by Nicole Baart
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PRAISE FOR
Far from Here
“Nicole Baart is a writer of immense strength. Her lush, beautiful prose, her finely drawn characters, and especially her quirky women, all made Far from Here a book I couldn’t put down.”
—Sandra Dallas, New York Times bestselling
author of Prayers for Sale and The Bride’s House
“Far from Here was a rare journey to a place that left me healed and renewed by the end of this beautiful, moving novel. A tribute to love in all its forms—between a man and a wife, between sisters, and among mothers and daughters—my heart ached while I read Far from Here, but it ached more when I was done and there were no more pages to turn.”
—Nicolle Wallace, New York Times bestselling
author of Eighteen Acres
“Nicole Baart is a huge talent who has both a big voice and something meaningful to say with it. Far from Here is a gorgeous book about resilient people living in a broken world, finding ways to restore hope and even beauty in the pieces.”
—Joshilyn Jackson, author of Gods in Alabama
and A Grown-Up Kind of Pretty
For Aaron, always
Prologue
Danica
The first time he took me up, I thought I was going to die.
It was an accident, really, a stroke of luck or fate or happenstance that lured me into the cockpit that morning. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t have touched with the tip of my little toe the small red-and-white Cessna 180 that Etsell used for teaching rookie pilots. But his lesson had been a no-show. And the plane was fueled up and ready to go, waiting on the runway for takeoff.
I was huddled in the hangar, arms wrapped tight against my chest to ward off the early-spring chill as Hazel yakked on endlessly about her grandson who was in the army. Later, I wondered if it was orchestrated, if she had baited me with a fresh pot of coffee and the pay-attention-to-me slant of her puppy-brown eyes. But at the time, all I could think of was that her steel-wire mop of hair could use a good wash and set.
“My grandson is going to be in the special ops,” she said with a grin.
I nodded, though I doubted that those sorts of things were determined in the first week of boot camp.
“He’s going to be one of those secret agents. Navy SEAL or something. Imagine that: Special Agent Jansen.” Hazel smirked at my halfhearted acknowledgment. Then her eyes slid past me and she tipped her head in the direction of the runway. “I think Etsell is waving at you.”
Etsell always waved at me. Or threw me kisses, winked my way, or fixed me in a gaze that made me blush. But I was grateful for the distraction, for the chance to break the eager hold that Hazel had on me. Although she wasn’t blood, she was more his mother than the woman who died in a car crash when he was eight. And I owed Hazel a certain deference for bringing up my husband the best way she knew how. It was nearly impossible for me to drop off Ell at the airport and not give Hazel at least a moment of my time, even though I all but counted the minutes. And yet, as I turned, I remember deciding to buy her a gift certificate for the salon. I could fix her hair without begging for the chance to do so. A daughterly gesture, even if I didn’t feel much like her daughter.
I raised my arm to flutter my fingers at Etsell, to offer him a quick, perfunctory farewell before he took off down the runway. But when I caught sight of my handsome husband, that blond-headed god who still took my breath away after nearly two years of being his bride, I realized that his gesture was far from routine.
Etsell was waving me toward him. Beckoning, actually, sweeping both arms in the air in wide, engulfing strokes as if he could, by will alone, draw me to him.
I was shaking my head no even as Hazel put her hand on the small of my back and gave me a hearty shove. “Go on,” she prodded. “It’s about time.”
“No.” I was cold-palmed at the very thought of climbing into the cockpit of that floating impossibility. If God had wanted us to fly, he would have given us wings.
“Don’t be selfish. It would mean so much to him.”
“I don’t care.” But even as I said it, I knew that today was the day. Why hadn’t I realized it before? I should have woken up sensing a fundamental shift in the balance of my personal universe. A me-sized tsunami, an earthquake of Danica proportions. It took Etsell gesturing before me for the world to tilt on its axis.
“My lesson canceled!” he shouted across the distance between us. “Come on!”
Hazel walked me over, her hand still firm against my back, and Etsell watched me come. He beamed, more accurately, and I knew by the twist of his lips that this was nothing short of serendipity for him. A moment of such destiny, such perfection, he hardly knew how to encompass the joy of it.
I think I would have refused him even then.
But when I was within arm’s reach, Etsell pulled me to him. His hands slid up my arms, and in the second before he knotted his fingers in my hair and kissed me full on the mouth, I caught the familiar scent of him as if he carried bits of life in his hands. Petrol. Thick, dark oil choked with dust, and above it all, the sharp tang of metal that made my jaw ache until his lips smoothed the sting away.
“Fly with me,” he murmured.
How could I say no?
Behind me, I heard Hazel laugh as she walked away.
Etsell had to half lift me into the cockpit, I was trembling so hard. He buckled the tangled straps of my seat belt, reaching around me as if I were a child. And I felt like one, shrinking and terrified as I watched his capable fingers work the shiny clasp. It was cold outside, but he had rolled up the sleeves of his Henley to the elbow, and sun shone off the pale hairs on his forearm. My golden boy, I thought, touching the halo of his honeyed head with my fingertips.
He growled and arched his neck to catch my finger in his flawless teeth.
“I bite,” he had teased me once, years ago when we were still dating. But I had known that from the very beginning. Just looking at Etsell Greene was a heartbreaking experience, a painful acknowledgment of the obvious truth that he was not, and would never be, tamed.
Thankfully, his bites didn’t hurt, not the real ones, and in the end he sucked my finger like a lollipop and kissed the very tip.
“You’re going to love this,” he assured me. “We’ll get matching planes when you fall in love with flying.”
I was too scared to shake my head.
Etsell shut my tin-can door and ran around the front of the plane so he could climb into the cockpit beside me. I noticed little things, details like tiny morsels that I plucked between my fingers and swallowed whole in an act of desperation: the orange vest he zipped up in one smooth motion, the weight of the headset when he settled it over my ears, the cracked plaque that nestled between a dizzying array of switches, dials, and round-faced gauges that proclaimed the airplane a No Smoking Zone.
“We’re ready to roll.” Etsell’s voice was detached and hollow conveyed through the static-riddled radio. My eyes flashed to him, anxious for some sort of reassurance, hopeful that if he saw the look in my eyes he’d call the whole thing off and let me keep my feet planted on solid ground. But he was tapping a dial, showing me what instrument would inform us when the engine was sufficiently warmed up. “There are plastic-lined paper bags in the little pocket at your feet,” he teased as he started the engine. “Don’t mess up my plane.”
Within minutes we were taxiing down the r
unway, steadily picking up speed as we neared the end of the long swath of blacktop. I squeezed my eyes shut, but the motion and the darkness made me dizzy. It was a drunken, spinning feeling, and I fought it until I was afraid I’d throw up before we ever left the ground. As the earth began to thunder beneath me, I opened my eyes in time to see the nose of the little plane point slightly heavenward and take to the sky.
It wasn’t quite what I expected. Liftoff. We didn’t shoot into the air like a stray bullet or plunge upward with the sort of vicious thrust I imagined necessary if we insisted on defying gravity. It wasn’t violent or gut-wrenching or wild. Instead, we rose in the sort of slow ascent that made me think of bubbles in cream, slow and heavy, drifting lazily from the tip of a stirred spoon. The wheels of the plane parted from the ground in a subtle act of departure that left me feeling weightless and detached. For just a moment, between the earth and the sky, it was if I didn’t exist.
“Nowhere to go but up,” Etsell whispered against my ear.
We were pressed together, arm to arm, hip to hip, leg to leg in a cockpit so tiny my shoulder brushed the door on the other side. I pushed myself against my husband, huddling in the hard line of his body as if I could make myself more a part of him than I already was.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said.
I had wanted him to say, “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
My stomach stayed behind on the tarmac as we flew, but after the almost surreal moment of separation, my heart was agonizingly present. It pounded out a rhythm that seemed to fill the cockpit as Etsell climbed higher and higher over the fields. There was a terrible beauty in the way he tapped dials and spoke softly to Hazel below. He wore his headphones loosely, the small microphone hovering beside his mouth as if waiting for a kiss while he whispered in a language I didn’t understand.
I hoped that if I watched him I wouldn’t worry about where I was. But turning my head made my stomach roll in concert with the rise of the hills beneath us, and in the end I had no choice but to accept the slant of the world below me as it slow-danced across the horizon line.
Somewhere in the back of my panicked mind I registered that it was a beautiful day. The undulating hills of northwest Iowa made a puffed patchwork quilt that seemed a thousand miles beneath my feet. And the sky was cloudy-bright, filled with canted swaths of light as the sun alternately shone against a periwinkle backdrop and hid behind clouds like bits of pulled cotton. The air was crisp and clean, and before I could grasp how high we had climbed, we were there among them, surrounded by hillocks of white that made me think of heaven. I could have opened the door and gathered a handful of mist. The thought made me shiver.
“Breathe,” Etsell scolded me.
I gasped in a mouthful of air that tasted of exhaust.
“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?”
I nodded and discovered that once I started I could not stop the steady bob of my head.
Etsell was gentle with me, climbing slowly and drifting down on crosswinds so I could admire the tractors as they disked fields the color of night. It was lovely, all of it: the dark lines in the dirt that shone like fresh ink, the trees softened by buds on the threshold of splitting open, the grid of gravel roads where cars made snaillike progress. And a part of me couldn’t help but love it, couldn’t help but be thrilled by the change of perspective that made me feel like I was seeing the world for the very first time. Or maybe just through different eyes.
But most of all, I feared it. Feared it and loathed it with the sort of churning agony that made me frantic with the need to feel my feet on solid ground.
When we finally landed and Etsell turned to me triumphant, I could only choke out one word: “Never.”
The spark of joy in his eyes dimmed. “What do you mean?”
This time, I managed two words: “Never again.”
1
Offerings
They brought things.
Like hopeful penitents or sojourners making the pilgrimage to a holy land filled with story and sorrow, they arrived with gifts. Most offerings were cradled by careful hands, and delivered with the sort of ceremony and circumstance usually reserved for sacraments. Even the serving plates were chosen with intention, exquisite and rarely used pieces that had obviously been rescued from corner curios and china cabinets. Rescued and washed clean, soap and water removing the accumulated dust of weeks or months. Sometimes years.
Dani accepted an oblong, curved platter adorned with impossibly tiny, hand-painted flowers. The artful, black-hearted pansies were dwarfed by still-warm squares of generous walnut brownies, stacked like soft bricks in a fragrant monument to her grief. And there was a stew in a fat soup tureen, a lidded, porcelain rarity that seemed to glow with the almost heady scent of beef roast and caramelized onions. It was thick and unnatural for a warm May day, and Dani held her breath when she placed it on the counter next to the small army of dinnerware that had begun to amass beneath her painted cabinets. Casseroles and baskets of store-bought fruit and cookies, cups of café au lait with heavy cream and raw sugar, just the way she liked it. If she was really lucky, or if her mom came, the caffeine fix was laced with a shot or two of something stronger. But even the Irish coffee was a waste.
People brought things because they didn’t know what else to do. Somewhere, below the tingling numbness that trembled against her skin, Dani knew they were trying, and she returned the favor with a reluctant grace, welcoming each well-meaning act of charity with heavy, outstretched arms. She assured every visitor that their gift was perfect. Just what she needed. The only thing she could bring herself to taste. How did you know?
The truth was, she didn’t want their food or their condolences. After they left, she upended the brownies into the garbage can, abandoning the stack of fudgy sweets to the cupboard under the sink, where they made her entire kitchen smell like a confectionary. With a long-handled spoon, she ladled the hot stew into the garbage disposal. Chunks of potatoes and whole baby carrots and bits of barley floated in the sink like putrid, autumn confetti until she flipped the wall switch and ground it into a sludgy paste that oozed down the drain. It was all she could do not to vomit.
They were an insult, all those filled plates, those ridiculous portions of food and drink. As if she could eat. As if a chicken-broccoli casserole could fill the space where he was supposed to be.
Nothing could touch it.
No amount of filling could ease the echoing ache of the fissure that had split open her heart, her very life, ripped it straight down the middle so that she knew what it was like to fall to pieces. You didn’t fall, not really. It wasn’t nearly so dramatic or drawn out. One word or two, just a few, and when the paralysis passed you looked down and realized that you were bleeding from a wound that would surely never heal. It didn’t hurt until you saw the blood, until you realized that you had been torn and what was taken from you could not be put back. Not without leaving a scar. Worse. There would be much more than a scar. She felt deformed. She knew she always would be.
Dani didn’t want another batch of oatmeal-raisin cookies. Or her friends, her sisters, her mother. Not even a funeral could give her closure. And in many ways she longed for exactly that. For the known.
Etsell wasn’t dead; he was gone.
That, Dani decided, was infinitely worse.
They brought small sacrifices to the altar of her mourning, but the only oblation Dani accepted was the one that Benjamin offered.
He knocked on her door the day after she got the call, almost exactly forty-eight hours after Etsell’s plane went missing from the tiny airport in Seward, Alaska. Dani was furious at first because her reclusive neighbor was knocking on her back door, the whitewashed, creaking screen that opened on a little kitchen garden where nothing much deigned to grow. It was her private entrance and her secret escape, the passage through which she quietly ducked when the front doorbell rang with the insistent sound of sympathy that she longed to ignore. But her rage was rash and unfounded, it fizz
led out as quickly as it flared, and Dani was left feeling bereft of emotion, of even the will to stand up and answer the door.
At first she tried to pretend that she wasn’t at home. She was sitting at the small breakfast table in the kitchen, a round-topped relic that she had refinished in black lacquer with a rubbed metallic glaze. Her hands were on the soft-ridged surface, her fingers following the almost imperceptible dips and whorls that traced the path of the rag she had used to polish the dark wood after she had sanded the corners and blown away the sawdust with her own pursed lips. Etsell had laughed as she labored over the table. He didn’t understand the almost sensual way she swept circles over the new, glossy paint or why her eyes narrowed to focus on every detail in the old tabletop.
“It’s nothing special,” he told her for the hundredth time. “It was cheap when your grandma bought it, and it’s no heirloom now.”
“I love the shape,” Dani muttered, barely registering that he was trying to provoke her. It was good-natured, it always was, and she wasn’t in the mood. The table was finally dry and she was lost in the art of unearthing hints of the original wood grain beneath.
“Oh, I know.” Etsell moved behind her, formed himself to her body as she bent over the smooth surface with a sheet of three-hundred-grit sandpaper clutched in her hand. “You like the legs,” he murmured against her neck. “The twisting lines. The old-world carved details and . . .”
“Ball feet,” she supplied in a whisper. The sandpaper was already slipping from her fingers.
“Ball feet,” he echoed. “And you’re finishing it . . . Art Deco?”
“With a French Provincial slant,” Dani agreed, shrugging a little so that the warm skin at the curve between her shoulder and neck rose to meet his lips. His breath was hot, and she stifled a shiver as he parted the curtain of her hair and spilled kisses against the hidden places beneath.
