Back to Yesterday

by Pamela Sparkman

  I did get shot at. Bullets pinged off my plane left and right. Still, I flew straight and kept my heading, sending up prayers all the while. Lord, please let me make it home.

  While I tried not to think about her, it was impossible not to. Sophie was ingrained in me, buried in my soul, trapped inside my heart, and she was as much inside that plane as I was. I carried her with me everywhere.

  I laid my hand over my chest pocket expecting to feel her letter there until I remembered I no longer had it. My heart cracked at the memory of burning it and my eyes stung with a swell of tears. I swallowed a thick gulp of air and listened to the sounds of bullets pinging into my left wing.

  Please let me make it home.

  For an hour, I did this. Every mile behind me was a victory in my book and I would tell myself…you’re almost there…just a little further.

  My hands and feet tingled and itched from all the vibration. My teeth and jaw ached. I felt shaken and stirred and served on the rocks, but I was making progress. I could survive this.

  Just a little further.

  Then the coastline appeared and if I was standing on the ground I would have fallen to my knees. The sight was majestic. England waiting on the other side of the English Channel with arms out to its sides as if it were saying, “Nice to have you back, Charlie. We’ve been worried.”

  “Nice to be back,” I said out loud. I almost cried when I heard my own voice.

  Holy shit, I can see England.

  I felt like a child who had gotten lost in a crowd, scared and alone, searching frantically for my parents and the relief of finding them. In the distance, I could see the White Cliffs of Dover. Other than Sophie, I’d never seen anything more beautiful in my life.

  Almost there.

  However, the closer I got to the cliffs the worse the vibration became. I throttled back more to lower the rpms, causing me to drop fifty feet, and then another fifty. I had hoped the vibration would ease. It didn’t. Then one by one my instruments started to fail. First, I lost altitude and heading, then the engine oil pressure, temp, and finally rpms. I wanted to scream, feeling betrayed by my own plane.

  “I took care of you! I put you back together. The least you can do is get me back home!”

  Continuing to pull back on the throttle, not being able to read my instruments, I dropped a few more feet and the vibration eased up. The Cliffs were exactly three hundred and fifty feet high. I knew this. I had flown over the cliffs many times, and I also knew that I may not make it over the top of them.

  Nothing makes a man more aware of his capabilities than when he has to push aside his ego and vanity and stare reality in the eye, realizing any minute could be his last.

  I’m so close.

  I breathed through my nose, and like before, colors started to swirl in front of me. Red, yellow, and blue.

  I’d made two promises to Sophie. One I couldn’t keep. And the other… the other I would fight like hell to keep.

  “I’m coming home, Sophie. Can you hear me? I’m coming home.” My voice shook as much as the flying hunk of metal I occupied.

  Telling myself I was still a United States Army Air Corp pilot and flying one of the best inventions man had ever built, I refused defeat. Speed and skill. I didn’t have the speed, but damn it, I still had skill.

  “I’m coming home, baby. Don’t give up on me and I won’t give up on me either.”

  Gritting my teeth, I said another prayer, and flew straight towards the cliffs, knowing I would need a miracle.

  My heart is a prisoner unto itself

  Bound by love for someone else

  There are no locks or strong steel bars

  Just lonely thoughts of where you are

  It has no home or place to be

  It only wants to be with thee

  My mind has no key to unlock the door

  That holds its imprisoned forevermore

  There was no sentencing or time set to get out

  It controls its own there is no doubt

  What can I do to relieve the pain

  To open the door and unlock the chain

  There is no pardon, there is no parole

  My lonely heart has total control

  Only time will tell, it’s not up to me

  My imprisoned heart in its love for thee

  ~ The Sweeplings

  Give Me a Sign

  I had successful days and some not so successful ones. But even the successful ones were a struggle to put one foot in front of the other, though I was learning to handle them better. I didn’t feel like old worn sweaters anymore. More like gently used clothing.

  By the time summer came, I risked a glance over my shoulder of where I’d been, surprising myself that I had made it this far without ever breathing a full breath of air. I was merely taking little gasps at a time. Like being underwater and only coming up long enough to take some air into my lungs before submerging myself back into the dark abyss. I was doing the bare minimum to survive.

  One morning I sat up straight in my bed. A sudden feeling came over me like the Earth had shifted and tilted in the wrong direction. Adrenaline coursed through my veins. I could hear my blood pumping in my ears. I was scared.

  Something was wrong.

  I got up and ran downstairs, not sure what I would find. Maybe someone was in trouble. The kitchen light was on, the smell of bacon wafting in the air.

  “Mom?”

  My mother looked up and smiled. Her eyes were bright and cheery, her cheeks rosy. “Good morning, dear. Hungry?”

  My eyes flickered around the room, categorizing every item. Everything was in its place, nothing out of order. I ran to my dad’s study. He was sitting in his chair behind his desk. He looked up when he heard me enter, lowered his glasses and set them down. “Honey? You okay? You look pale.”

  “Dad,” I said, the words scraping against the back of my throat, “something’s wrong. I can feel it.”

  “What do you mean?” He stood and rounded the corner of his desk, his brows drawn tightly together.

  “I can feel it, Dad. I can…” My body flushed hot, a trickle of sweat rolled down my spine.

  Taking me by the elbow, Dad led me to the wingback chair and instructed me to sit. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

  “I don’t know, but something is wrong. Can’t you feel it?” I searched his face for validation. He only looked confused. My heart thrummed a rhythm I didn’t recognize. “You don’t feel it?”

  He took his time answering me, carefully assessing the situation. He squatted down in front of me, placed his hands on my shaking knees. “Tell me what this is,” he said. His voice was calm like he was trying to talk a jumper off a ledge. “What are you feeling?”

  I wiped my clammy palms over my nightgown and squeezed my eyelids shut tight. Though everything looked normal, I didn’t trust my eyes to be honest with me. I concentrated on my other senses. Sounds and smells were battling taste and touch, a cacophony of clutter swirled around me. I couldn’t separate or concentrate on any one thing. All I knew was that I could feel the Earth spinning in the wrong direction. Why couldn’t anyone else feel it?

  “Maybe you had a bad dream and you’re just feeling whatever residual fear you felt while dreaming.”

  Fear. I imagined Fear leering at me in the corner, over by the window, ready to do battle once more.

  “Try taking deep breaths,” my father said. “I’ll even do it with you. Ready? Breathe in…” I sucked in air. “Breathe out.” I let it out in slow measures. “Again. Breathe in…and out.” We did this a handful of times. My heart rate slowed, though it beat in an awkward pattern. Sounds and smells dulled to a more manageable sensation. “Better?” Dad asked.

  I lied. “Yes.”

  I left my father’s study and went back to my room. I closed the door and slid down the back of it until my bottom hit the floor. My eyes scanned the room looking for anything that was out of sorts. There was nothing, yet something felt wrong.


  “What do you think it is?” Elizabeth asked.

  I had pulled her off to the side after I forced myself to get dressed and showed up for work. “I don’t know.” Then I looked at her, beseeching honesty in her honey brown eyes. “Do you feel it?”

  She caressed my arm. “No, honey. But I believe that you do.”

  I pinched the space between my eyes. “I feel like I got tossed overboard and I’m bobbing in the ocean like a buoy, no one else around me. I’m alone in this.”

  She pulled me into her arms, not saying a word. She didn’t have to.

  I was definitely alone.

  Seconds morphed into minutes. Minutes morphed into hours. Hours morphed into a day. One day threaded into the next until a week passed. The feeling of doom lingered like a ghost, constantly hovering, unseen, yet felt. I kept looking over my shoulder, searching behind every corner, knowing something was there and not being able to put my finger on it.

  It was driving me mad with anxiety, a constant spike of adrenaline. Even my nights betrayed me. I couldn’t find the peace in my dreams because my dreams turned into a frantic frenzy of hide and seek.

  The nagging feeling that something was wrong stayed with me. I couldn’t shake it. I delved into fits of crying, the uncontrollable fits where you can’t catch your breath and you think your heart might explode or implode and you’ll bleed out.

  “What’s wrong, dear?” my mother asked, brushing her hands through my hair while I sat on the bottom step of our porch having one of my crying sessions.

  Drying my eyes with the back of my hand, I said, “I wish I knew. I feel like something is wrong and I can’t shake the feeling. It follows me everywhere I go.”

  “Do you want to talk about it, dear?”

  “It’s Charlie. I know it is. I can feel it my gut, Mom. What if he’s hurt? What if…” I couldn’t even finish the thought. If Charlie – no. I shook my head, refusing to go there. “I don’t know what to do.”

  My mother cradled me to her side and held me close. “Let’s say a prayer together. Okay? We’ll pray for him.”

  My throat had closed up, words unable to pass through. I nodded silently.

  She said a prayer for Charlie and I held each word in my hands and released them like magical doves when we said amen. She sat with me for the longest time, waited for my trembling to taper, then kissed my head and went inside.

  I looked up to the sky, recalling the beauty of Charlie’s description when he had painted it with words.

  “The sky is deceptive, mysterious, and moody. It is a master of disguise. It can be beautiful one minute and deadly the next. It can set you free or trap you in invisible barriers. The strands of wispy clouds can either hug you or suffocate you. It can be violent and unforgiving today and tomorrow it can whisper hope with its soft rays of light.”

  I closed my eyes, let the heat of the sun warm my skin and dry the tears that stained my face.

  Tell me you’re okay, Charlie. I have to know. I have to know.

  I went inside and grabbed my keys. “Mom, I’m going for a drive.” I left my worry on the bottom step and climbed into Charlie’s truck. When I got to the end of the street, I looked in my rearview mirror, hoping my ghosts weren’t following me. On the edge of town, I pulled over and picked an assortment of wildflowers that grew along the side of the road and headed to the one place where I knew I would find the quiet serenity I needed.

  Placing the flowers on Tank’s grave, I stepped back and spoke to the stone that had his name etched into it.

  Connor (Tank) Cassidy

  March 12, 1922 – October 28, 1942

  “Hi,” I said. I smoothed out my skirt and sat facing the stone. “We had a deal, remember?” The day after I first visited Julia, I came out to the cemetery and made a pact with Tank. I would look after his mother and he would look after Charlie. “I’ve held up my end,” I said, plucking grass and twirling it around my finger. “Are you holding up your end?”

  I waited for his answer. I imagined a yes being whispered in the shy way Tank would have responded.

  I smiled. “Thank you.”

  I sat with him, wanting to keep him company. Or maybe I wanted him to keep me company. Either way, it was nice so I didn’t examine it too closely. I thought about the conversation we’d had in the hospital after Charlie slept off the shot the doctor had given him for his bee sting.

  We were standing in the hallway drinking bitter coffee. “I can take you home or something if you don’t wanna stay,” Tank had said. “I’ll come back for him and let him sleep at my house. Or take him home if that’s what he wants.”

  “No, no I want to make sure he’s okay. I don’t mind staying.” One side of Tank’s mouth lifted and his eyes danced with mirth. “What?” I asked.

  His crooked grin turned into an even smile. “You know he’s fine. You heard him. You make him fly.”

  “Oh hush. I do not. Confessions while medicated are no confessions at all. He was high as a kite.”

  “Disagree. Confessions while medicated are the most honest ones. All inhibitions go out the window.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “I get it, though.”

  “Get what?”

  “It’s your eyes. They’re… soulful. Like you’ve lived a thousand lives and have a thousand stories. He stared at me, not with any kind of seduction or flirtation, more like he was reading a blurb on the back of a book to see if the story was worth reading. “Yeah,” he said. “I definitely get it.”

  Feeling a bit exposed under Tank’s examining eye, I offered a shy smile and sipped my coffee. I walked over to a wall of windows at the end of the hallway and gazed outside. I worried for Charlie and not because of his allergy to bee stings. My stomach twisted in knots every time I thought about him going back to war, and I thought about it often. I secretly hoped his leg wouldn’t heal well enough for him to fly anymore, and then I would immediately feel like a horrible villain for thinking such a thing. I was all kinds of confliction. Every time the subject of war came up, my inner-self screamed, kicked, and fought inside a soundproof room while my outer-self kept her mouth shut and dashed away before the screams broke free.

  I was lost in thought when I felt a chill at my back. Tank’s hand touched my shoulder. “He’ll be okay, Sophie. Don’t worry.”

  I wasn’t sure how, but Tank knew where my thoughts had gone. I placed my hand over his and said, “You promise?”

  There was a moment of hesitation and then he said, “Yeah, I promise.”

  My eyes traveled over the length and width of the cemetery, taking in all the sights and sounds. After a while, I got up and walked to the field beyond the headstones, walked out to the center of it, sat, and laid down so I could look up to the sky, songbirds singing all around me. The weather was warm, the sun hanging low beyond a line of trees and I wondered where Charlie was and what he was doing. Was he safe? I had no way of knowing. Closing my eyes, I sensed the presence of the ghost that kept hanging around, ready to rattle its chains. It had followed me here and I was so tired of feeling this way, like something was amiss in the universe, that something tragic had happened and I had no keys to unlock doors that held the answers I longed for.

  Are you okay? I have to know. I have to know.

  I sat up, wrapped my arms around my legs, and rested my head on my knees, the tears building and building. I squeezed my eyes shut and chanted… I have to know. I have to know.

  A moment later, I felt a chill at my back, a flutter against my skin, a breeze across my cheek. I kept my eyes closed and focused, imagining my plea sweeping across land and sea.

  I have to know.

  Another flutter. Another breeze.

  I opened my eyes and stared at what I saw, afraid to make any sudden movements.

  A monarch butterfly rested peacefully on my arm.

  “Do you know the legend of the monarch butterfly?”

  “No.”

  He moved in closer, took my hand, and walked me to the center of the field. “L
egend has it that monarch butterflies are messengers who travel great distances. If one appears and it touches you it’s supposed to be a sign from a loved one that they are okay. Messengers of peace.”

  “Messengers of peace,” I said, staring at the butterfly tickling my arm, its wings gently moving. I looked back towards the sky and felt my chest rise and fall with a healthy dose of air. Calm descended over me. It was a sign. I knew it was.

  Closing my eyes again, I felt my shoulder tingle with warmth…like a barely there touch, and the wind whispered, “He’ll be okay. Don’t worry.”

  With a broken, hopeful voice, I asked, “Promise?”

  This time, there was no hesitation. “Yeah, I promise.”

  “Have a wonderful evening,” I said, closing the register and handing Mr. Brayer his change.

  “Thank you, Sophie. I’ll bring Lois with me next time.”

  Mr. Brayer was the sweetest old man and Lois was his wife. I’d known them for years. “Good,” I said. “I’ll look forward to seeing her.”

  He started for the door, but hesitated. “Are you doing okay, hon? I mean…” He looked down at his feet, “…you hangin’ in there?”

  He was one of the people Charlie had given a letter to for me. I found it sweet of him to ask how I was doing.

  “I’m okay,” I replied. “Now don’t keep Ms. Lois waiting. You know how she gets when you’re late.”

  He tipped his hat to me. “Indeed. See you tomorrow, Sophie.”