Thick clouds filled up the sky after we started moving again. Occasionally we’d pass a small town or a farm, and I’d see people out working in the corn and wheat fields. I wondered what it would be like to live below such a huge sky, in a small house surrounded by acres and acres of crops and fields. The clouds broke up again to reveal bright blue.
The bus’s motion lulled me into a feeling of calm, even though it was now July 23 and in fewer than twenty-four hours we needed to be at the house in Atchison, still far, far away. Next to me, Pidge drifted in and out of sleep. She’d snatched a copy of the Sunday Santa Fe New Mexican in the bus station before we left, and in between naps she’d read the whole thing. I checked out the headlines from the front page over her shoulder: stories about the war in Vietnam, a huge earthquake in Turkey, and more riots. I turned to stare out the window. How could the world be full of so many good and beautiful things—the Grand Canyon, the scent of juniper in the desert, Hershey’s candy bars, people like Snooky and Ruth and Margo—and yet so full of pain and struggle at the same time? I didn’t understand it. I pictured my mother, sitting down in front of her typewriter somewhere while working on her story. Maybe writing was her way of making sense of it all, and why she felt her work was so important.
We were hours into the trip and the bus was getting hotter still. I shifted in my seat. Pidge was snoring. Loudly. A woman catty-corner from us glared in our direction. I nudged Pidge a few times, trying to get her to shift so she’d stop with the snorting and snuffling. Eventually, she coughed, turned her head, and dozed quietly.
Watching the countryside roll by was making me feel slightly dizzy. I reached below the seat in front of Pidge to slide out the valise. There was one letter from Meelie left, and I couldn’t wait any longer to read it. I pulled it out, then pushed the valise back under the seat.
July 2, 1967
My Dear Pidge,
By the time this letter reaches your hands, I’ll already be on my way. Home.
I can’t divulge all the details now, but here’s our plan: July 24. I’ll meet you at the place I picture in my mind when I hear the word “home,” and that’s our grandparents’ old house on the bluff in Atchison. Get there as close as you can to the sunrise, while the dew is still shining on the lawn.
It will be my seventieth birthday. Oh, remember the summer birthday parties we used to celebrate there, the air thick with the humidity and the scent of the river? Bees, flies, and mosquitoes buzzing around our heads as we sat in the sunshine and sang. Our family, happy together. These memories have also been my home, Pidge. I’ve spent a lot of time with them in the past thirty years.
Before my return, I must tell you a few things about when I left. It was a whirlwind leading up to my round-the-world flight. I’d flown the Atlantic, I’d flown the Pacific. I had more records than I could count and a message from President Roosevelt congratulating me on showing “even the ‘doubting Thomases’ that aviation is a science which cannot be limited to men only.” I’m smiling with pride, remembering that.
Around that time you planned a dinner party with me as the guest of honor. You meant it as a nice, proud gesture, I’m sure—and a chance to spend time with me before I flew away. I canceled with no explanation. I realized too late the hurt that caused you. I’m sorry, Pidge. Under different circumstances, I would’ve loved a chance to share a meal with my sister. But I didn’t want to sit at the head of the table and have to shine. I never let myself appear fatigued in public, so perhaps you didn’t know that I was exhausted. From both the fame and the flying.
Why did I need to keep going, then? Well, one reason was money. It had cost oodles to do all that vagabonding in the air. The book deal and endorsements from the round-the-world flight would have set me up well for the rest of my life. Who knows what my next adventure could’ve been. Often I dreamed of a quiet life with books, friends, California sunshine—and my sister. Although I didn’t know if that would’ve been possible, given the level of celebrity I’d reached.
And so I prepared for this last grand adventure. Some of the plans you knew about. Some you didn’t and still don’t. It took months and months before I was ready to go. We delayed my departure and told everyone (including you) it was because of the weather, but that’s not entirely true. In fact, there were very compelling, confidential reasons to create the delay—and change my route. Then when it was time to finally leave, I crashed on takeoff. That should have been a sign, right?
But I never would’ve backed out, Pidge, and not just because if I didn’t do it then my legacy would be one of failure instead of success. If I’ve learned anything, it’s how important it is to be brave and to try to do the impossible, even when it feels like you can’t.
So I made a second attempt. In Miami I said good-bye to my husband while sitting on the wing of my Electra airplane, holding his hand tight in mine. I really didn’t believe I wouldn’t hold his hand again, Pidge. Even though my plans were secret, my intent was never to disappear the way I did. Plans go awry.
If I could go back, I’d make sure you were on that runway with me. I’d give you a big hug and tell you that I’d see you later and that I was looking forward to my adventure. I’d urge you not to worry, even if it took me a while to get back. A long while.
But you can’t change the past. The trip’s all a blur. More than the details, I mostly remember the huge effort, the mounting fatigue, and my deep sense of pride. Lae, in New Guinea, was the last stop before Howland Island (for refueling, although I’m sure I don’t need to explain the details of that leg to you—the whole world came to know my itinerary inside and out after I disappeared). We were worried about weight, so my navigator and I boxed up plenty of things to ship back to the states—souvenirs, clothing we no longer needed, some writing. I even threw in my old lucky charm, that elephant-toe bracelet. But you know which two personal items I still kept with me? A jar of freckle cream and Donk, who stayed in the bottom of my flight bag. It was homesickness that made me pack her in the first place, and I didn’t want her returning home without me.
Finally we left: two tired Americans, a couple of bags, my wooden donkey, and 1,000 gallons of fuel. Headed to a tiny speck in the middle of the Pacific, with absolutely no margin of error.
What amazes me now is how everyone assumed we’d make it there.
What really happened—consider it “classified.” There are still secrets it’s important to keep, and I don’t want to have sacrificed these thirty years in vain. And things happened that day that took me by complete surprise. But I do want you to know that I wasn’t lost, and I didn’t topple into the sea. It’s true that I sometimes made mistakes (somewhere out there, Snooky is nodding in agreement), but I was a darn good aviator and that day, I was in complete control of my plane. (I hate the thought of people thinking that I, a woman pilot, couldn’t handle the task.)
And that brings me to now. While flying that last grand adventure, the thought of “home” was my shining beacon. But home isn’t a place for me any longer. It hasn’t been for a long time. Now, home is a person: my sister. You. July 24 will come quickly, dear Pidge. We’ll have another birthday celebration, back at my birthplace. Maybe we’ll go for a spin in the yard again. “Oh, Pidge—it’s just like flying!”
I can’t wait to see you, sister. Soon.
All my love and more,
Meelie
I placed the letter in my lap, wishing there were still more to read. I desperately wanted to know what had really happened on Meelie’s last flight. Why didn’t she make it to Howland Island? Where did she end up? And why had she been gone so very long?
When things veered off course for us—like the detour through Lamy—I’d felt like the whole trip was, well, up in the air. I was glad we’d never backed out on our plans, just like Meelie. Pidge and I were trying to do the impossible too. Even if I didn’t have Pidge’s steadfast faith in Meelie’s return, I was not going to give up on the way to find her. No matter what happened.
“Here we are, folks, arriving in beautiful Salina, Kansas. Take a moment to collect your things, and please be careful exiting the bus.”
Startled, I dropped the letter onto my lap. By my wristwatch, it was four o’clock—but in Santa Fe. Kansas was an hour ahead. The bus had barely stopped on its way rattling across the plains, and we’d made it to Salina in just under ten hours. We had about fourteen left to make it another 160 miles to Atchison. Somehow.
I wished I could linger with the letter, but we hadn’t a minute to spare. Next to me, Pidge was asleep, but no longer snoring like earlier. “Pidge,” I said. “Time to get up. We’re in Salina.” I shoved my book and the letter into my knapsack.
Pidge didn’t move, not even to blink open her eyes.
I tapped her lightly, feeling the sharpness of her shoulders through the thin silk. “Pidge!” I hissed. I glanced around to see if any other passengers were watching us—but most were busily gathering packages, with the few continuing on to Kansas City still reading or dozing in their seats. I nudged my grandmother again, harder this time. Concerned, I stuck my hand in front of her nostrils to see if I could feel her breath.
Pidge still didn’t stir.
FIFTEEN
The Bon Voyage Diner
Pidge!” The urgency in my voice caught the attention of the driver, who was back inside after helping passengers exit with their luggage. He stared at us and then down at his passenger list. I pressed my hand to Pidge’s cheek. Her skin was cold and felt clammy, or maybe it was that my palms were starting to sweat. But she was breathing. What’s wrong with her? The bus would be pulling out of the station soon. “Oh, Pidge, please wake up.” I closed my eyes and was slammed with a memory from the summer before my parents split up.
I’d known my other grandmother well. Grandma Anna lived nearby—she really was the little old lady from Pasadena—and she often came over to watch me while my mother met up with friends or worked on her writing or simply needed a break. Grandma Anna taught me how to bake meringues. She weeded our rose bushes. She braided my hair. And she told me stories about when my grandfather had fought in the South Pacific and had a pet monkey. I loved Grandma Anna. Sometimes I felt like I was a nuisance for my mother, an afterthought for my dad. But every time my grandma arrived at our house and stepped out of the car with her arms open wide, the look on her face was pure love for me.
I wish I’d had my camera the last time I watched her get out of the car, grinning and waving at me. I wish I’d captured that look. I just assumed that there would be a next visit, and then another. But one day while my mother and I were watching the evening news, the phone rang. My mom got up to answer it and crumpled to the floor. Then my father drove us to the hospital, where I looked at Grandma Anna one last time as she lay in the cold metal bed, still in this world but already having left it. She was breathing, but the rest of her was gone. As my mother wept next to me, I tried to mold my face into the same look of love my grandmother had always shown me. I squeezed her hand, even though I understood she would no longer squeeze back.
Nothing was quite the same after that. My mother slumped around the house for months. My dad said we needed to be patient. Eventually my mother found her way back to happiness, but it was by working all the time. Then the divorce happened, and my father met Julie.
On the bus, I squeezed Pidge’s hand and, without really thinking about it, I shared a Grandma Anna smile with her, one full of love. Pidge’s right eye peeked open and then the left. “Shh,” she said, smiling back at me sheepishly. “Just play along with me.”
“Is there a problem?” The driver loomed in the aisle next to our seats.
“Aw, shucks,” Pidge muttered under her breath. Confused, I looked back and forth between the two of them like watching a table tennis game.
“I seem to recall you two were disembarking at Salina—and I need to get this bus back on the road. You’re making the other passengers late.” The driver spoke politely, but I could tell he was annoyed by the way he tapped his foot and had his arms crossed tightly over his chest.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Pidge said. “I fell asleep and haven’t quite gotten my bearings. I’m a bit light-headed. Where is the bus headed next?”
“Kansas City,” the driver said, switching the crossing of his arms.
“Perhaps we could stay on till then.” Pidge smiled charmingly. By then, I understood what she was trying to do.
“Only if you bought a ticket for Kansas City. Which, I believe, you did not.” His arms uncrossed and one swung down to grab the handle of Pidge’s suitcase. “I’ll help you with your things.”
Pidge sighed and stood up, moving about as quickly as a watched pot boils. The driver clomped down the aisle, glancing back at us with an annoyed look. I grabbed my suitcase and knapsack and scurried after him. With her pocketbook tucked under her arm, Pidge followed me. My cheeks flamed with embarrassment as the other passengers watched us leave, but at the same time, I felt a strange sort of pride for Pidge’s gumption.
Outside, the driver set the suitcase down and tipped his hat at us, more exasperated than polite. “Afternoon, ladies.” He hopped up the steps and the bus door sighed shut after him. The engine rattled and the bus began to roll away. Pidge was staring at our luggage. “Wait,” she said. “Wait!”
“What?” I shaded my eyes from the sun, trying to figure out what had her upset. “What is it?”
“They’re on board!” was her anguished reply. “My letters!” At first I didn’t understand what she was talking about. Letters she’d written someone?
Then my hand slapped over my open mouth. Two suitcases, one knapsack, one pocketbook. But no brown valise safeguarding Meelie’s letters to Pidge. I could picture it perfectly—resting snugly under the seat in front of us.
“Wait, wait, wait!” I tore after the bus, which ambled toward the stop sign at the exit of the parking lot. “STOP!”
The turn signal was on, and it was waiting to pull out into the street.
I waved my arms wildly over my head, hollering, “Stop! We forgot something!”
But it was too late. They pulled away, even though one of the college students riding in the back had noticed my plight and appeared to be yelling up to the driver. I watched as the silver Trailways bus zipped down the street, then took a turn, and faded from our view.
I dropped to my knees. Tears rolled down my cheeks. Those letters were everything. And I forgot them.
“Darling, it’s all right,” Pidge said, gingerly lowering herself next to me. The seat of her light-colored slacks—the only part that wasn’t already filthy—would surely smudge on the asphalt, but she didn’t care. I wouldn’t either. When your last ties to your long-lost sister are gone—who cares about dirt on your pants? “I’ve lost Meelie before.” She looked up at the sky, squinting in the afternoon sun. “Anyway, tomorrow she can retell us everything in those letters, and more.”
I sniffed back a few tears, and Pidge patted my shoulder. “I think you’re very hungry. Am I right?” I managed a nod. I was starving. “Everything seems a lot worse when you’re hungry. C’mon, let’s go get something to eat. I see a diner across the street. Hear that? No more vending machines.”
I smiled at that promise.
Pidge and I dragged our aching bodies and suitcases into the brightly light Bon Voyage Diner. “Bon Voyage” made me think of ocean liners, but the only sea out there in Kansas was one of sun-bleached corn. The waitress gave us a dirty look as we shuffled inside. Looking down at my wrinkled and sweat-stained clothes and Pidge’s dirt smudges, I realized how bedraggled we’d become. We both looked like Pig-Pen from the Peanuts comic strip, minus a cloud of smelly dust around us. Or so I hoped. A lot had happened since my last bath.
Still, the waitress snatched menus out of the holder on the side of the host stand. “Two?” Pidge nodded. I caught a whiff of burger frying, a hint of pancake batter—and I thought I might not be able to keep myself from running toward the open kitch
en and gobbling everything in sight. She led us past the soda fountain and I saw a girl sipping a strawberry milkshake, and a boy next to her with an egg cream. I wanted to vault over the counter and attack the freezer with a spoon.
The waitress slapped the menus onto the booth and walked away, her shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor. Pidge and I slid in on opposite sides. As soon as I opened the menu, I wanted everything. A hot beef sandwich. Waffle fries. Spinach pie. I’d even eat the diet plates: cottage cheese and canned fruit with Jell-O. Ooh, and a chocolate milkshake, and maybe a slice of lemon meringue pie. With a couple of scoops of orange sherbet on the side. I was practically drooling. But did we have enough money to eat?
“What’s our budget, Pidge?”
“Good question, Beatrice.” Pidge reached into her pocketbook and pulled out her billfold. I sat patiently as she struggled to open the small gold clasp on it, doing everything I could to not think about the food. Glorious food. Finally, I reached out my hand. “Can I help?”
Rather than seem annoyed at me—like she had earlier when I tried to help—Pidge smiled and handed over her wallet. She watched as I snapped it open in one try. “You loosened it, I guess,” I offered. Whenever my mom used to struggle to open a jar and my dad had to pop off the lid, he’d claim that she’d gotten it loose for him.
“Nice of you to say that,” Pidge said. “Now count the money, darling.”
There were a few faded bills in the money sleeve—six dollars. In the attached coin purse, seventy-six cents. “All we have is in here?” Pidge nodded. I reached into my pants pocket and felt a dime. I pulled it out and added it to the pouch. “Six eighty-six.” Then I remembered the two dollars stashed in my knapsack, pulled them out, and smacked them down on the tabletop. “Eight eighty-six! Total.”
Pidge let out a whistle. “Well, that might be enough to get us to Atchison, if there’s another bus.” I stared hard at the menu. I could taste that sandwich. I could feel the spoon in my mouth and sherbet on my tongue. Pidge must have seen the desperate hunger on my face, because next she said, “But you are not skipping another meal. I know I can’t go much farther on an empty stomach. Let’s eat and figure out the damage later.”
The Last Grand Adventure Page 14
