Five Stages

I’m certain my Dad wishes I lived in Bulgaria. Or some other country where it’d be really hard to find me. He doesn’t want to seem bitter, I’m pretty sure. But when he looks at me all I can think of is a brown cardboard box encasing me; with some air holes poked in and 20 postage stamps on the front. I know he tries to forget what happened last summer, but I’m convinced every time I open my mouth I remind him of everything he lost.

I turn on my ipod and select the song I want to hear: “Imagine” by John Lennon. The words swathe my mind like a thick wool blanket as I lay back onto my bed. They warm me and I remember how Momma used to sing this song when she filled the room with color. “Art,” She used to tell me, “Is the only way to join mother earth and humanity.” She would throw on her denim paint-stained overalls worn and frayed from years of other work. She could tell a story about each stain she found, whether it was paint, dirt, or ink. Even after a year I know where each one was: the red ink stain on the left knee, the grape juice on the right hip, or the green paint on the stomach. Momma always loved to paint. She painted all the rooms in our house. Mine’s a sweet green, like grass early in the morning with fresh dew, with smudged watery flowers painted above the door and the windows. But now her paints and brushes are in a box gathering dust in the attic. Dad painted over her murals in the living room, dining room, and kitchen. My brother had moved out by then, so his room became Dad’s study. Now it’s pale beige. My room was the only one he left untouched. I don’t even know what happened to her overalls, but I’m guessing they were too old to donate so Dad threw them away. Over the chorus of the song, I hear a knock on my door.

I quickly sit up and turn off my music.

“Come in.”

Dad pokes his graying head in through the door. “Almost ready?” He asks.

I look at the empty suitcase at the foot of my bed. “Almost.” I reply.

He doesn’t seem to notice my clothes hanging in the open closet.

“Okay, but hurry up, we leave in an hour.” He tapped his Rolex for emphasis.

I nod and he leaves.

Today my dad and I are going to see my brother Eric at NYU for the first time in almost a year. We haven’t seen him since Momma’s funeral last August. He was lucky; he got to move away from our house in San Francisco after she died. He got to escape the aftermath and heal, slowly but surely on his own. In his own way. He wasn't forced into forgetting about her only a couple months after it had happened. I’ve only called him a few times. We were never really all that close, even when we were little we acted more like residents at a boarding house than siblings. And now It seemed harder talking to him in general after we never got to talk about the important stuff, like what happened to Momma. Our conversations usually went like this:

“So, how’s school?” He would ask.

“Fine. How about you?”

“Fine.”

“How’s Dad?”

“He’s okay.”

“Okay. That's good. Well, I've got to go study.  I’ll talk to you later.”

That was usually the extent of it. Sometimes he'd ask me about my grades.

I lay back down on my tangled white sheets. I don’t want to go. I can’t go. But he won’t let me stay. Dad’s become "responsible" and "decisive" now, and what parent in their right mind would leave a teenage girl alone in the house for an entire weekend? I close my eyes. Whatever sanity I had managed to reclaim is slowly slipping away. I can feel the fear rising in my chest, getting higher with every minute that goes by.  I push it back down as far as I can, and I lift myself up and plant my feet on the floor. I resign myself to packing and just tear my clothes from their hangers and stuff them into my heavy blue suitcase. Once I crammed in all the clothes I could, I zipped it up and lugged it downstairs. Dad stood waiting impatiently by the door, his own bag slim and neat next to my bulgy puffy one. He’s wearing a Georgio Armani suit for the conference he’s going to attend when we get to New York. I’m just wearing a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt to meet Eric.

I remember when Dad wouldn’t be caught dead in designer suit, or even a tie for that matter. He would call ties “the nooses of corporate America” and he eschewed the conventional garb of an office worker. Luckily he used to be a columnist for the local paper, a job that didn’t require “the nooses of corporate America”. However, that didn’t last long after last summer. He went out and got a job as a business manager because he became the major breadwinner in the house. Momma used to make more money than him with her studio and art shows. She was a well known artist, and was pretty successful, despite the challenges of her profession. But with her gone, Dad needed to make more than what he did at the paper. I don’t really know what he does now. I just know that it’s something I never want to do; all those late nights, the conference calls, and the paperwork seem like too much for anyone to handle. Dad grabs both our bags when I don’t move toward the front door.

“Come on.” His voice strained with the effort of carrying both bags.

            I pause. “Dad,” I start to say.

“What is it Ellie?” he asks, his face turning red from exertion.

            “I,” I gulp. What should I say? Should I tell him I’ve lied since I ended therapy, that I’m still afraid? That I still have the nightmares? I can’t say it, it would only hurt him to bring up the past. This year has been so hard for him too.

“I’m really excited to see Eric.” I finally say.

 Dad nods and offers me a small smile. Then he turns around and walks out the front door to the cab waiting outside. He apologizes to the driver for taking so long before he gets into the passenger seat. I crawl into the back and pull on my seatbelt. As the car starts to move panic grips me and I almost jump out of the car. I don't want to go back there, not after everything that's happened. I don't care about visiting Eric anymore, he'd understand anyways. I start to undo my seatbelt, when I glance up for a moment. It’s my dad’s slack face in the rearview mirror that stops me. His looks so tired, his eyes dull, with dark bags underneath them and the lines around his mouth and forehead have deepened into sallow carvings. I can’t hurt him anymore, at least not more than I have. I sing Momma’s song to myself so I can calm down. After about ten minutes we get to the airport. I glance outside my window. I see two planes taking off on the tarmac. I feel sick. All I can see are flames, and black putrid smoke curling and climbing higher through the air.

                                    ***********

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” A normally perky flight attendant in a navy blue pantsuit was pleading for our attention. “Everyone, please, put on your masks and remain calm.”

“Momma?” I turn to her sitting in the aisle seat. Her face is pale. “Are we going to die?”

“No, sweetie, we’ll be just fine.” She smiled and knit her eyebrows together. She clutched my hand on the armrest as the plane shook again.

“Oh my god.” Her voice started to rise, forgetting that I was still listening to her. “Oh my god this can’t be happening.”

“Ladies and Gentlemen.” The captain’s voice crackled over the loudspeaker. “We’re experiencing some difficulties. Our landing gear is not cooperating, so we’re going to try a belly landing when we reach the tarmac. The flight attendants will show you the proper position to brace yourselves in. Please don’t panic.”

My mind went blank. All I could think of was how I’m going to die at 14. I had never even kissed a boy, gone to a party, hadn’t driven a car. I hadn’t made any stupid, life-changing mistakes, I hadn’t gotten drunk, and I hadn’t had sex. I was never going to get married or have children and grandchildren. I wallowed in self-pity and started tearing the in-flight magazine to little bits. I heard a baby start to cry and I looked around coach. I saw an elderly couple holding hands whispering in each other’s ears. I saw a middle-aged woman in a navy wool coat pull a rosary from her pocket and start rocking back and forth with her eyes closed. A bald man in a suit was knocking back his third shot of whiskey. I gritted my teeth. My life wasn't the only one in danger right now. Momma was leaning her elbows on her thighs while cradling her head in her hands. As miserable as I was, I wanted to comfort her. I put my hand on her shoulder. She started and grasped my hand and looked me square in the eye.

“You need to live.” She said fiercely. “No matter what happens, I want you to promise me you’ll live.”

I nodded, frightened by the intensity of her words. I would try, and only try, to keep my promise.

                                           *************

            I got out of the car when we pulled up to the gate. I grabbed my bag before my dad could. I busied myself by tugging on the zippers, making sure they were all aligned and parallel.

“Ellie, come on get a move on.” Dad was annoyed at my stalling. “We have to check in and go through security, and thanks to you we have less than an hour.”

I scuffed my Vans against the sidewalk. “Dad, I can’t go in there.”

“Why not?” He asked, growing exasperated with my hesitation.

“I’m just, I can’t, I...” I couldn’t make myself say it. He’d think I was weak and give me that look again. As if he wants to send me away, where he doesn’t have to look at me anymore. After the crash he made sure I saw a therapist, but it didn’t help. If anything, it made the whole experience worse. I didn’t want to talk to some strange bony old man in a sweater vest. If I uttered a single syllable he would scribble it down furiously on his pad of paper. I felt like I was getting tested but I didn’t know the answers. Dad didn’t understand that he was the one person I wanted to talk to. But he distanced himself from me, and whenever I tried bringing it up he’d change the subject. He made it clear to me after the funeral that he wanted to move on and forget, and that he expected me to do the same.

“Never-mind.” I say. I grab my bag and walk in through the sliding glass doors. It’s all so familiar even though it’s been so long. I glance around. Everything’s the same. The bad fluorescent lighting, the way if you stare at the gray carpet too long it makes you dizzy. The check in desks lined up along the wall like a giant centipede, and the plastic ropes in front of each one making a maze for each line to go through. But the people are all calmly walking to their destinations, or peacefully waiting for their turn to be helped. It was so tranquil now. I looked out the large picture windows and my chest seized up when I saw the tarmac. It was hard for me to believe that all the aftermath had taken place there.

                                    **********

I huddled on a stretcher in the middle of the concrete. A man in a black and blue jumpsuit was trying to pop my arm back into my shoulder bone. I felt a sharp stab of pain in my arm and let out a small sob. I knew I had a deep gash on my forehead, and the blood had dripped down into my eyes, turning the inky night red. The man in the jumpsuit was wrapping a bandage around my head. I could hear some EMT telling me I had these injuries, but I couldn’t feel it. All I could register were the people running around the asphalt, the shrieks that echoed in my ears and the panic. I could feel the terror in the air. It was too much. It pushed against me making it hard to breath. Some of that fear was my own, because I hadn’t seen Momma taken out of the plane yet. I kept myself focused, bracing myself for the injuries she might have when I saw her. The EMT gave me an itchy wool blanket to wrap around myself while he left to help someone else, a small boy of about 10 with a jagged cut down his left thigh. The chill night air bit at the cut on my forehead. I shivered. Someone was shoving a microphone and a camera in my face and I tried to ignore their questions. I kept my eyes peeled for Momma, but I didn’t see her in the mayhem that surrounded me.

                                    **********

 Dad checked us in at the desk after we waited in line for about 20 minutes. He complained about the wait the entire time. After we got rid of our bags we joined the long line at security.

“Okay everyone! Please, no liquids larger than 3 ounces, and take off your shoes and jackets.” A young woman with buttery blond hair in a white button down shirt with black pants was saying.

I handed her my I.D. and my boarding pass, which she marked with a highlighter. I held out my hand for them but she paused.

 “Ellen Harrison? That name sounds so familiar.” She looked at me. “Do I know you from somewhere?” I shook my head and grabbed my I.D. and boarding pass.

“Ellen Harrison.” She repeated to herself.

“Oh wait!” She exclaimed. “I know who you are! You were on the news a while ago about a plane crash here! And then didn’t you get charged with assault or something? I remember it was all over the papers and news stations.”

 My mouth fell open. I was shocked. I hadn’t thought anyone would remember that story. Some reporter from Channel Four had pushed a microphone at me and started rattling off questions for me to answer. I had simply stared at it, inebriated, and numbly refused to answer any questions. But then the 20-something reporter made the mistake of asking me if any of my family had been on the plane. I remember slowly turning my head toward the young woman, when a rage consumed me and I proceeded to beat her with her microphone with my left arm, all the while screaming. “Where is my mother?!” The reporter didn’t sue, because technically she wasn’t even supposed to be out on the tarmac in the first place, much less questioning victims. But Dad had still been horrified, and that, combined with the crash and Momma’s death, had landed me in therapy.

I looked at the blonde woman in front of me and answered. “Sorry, you have me confused with someone else.” And I left her standing there confused, while Dad handed her his identification. I went through security without incident, except they decided to confiscate my Marc Jacobs perfume. I waited for Dad to put his belt and shoes back on before we made our way to the gate. By now my jaw was clenched and a cold sweat broke out over my body.

When we got to the gate they were already boarding the flight. Dad walked up without hesitation to give them his boarding pass. When it was my turn, I froze. It had been this gate. Momma and I were coming back from Paris after visiting my grandparents. Now one year later I was with Dad visiting Eric at college, and Momma was gone. I bit my lip so hard I pierced the skin. The man at the podium looked shocked as blood started dripping down my chin.

“Ellie.” Dad looked at me in alarm. My lips quivered.

“I can’t do this Dad. I can’t do it.” I felt the tears spill down my face, mixing with the blood. I dropped my boarding pass and ran from the gate.

“Ellie!” Dad was yelling after me. “Come back!”

I walked around for a while after I lost my dad. Finally I stopped at a store Momma used to love: Spirit of The Horse. I walked in and breathed the smell of patchouli and instantly felt calmer. I ran my hands over the dream catchers and the wooden rain sticks.

The woman behind the counter gasped. “Oh my goodness! Sweetie you’re bleeding.”

I touched my chin. The blood had stopped flowing and was starting to dry. The woman walked over, her beaded bracelets jangling with the movement. She handed me a Kleenex.

“Are you lost? Do you need me to call someone?”

“No, no, I’m fine.” I answered. “I just wanted to look around.”

“Okay well, if you need any help my name is Willow.”

I nodded and continued through the store. I was playing with some embroidered bags when the loudspeaker crackled. “Ellie Harrison to Gate 23, Ellie Harrison to Gate 23.” I ignored it. Then my phone started ringing as Dad tried to reach me. I turned it off. I just wanted some time alone. I walked over to the racks of clothing. I stopped at a white peasant blouse with flowers printed on it. Momma wore one just like it that day. I forced myself not to cry, and calmly walked away from the rack of clothes and sat down on a wooden bench. I suddenly felt so tired, so I leaned back, and I closed my eyes.

 

                                                *********

I knew the plane had landed when I felt the impact. The force threw me to the side, as my head hit a window my jaw buckled, and I instantly felt searing pain in my forehead. I smelled smoke and heard a sickening screech of metal against concrete. I started breathing heavily when I realized this was the moment when I needed to get up and get out. I undid my seat belt, my fingers shaking and scratching against the metal. I tried to stand, but my legs felt like jelly, so I fell forward on my knees and started crawling on the ground. I squeezed past Momma’s legs and found myself in the aisle. I kept moving forward. I didn’t look back, to see if she was okay, or if she was even alive. I couldn’t think about anyone else, I had to get out of there. I had to keep moving. I just left her there without a second thought. By the time I slid out of the plane on an inflatable slide, my hands and knees where chafing and raw from being rubbed against the scratchy plastic carpeting.

                                    *********

            I stayed on the bench inside the store, pretending to nap, while ignoring Willow the shop-assistant, when Dad came in. He’s red and out of breath.

“There you are!” He exclaimed. “I’ve been calling and paging you for over an hour!”

I looked up at him, a little bewildered from being jolted from my thoughts. “Sorry.”

“What the hell happened back there?!”

“I don’t know. Actually I do. Dad, I need to tell you something"“

“Young lady you have a lot of explaining to do!” His voice was rising.

Willow came over, wringing her hands. “Can I help you with--“

“Stay out of this!” He hissed. Willow burst into tears and ran out the store. Dad turned back to me.  “You are coming with me right now. We’re going to get another flight.”

“Dad.” I sat up. I was done being passive. It was time for me to be honest. “I need you to listen to me!”

“What?” He barked.

“Don’t you get it Dad?! It still hurts. Being here, it hurts.”

Dad’s face goes white. “Why didn’t you say anything…before we came here?”

 “I tried.” My mouth is dry. I lick my lips. “I wanted to say something, but you kept pretending that everything was okay. I didn’t want to upset you anymore.”

“Upset me? But….I’m fine. I just thought you were too. The therapy, I thought it was helping you.” He sat down next to me.

“I didn’t want to talk to some stranger.” I felt myself starting to cry. “I needed to talk to you!”

“I didn’t realize--“

“You erased everything, everything she left behind. I didn’t want that!”

“I was just trying to move on.” He murmured.

“I know. But I didn’t want to. Not yet. I left her Dad!” I cried.

“Ellie"“

“No. Just don’t. I left her on that plane, and you know that! But you never once acknowledged what I did! I wanted you to punish me, to tell me I’m a terrible person, but you never said one word about it!”

“Why would you want me to punish you? Ellie, it was a dire situation. On that plane, I’m sure your survival instincts kicked in and you just weren’t able to focus on anyone but yourself.”

I shook my head. “That’s what you say. But I know the truth. Every time you look at me, you see her. You just see what happened. All I do is bring you pain.”

“Ellie.” Dad looked shocked. “You can’t think that’s true.”

“But it is. Don’t even try to deny it. It’s time you were honest with me.”

Dad sighed. I didn’t know what else to say. I felt myself tear up again when he didn’t deny it. I had always hoped I’d been wrong. Dad looked at me.

"She was my world Ellie. You were right, when I look at you, I do see her. But I don't see what happened, that's not what I remember. I look at you and you look so much like her, the way your face lights up when you're happy, the way your forehead crinkles when you're mad. That's why I avoid looking at you--you just remind me too much of your mother, and it hurts. But that doesn't mean I blame you for what happened, or that I love you any less."

I breathed out shakily. Finally, the guilt, the shame that had been eating away at me started to alleviate. It had weighed on me so long, I thought I'd never be free from it. I'd always wished I could speak to Momma again. To tell her how sorry I was, that I'd never meant to abandon her. But I couldn't, and it was that sad truth that had been killing me for all this time. As my father pulled me into a hug, I buried my face in his expensive suit and let the tears come, and I finally felt comforted. He had forgiven me. I looked up around the room when the background muzak changed songs. The first few notes of “Imagine” by John Lennon drifted into the room. Momma had finally forgiven me.

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

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