As Far as the Stars. Virginia Macgregor
his chubby fingers.
‘Thank you,’ the mom says.
The guy gives her this nod, accompanied by a little bow, and then goes back to sitting on the floor and takes another piece of scrap paper out of his backpack.
And then a new wave of people pours through the arrivals gate.
That’s the worst thing about all this: the fact that other planes are landing all the time. Planes full of people – including planes from Heathrow.
I keep scanning the passengers coming through, hoping to see Blake’s crazy black hair sticking up over everyone’s heads. I’m totally ready to storm up to him and make a scene, to lay into him for, well, being Blake: late, disorganised, unaware of anything else that’s going on in the world besides himself – and infuriatingly loveable with it so that just as I’m yelling at him I’ll want to hug him too. Because I’ve missed him this summer. I miss him whenever he’s away.
I get my phone out to text him again but then realise how stupid it is when I don’t even know what number to call, so I put it away.
Blake probably lost his cell on purpose. He gave up his smart phone a few years ago, claiming that it interfered with his creativity. The one he’s got now only texts and calls and rarely has much connectivity. Mom makes him have it for safety reasons – and so we can stay in touch with each other as a family. But if he had a choice, he’d toss it in the trash.
We get weird looks from the people who come to collect the passengers from the other planes: they’re wondering why we’re all hanging out here in the arrivals lounge. But then they find whoever it is they came for and walk off and we get left behind again.
I sit with my back against the wall.
My phone buzzes. I grab it out of my pocket thinking that, at last, Blake’s getting in touch.
But it’s a message from Mom.
Has Blake landed? Tried to call him, no answer.
I get that stomach-acid taste at the back of my throat again.
I texted her when I left DC – the first time. Before I got halfway to Nashville and had to turn around again because my brother messed up his travel plans. Which I haven’t told her about. What Mom thinks is happening is that I’m standing in Nashville International Airport waiting to pick Blake up and that we’re going to drive to the hotel together and that we’ll be showing up anytime now.
Not yet
I text back.
What’s going on?
She texts back, almost as soon as I’ve sent my message.
Plane’s late
I write back.
And then my phone starts ringing. It’s Mom. Obviously. She wants more information.
I don’t answer.
Because I’m a coward.
Because I can’t face having to explain it all to her: Blake getting on the wrong plane and me having to drive all the way back to DC and that there’s a chance we might not make it for the family breakfast. That if I don’t get some answer soon, we might not make it for the wedding itself.
All the saliva in my mouth dries up. I can’t let myself go there. He’s going to make it. He has to.
Can’t talk
I text back.
She’ll think I’m driving. That will buy me some time.
She sends another message:
Remember we’re having breakfast at Louis’s.
Okay.
I text back.
I’m really feeling sick now.
I should tell her what’s going on but she’ll implode. And then she’ll tell Jude and Jude will fall apart. And Dad will have to deal with it and Dad’s a crisis-avoider so he’ll panic and then go into hiding somewhere, which will make Mom even more mad.
Telling them that it’s even worse than me and Blake being late for the wedding stuff – that his plane’s gone off radar, that no one knows where he is – isn’t even an option.
I screw my eyes shut to block out the world.
This is the last time I’m covering for you, Blake, I say to myself. The last damn time.
I was nine the first time Blake disappeared. The first time I had to lie for him.
He snuck into my room in the middle of the night, his guitar case and a holdall slung over his shoulder.
‘Tell them to let me sleep in.’
I was still asleep myself – it was three in the morning – so I wasn’t registering what he was telling me.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘Tomorrow morning. Tell them not to disturb me. Tell them I’m sleeping.’
I sat up and rubbed my eyes.
‘Mom and Dad?’ I asked.
He nodded.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Not sure yet.’
Blake’s words didn’t make sense. At age nine this was how the world worked: when you left one place you did so with the express intention of going to another specific location.
So I changed my line of questioning.
‘Why are you going?’
‘To play.’ He tapped his guitar case.
‘Why can’t you play here?’
‘I need inspiration.’
Blake was always going off to find inspiration. He was always going off period.
I have a restless soul, Air, he’d say, sounding like he was thirty rather than thirteen.
That didn’t make sense to me either, not then.
‘Why can’t you find inspiration here?’ I asked.
He raised his big black eyebrows. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah, really.’
‘I need some space, Air.’
He’d said it before. That the music – and the lyrics – wouldn’t come here, at home. I thought that it was a mean thing to say. Like being with us was stopping him from doing what he loved most.
‘When are you coming back?’ I asked.
He shrugged.
‘You can’t sleep in for ever.’
He grinned in that goofy way he had that made me feel warm and happy and like everything was good with the world.
‘For ever? It won’t be for ever, Air.’
‘So why are you taking a holdall?’
‘In case.’
‘In case what?’
‘In case I need some of my stuff.’
I sat up taller. ‘People don’t need their stuff if they’re coming back quickly.’
‘Just cover for me, Air – will you do that?’
‘What if Mom goes into your room and finds out that you’re not there?’
He tilted his head to one side. The gel in his hair had worn off, so long dark strands fell into his eyes.
‘You’re