Taking Flight Read Free Page B

trapped in that instant, that breath just before you were dead and neither Mom or I knew how much we were about to lose. Every time I catch myself thinking about that moment I collapse inside all over again, the weight of the possibility that you could have lived is too much to bear. 
     
    People came to the house. My friends filled up my bedroom, talking quietly among themselves while I sat on the bed, staring at the wall. Emily’s parents sat in the kitchen with Mom while she called our relatives in Missouri.
    The day passed and the crowd slipped away, home to appreciate their families, thankful they weren’t us.
    Mom’s brother, Terry, and his girlfriend stayed over in the guest room. Emily and I put our sleeping bags on the living room floor, watching movie after movie. Mom went up to your room where I can only imagine the loneliness she felt in the bed you shared for nearly two decades. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night beside my husband and I am torn between wanting to curl up against him and a fierce desire to sleep as far away from him as possible. It is as if I want to prepare myself for the day when he is ripped away from me, as if the blow would be lessened by living my life at a distance.
    Late in the night, unable to sleep, I wandered up to my room. I turned the lights on and looked around at my belongings. I started to open and shut drawers. I took items from my shelf. I dug through the mess in my closet. I was overcome with a need to find something was ours, something that held a memory so strong I would be comforted into sleep.
    I sat on my bed, surrounded by pictures and keepsakes, sifting through them. Mom must have heard me from your room. She appeared in the doorway. “What are you doing, Sarah?” Her eyes were swollen, her voice hoarse.
    I stared at Mom and felt utterly lost. “I don’t know.” I inventoried the mess I had made, the piles on the floor. “Mom,” I said, a plea.
    Mom came over to me and sat down on the bed. “Let’s go back to sleep,” she murmured, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. I began to cry. I would never be able to find what I was looking for. I let Mom lead me back to my sleeping bag as if I was once again a little girl who had snuck out of bed after having a bad dream.
     

CHAPTER FOUR
    Lake Sherwood, Missouri was miles away from a city. There was a brown sign with white lettering indicating the turn to Lake Sherwood from the main road, which was easy to miss to anyone who didn’t know what they were looking for. A few miles down that dirt road led to a baseball field, a small parking lot, and a little office next to a gate. Though it would have been simple to drive a car around that gate residents of Lake Sherwood felt privileged to live in an elite , private community. Past the gate the road curved up and down hills, paved in some sections and unpaved in others. There were around thirty homes, spread far apart from each other, nestled deep in the woods. In the center of the community was a lake, complete with a marina, a beach, and a swimming pool that overlooked the lake. A community center of sorts was stationed in between the pool and the beach. On the lower level was a snack bar that served the best hot fudge sundaes I have ever tasted. Li fe in Lake Sherwood was simple , and the childhood I spent there remains alive and well in my heart.  
    There was a small gas station fifteen minutes outside of Lake Sherwood, which meant if we wanted anything more than cigarettes, gas, beer or bait we had to drive an hour into Wentzville. Between our distance from town and my parents’ tight budget, we lived a life without certain luxuries. I doubt I grasped what a vacation was until we moved in Minnesota, where nearly everyone headed to Florida or Mexico at some point during the harsh winter months.
    My family rarely ate out. Even if we had had the extra money, where would we have gone? There was a McDonald’s on the main stretch of road in Wentzville,