Hover

by Anne A. Wilson

  “Excuse me?” I say.

  “XO’s orders, ma’am.”

  “But we don’t need these,” I say.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but no one is allowed to leave the ship without them.”

  “Hey, hey, Miss Equality,” Em says. “We should take them like everybody else.”

  “But this is ridiculous.”

  “Look, Sara, I want to get off this fuckin’ ship and so do all these other guys.” She motions to the increasingly long line behind us. “They’re going to get pissed if you delay them any longer, just like I’m getting pissed.”

  “But—”

  “Sara, just take the goddamn condoms and let’s go!”

  I can’t believe this.

  I put out my hand and the petty officer drops three Trojan six-packs into my waiting palm.

  “There are eighteen condoms here, Em.”

  “Well, we’re scheduled to be in port for four days, so yeah … I guess I could see that.”

  My eyes widen.

  “Go,” she says, giving me a push.

  As she receives her requisite eighteen layers of protection, I slip my backpack off my shoulder and stuff mine inside.

  One hour later, we’ve made it through the chop of Victoria Harbour and onto Fenwick Pier. It’s only one o’clock in the afternoon, and Em is ecstatic about our impending shopping excursion.

  The conversation we had last night went something like this:

  “Think about it, Sara. It’s an all-officer Hail and Farewell. Eric might be there. And if he’s there, you need to dress … well, not like you dress.”

  “Listen, the only reason I’m going to this affair is that it’s mandatory. I plan to find Captain Magruder, ensure he sees me, and then I’m leaving. And my clothes are fine.”

  “They are not fine. There is no way you can wear your frumpy clothes to a liaison like this!”

  “A liaison? Who said anything about a liaison?”

  She barreled on. “You’re going to screw this up if you don’t get help. So wardrobe, yes, wardrobe!”

  So here I am in Hong Kong, foregoing sightseeing opportunities galore to go shopping with Emily for clothes I don’t need for a liaison that is not going to happen.

  “Come on,” she says. “First stop, the MTR so we can get subway tickets. We need to get over to the Kowloon side.”

  Hong Kong is divided into several parts due to the number of islands that make up the Hong Kong territory. All are divided by waterways, crossable only by ferry or underground train. We have landed on Hong Kong Island, but Em’s shopping plans, and also the Hyatt Regency where we’ll be staying tonight, reside on the Kowloon side.

  Em quickly figures out the transportation logistics, and within thirty minutes, we’re strolling down Nathan Road’s famous Golden Mile. The concentration of signage here alone gives pause—like Times Square on steroids. I crane my neck upward, to neon signs stacked one above the other twenty stories high. This is repeated down the length of the boulevard for as far as the eye can see, layers upon layers of light and color.

  The streets and sidewalks underneath share this congestion, choked with cars and pedestrians. Old World meets New World, the traffic stopping—barely—for the man pulling a hand cart, a full pig carcass strapped across the top. The modern grocery store, nestled among other high-end shops, sits catty-corner to the farmer’s market where squid and seaweed hang from tattered awnings.

  And the shops … hundreds of them. Em is in her glory. She pulls me into the first boutique she sees.

  A pattern develops quickly. She picks out clothes, I try them on, I say no to everything, she pouts, we move on. And it continues like this for the next three hours. Fleetingly, I remember myself in high school, the girl who used to shop for new clothing as a matter of course. But now, I can’t for the life of me remember why I thought it was so important.

  My mom was never one for shopping, dressing up, or participating in any other such “frippery.” Ironically, I found my mother’s manner horrifying in high school. While the other girls’ moms dressed to the latest season’s fashion, mine stubbornly refused to participate, content to arrive at any school function in her favorite well-worn jeans and vintage tees. So at the time, I made it a point to remain well-heeled and scrupulously up to date, but whether due to my true nature or teenage rebellion, I don’t know.

  After graduation—after Ian—fashion forwardness plummeted on my list of priorities. But more importantly, I started to understand my mother—a woman who stood on her own, not fazed by the trivial, the trends, or the gossip. She is the woman I most admire, a woman who knows what’s important and stays true to herself, and I love her all the more for it.

  We’re now working our way back to the hotel, and I’m sort of feeling sorry for Em. She actually looks depressed, like she’s failed in her mission to buy me clothes.

  But at least she’s acting more normally and the tension between us has subsided. Because of the SEAL flights and the Sara-has-to-be-at-the-controls thing, it’s just been a little weird, lately. So the bantering we’re enjoying now is really great—just like normal. I think we just needed some time away from the ship.

  Emily gives me a pitiful look as we walk into a store crammed with women’s casual wear. As she’s done all afternoon, she selects several tops and skirts and pushes me into the fitting room.

  “Please, Sara, for me. Just please, have an open mind here.” She hands me a short-sleeved, royal blue wrap shirt—something I never would have picked for myself. She helps me into it and pulls the wrap at the waist to tie it on the side. It’s instantly flattering. The resulting V-shaped neckline sits flat on my chest and, while nice-looking, is still quite conservative, which is good for me.

  I stare in the mirror and then shift my gaze to Em’s pleading expression. I look back to my reflection. I’m wearing jeans and running shoes now, but if I replaced the running shoes with sandals, this might actually work. I know Em will scoff if I stay in jeans, but at this point, if I concede to wear anything new at all, she’ll jump for joy.

  “Okay, Em, I’ll do it.”

  Before I have a chance to change my mind, the blouse is off my body and in Em’s hands at the cash register.

  After paying, I put my foot down. “Okay, Em, that’s it. I’m done. I’ve got to get off my feet.”

  All I want is to be horizontal in our hotel room.

  “You’re kidding! You’re tired?”

  “I could run a marathon and it would be easier than this. Aren’t your feet killing you?”

  “I never thought I’d live to see the day when I outlasted you physically.”

  “Well, the day has come. Can we please go check in now?”

  Em adjusts the shopping bags on her arms, distributing the weight equally, as she considers this. “Okay, we can check in—”

  She stops when she sees the smile on my face. “That does not mean you’re lying in bed all afternoon.”

  I pretend I have no idea what she’s talking about.

  “I know exactly what you’re thinking, Denning, and the answer is no. If we check in, you’re hanging with me.”

  “Hanging … where?”

  17

  My legs hang stiffly at the end of the Hyatt’s twenty-five-meter pool, located on the eighth-floor terrace. Lined with mother-of-pearl tiles across the bottom, the pool shimmers in topaz blues and emerald greens. Emily dragged me here, and as always, it’s a struggle. On several levels.

  The liberty spirit is alive and well poolside, battle group officers strutting and peacocking while ogling the bikini-clad guests. Like Em and me, many of these men are staying here because of the Hail and Farewell tonight, and I suspect they’re drinking the place dry based on the nonstop comings and goings of the waitstaff. The last time alcohol touched their lips was in Pearl Harbor over three weeks ago, so apparently, they’re making up for lost time.

  “You do realize you’re the only one here not wearing a suit,” Em says, surfacing in f
ront of me after having swum the length of the pool underwater.

  I look down at my rolled-up jeans. “But I don’t intend on swimming.”

  “You don’t have to swim, knucklehead. Besides, suits are for lounge chairs anyway.”

  “An even greater reason for not wearing one! I mean, here? With this group? Look how these guys are acting! No way.”

  She rolls her eyes before ducking underwater to wet her hair again, smoothing it with her hands after standing.

  “Besides, just the thought of swimming makes me queasy,” I say.

  She moves to the side and crosses her arms over the deck, floating her legs behind her. “You know, it is totally beyond me how someone so deathly afraid of water would think it’s a great idea to join the navy.”

  “I’m not afraid of water.”

  “Yeah … right.”

  “Underwater. I’m not particularly fond of being underwater.”

  “Whatever. But even so, what in god’s name were you thinking? I mean, the navy? Really?”

  “You know … Ian…”

  “Surely you could have found another way to honor his memory.”

  “Hey, I’m working on it, all right?”

  Em closes her eyes with a happy sigh, resting her head on her arms. I used to do this, too, once upon a time. When my dad was stationed in Virginia Beach, flying jets out of Naval Air Station Oceana, our family vacationed at the beautifully secluded Lake Anna in Northern Virginia, just outside of Fredericksburg. I could while away an entire afternoon floating on the edge of a raft, head resting on my arms, just like Em’s, legs rising and falling with the waves as Ian paddled me around. When he got bored, he would jump off, dunking me in the process. We’d chase each other underwater, beneath and around the raft, giggling as we shot through the surface for air, and then we’d dive right back under again—for hours, day after day, and it never got old.

  This would be an impossibility for me now, of course, since … well, since Ian. At the time—I was only eleven—I had thought I’d bring my own kids back to Lake Anna. But now, a vacation like this would hold little appeal. Even the notion of having kids—a given for my eleven-year-old self—has deserted me. I was so young, and yet my life’s path was so clear then—college, husband, kids.… It’s just what girls were supposed to do.

  “Ahh! Stop it!” I screech, holding my hands in front of my face, as Emily splashes me.

  “Hello, in there,” she says.

  “What?”

  “Denning, you’re completely zoning on me.”

  “Oh,” I say, trying in vain to brush the water off my shirt before it soaks through.

  Em pushes against the deck, straightening her arms and pulling her feet up underneath her. She pops to a stand in a single movement. I follow as she walks to our lounge chairs and grabs the Coppertone out of her bag.

  “Can you help me out with the sunscreen?” she asks.

  Emily confounds me. This pool is teeming with men, ones we serve in uniform with every day, and yet, I watch as she casually unclasps the back of her bikini top, lies facedown, and picks up the latest issue of Cosmo.

  “Em, you can’t…” I wave my hand up and down the length of the lounge chair, at a loss for words.

  “Can’t what?”

  “Just … just this! It’s not—”

  “Don’t tell me it’s not professional!” she snaps. She reaches behind her, hooks her bikini top back together, and sits up to face me. “You know, Sara, I’ve had it with this! Listen to you! ‘My way is the only way!’ ‘I’m professional and you’re not!’ If you think you’re the only woman trying to prove herself on this deployment, I’ve got news for you. Just because I wear short skirts and swim in a bikini doesn’t make me any less of a naval officer than you. Nor does it have anything remotely to do with my ability as a pilot. I mean, where the hell do you get off? You’re the one who always screams about equality, that it shouldn’t matter who’s flying as long as they get the job done.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing! You can’t have it both ways!”

  I cross my arms, pursing my lips. I force the air in and out of my nose as I grapple with the guiding tenet that has influenced every thought, action, and behavior since I earned my wings. If you’re competent, it shouldn’t matter who’s behind the visor.

  “And here’s a news flash,” she continues. “Femininity and professionalism aren’t mutually exclusive! So stop looking down your nose and turn that condescending stare somewhere else!”

  I open my mouth to argue, but she cuts me off.

  “And while we’re at it, for someone who thinks men and women should be equal, you sure do a damn fine job of telling me I’m not. I don’t know who’s worse, you or Claggett!”

  She pulls up the back to the lounge chair, leans against it, and cracks her magazine open, blocking her face from view.

  “You need to take a good, hard look at yourself, Sara Denning,” she says from behind the magazine, “because only one of us is being true to herself.”

  I stand, stock-still, reeling from the assault. Emily and I have had our moments, to be sure, and our relationship has been a bit strained on the ship lately, but she’s never unloaded like this, not in all the years I’ve known her.

  I raise my eyes, scanning the pool deck, where people are laughing, splashing, joking, drinking … enjoying. And it strikes me that I stand very alone in this. What am I missing…?

  “I, um, I’ll see you in the room,” I mumble.

  “Hey, it’s your liberty,” she says. With a flick of the hand, she shoos me away.

  * * *

  Crimson comforters with crisscrossed gold stitching adorn the two queen-size beds in our hotel room. I lie on the one closest to the curtained window, staring at the trompe l’oeil ceiling. As intended, its gilded panels appear to float, pulling my eyes up and up, into an illusory three-dimensional heaven. I hover here, studying the figure on the bed far below, wondering why she appears so sad. So I ask her. Why?

  She tells me this is the only way she knows how. That she must remain focused and concentrated in order to live up to her family’s expectations. To prove to her father, a decorated navy pilot, that she is up to task. That she can do whatever her brother would have done. Should have done.

  But you can still be you. Look at Emily. Does she not meet expectations? Is she not one of the most outstanding naval officers and pilots you know?

  The forlorn figure on the bed shifts uncomfortably. Yes, she answers. But Emily is … is …

  What? True to herself? Happy?

  The figure hesitates, but finally answers. Yes.

  Are you happy?

  The figure is still. Silent.

  I float like a leaf, swirling, spinning, light, dropping until I join the figure, and become heavily weighted once more.

  * * *

  I’m not sure how much time has passed, but when Emily finally returns to our room, it’s been long enough to realize that I owe her an apology. Try as I might, though, I can’t seem to say it right. I stumble. I start over. I say it again. “Em, really, I just—”

  “Sara, stop,” Emily says, turning from the mirror. “Listen, you’ve apologized. I’ve apologized. We’re good, okay? So can we just put this behind us and try to enjoy our liberty? Please?”

  And that’s it. Em moves on. She’s good that way. No brooding or sulking. Besides, she has more pressing things on her mind. For the next two hours, she remains in constant motion, trying on various outfits, experimenting with umpteen clothing combinations, attempting to decide what to wear tonight. She’s downright giddy, and this has lifted my spirits considerably.

  If only it would help with the nerves.

  The Hail and Farewell begins at seven o’clock, and the closer we draw to the hour, the more nervous I become. Nervously excited, I should say, which is a strange feeling for me. I hate getting “up” for anything. But after I decided I was going to enjoy my liberty just like Emily, I’ve allowed a th
ought that I had shut out earlier. Eric might be here. Since then, I’ve secretly buzzed, unable to shut off the anticipation.

  “Okay, how about this?” Em says, flaunting an extremely mini miniskirt.

  She turns a slow circle, ensuring I have a comprehensive view and adequate time to form my appraisal.

  “They’ve all looked great. Too short, in my opinion, but you don’t really care about my opinion, so I’d say you’re safe with any of them.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Okay, I think I’m going with this.”

  She does a quick spin in front of the long closet mirror, pink chiffon layers levitating around her. She wears a form-fitting black sleeveless top, holds her head high, and radiates confidence.

  As I watch her, I wonder for the thousandth time how she can stand hanging out with me. I’m so much more comfortable in my uniform, which is lame, I know. But at a function like this, I’m naked—approached by men with drinks in their hands who only see the woman before them. Not the officer. I’ve spent so much time learning how to be the always-professional, gender-neutral officer that I don’t know how to act otherwise. It’s social awkwardness at the highest level.

  And like two worlds colliding, everything will be ratcheted up a notch tonight if Eric is here.

  Em adds layers of jewelry and I marvel at her. She doesn’t have this problem. Completely at ease, uniform or no.

  “Em, how do you do it?”

  “How do I do what?” she says defensively. She’s prepping for another one of my lectures, I can tell.

  “That,” I say, motioning up and down her body, from perfect hair and makeup to miniskirt and heels. “You’re just so … comfortable.”

  She stops, turning to face me, realizing I’ve asked her an honest question, no barbs attached.

  I receive a long, pointed look before she speaks. “I’m not trying to be something I’m not,” she says.

  I stare back.

  I stare back some more.

  Growing up, I had never considered a career in the navy, despite being raised by my father, a pilot and twenty-four-year Navy veteran. He would regale Ian and me with tales of his around-the-world adventures, and while we were both enthralled, it was only Ian who wanted to follow in our father’s footsteps. I had set my sights elsewhere until that fateful day nine years ago, when life as I knew it ended. When I made Ian’s dream my own.