if Blake and I mess up Jude’s wedding, she’ll be upset. Really upset.
I wonder how Dad’s handling everything right now. He’s the yin to Mom’s yang. The calm centre to her spinning world. He sits back and lets stuff wash over him. When Mom goes into intense mode, he slips away into his study and goes into Greek-myth world and doesn’t re-emerge until things have calmed down. When Mom’s doing my head in too, I sometimes join him in there. He lets me sit on the other side of his desk and read or work on my Physics homework and we pretend the rest of the world has dropped away. It makes me feel better, to sit there with Dad, even if we don’t say anything.
I think about calling him and telling him everything but then I know that’s not an option. Dad’s like me: can’t hide what he’s thinking. Mom would pick up on the fact that I’ve been in touch right away.
When Christopher’s finished his chips, he gets out his phone.
‘You said there was a bus from Knoxville to Atlanta?’ he says.
‘Yeah, there should be.’
He looks up a few more pages.
‘What time do you think we’ll get there?’
‘To Knoxville?’ I check the clock on the far wall of the store. ‘When’s the earliest bus – tomorrow morning?’
‘Six thirty.’
‘If we drive through the night we might make it for that one.’
He nods.
And then a stillness settles between us. And I know it’s because talking about the bus has brought it home that, in a few hours, we’ll be saying goodbye.
He takes a paper napkin from the dispenser and folds it until it turns into a small, tight body with wings and a long, thin beak. He places it on the table and its head tilts upwards, like it’s about to take flight.
It’s amazing how he can make a cheap paper napkin from a gas station look this beautiful.
Sitting here, it’s like we’re in a bubble, our bodies pale from the fluorescent strip lights, no sound except the humming of the refrigeration units behind us.
I think about the craziness of the airport we’ve left behind and the investigation into what’s happened to the plane and the fact that I nearly crashed the car. And I think about all the wedding preparations taking place in Nashville and how Blake and I should be there. And then I look back at Christopher, folding another napkin, a second bird to accompany the first. It reminds me of the newspaper bird he made for the mother and the child back at the airport. I wonder where they are now. I wonder who they were waiting for.
Christopher’s hair falls over his glasses, and I feel like leaning forward and sweeping it away so that he can see more clearly but I don’t. Because that would be weird, right? Touching a boy I hardly know? Plus, it would make him totally freak. And I realise that right now, I need him. Like I need to go to Dad’s study sometimes. Because even though he’s not doing anything, he’s making me feel better about this shit storm of a situation.
So, instead of touching his hair, I keep watching him. It’s kind of soothing, how precise he is – and how focused. Like, while he’s folding, nothing else in the world exists.
‘Where did you learn to do that?’ I ask.
He stops folding and looks up at me.
‘Do what?’
‘Those models you make.’
‘Models?’
‘Out of paper.’
‘These?’ He looks down at the paper birds. ‘Oh, they’re nothing,’ he says.
‘They don’t look like nothing.’
He sighs, leans back in his chair and looks out through the store window. A truck is refuelling next to Blake’s car.
‘I used to get bored, waiting,’ Christopher says.
‘Waiting?’
‘For Dad.’ His eyes narrow in concentration and he makes another fold. ‘I hung around airports a lot.’
‘When you were travelling with your dad?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You taught yourself how to make things out of paper, then?’
‘I started by making paper planes,’ he says. ‘I guess like any kid.’
I think back to the paper plane Christopher was making when we were waiting for the Buick to come back – and how that reporter stared at it, like it implicated Christopher in some way. The plane was amazing. A perfect replica of one of those Boeings that cross the Atlantic. But it was more than that. Its wings were alive, like those of a bird.
‘I’d get scraps of paper,’ he explains. ‘And fold them into an arrow and shoot them around the place.’ He goes quiet for a bit. ‘It annoyed him.’
‘Your dad?’
He nods.
‘He got annoyed by the paper airplanes?’
‘Yeah.’