Taking Flight Read Free

hundred times but it was the first of the “last times”. The last time I would feel nothing out of the ordinary about driving home. The last time I would know beyond a doubt that I had a home.  
    I noticed the police cars parked across from our house; they stuck out on our idyllic suburban street. I slowed down to gawk at them before turning into the driveway. Someone must be in trouble, I thought. Parked behind the two police cars was a large black car with darkly tinted windows. Police cars mean injuries; police cars with fancy black cars carry clergy, who may as well be the grim reaper. No matter how many prayers are said or bargains offered, death has already claimed its prize when that black car appears. But I didn’t know what was waiting for me in the presence of those car s , so I had forgotten about them as soon as they were out of my sight. 
    I parked in the driveway out of habit. Your plane had been housed in the garage for so long that I had forgotten it wasn’t there anymore. I hoisted my sleeping bag into my arms and walked towards the porch. The windows and the front door were open, and as I approached I could see people sitting at the table. I was a little surprised to see so many people in our house, but it wasn’t unusual for you to bring other pilots back after a morning of flying for coffee and donuts.
    And then I opened the door. I go back to that moment as I stepped inside, that last moment of my youth. Sometimes it is possible to see and feel your life changing, being swept out from under you, torn away, forcing you to become someone and something you never considered when daydreaming about the future. 
    Mom screamed so loudly when she spotted me that I’m sure even you could hear her. “No! Not Sarah. You have to go, now!” she hollered, jumping from her chair and pushing the police officer at her side. “Go!” The officer stood there, motionless, his hat in his hands.
    My mind slowly stumbled over what my eyes were taking in. Why is there a cop in my kitchen? Why is Mom screaming? Why do I feel sick? A man in black stood with his hands folded and his head down. I didn’t move.
    Mom fell to the floor then, her small frame making a loud thud as her legs gave out from under her. I could hear her sucking in shallow, useless breaths as she began to make her way to me. Her face was bright red and her short hair was disheveled. Mom never left the house, even to go to the gas station, without spending an hour on her hair and makeup. The woman in front of me was a mess, the sight of which caused my heart to pound in fear. I didn’t want her to come anywhere near me. I held on to my sleeping bag, frozen in place, as Mom crawled towards me, her bare legs making sticking noises against the linoleum. She tried to pull herself up by grabbing onto my arm but she collapsed again, unable to stand.
    I still have nightmares about Mom’s contorted body slithering towards me, howling, unable to catch her breath. Pain isn’t a feeling or a description; pain is tangible, the long-term effects burning years after the wounds have closed. 
    I stared at Mom, barely able to make out her eyes under all the tears. When she finally spoke her voice sounded thick, her words stuck under the same weight that was keeping her on her knees. “Honey, there’s been an accident.”
    You know how the spokes of a bike make clicking noises when you ride? And when you go faster the clicking speeds up? That is what my thoughts sounded like as they accelerated in my head. Accident. Ok. A car. Your car. We have to go to the hospital. We have to go now because they’re working on you in surgery. You lost your legs. Paralyzed. We’ll build a ramp. You’re in a coma. I need to -
    “At the airport,” she continued, cutting off my brain. Choking sounds followed each word that she spoke. 
    I blinked once, maybe for the first time since she came to me. The wave hit then, the rush of air washing up from my toes and into my lungs,