Paper Planes and Other Things We Lost

by Michele G Miller

  Ruby claps her hands together once, her face beaming with anticipation. “But we have to wait for the perfect gust of wind or it’ll plummet to the ground.”

  She makes a show of licking her index finger and sticking it out into the wind, making a face like she’s concentrating on which direction the breeze is coming from.

  “This is like flying a kite,” I laugh. “I’m so nervous now.” My arm tenses, waiting for the word to release. She peers over her shoulder and giggles with a wink, dropping her hand. I might be rubbing off on her, too.

  The water bites at our toes, our feet sinking in the sand. A pelican glides across the top of the ocean in search of his morning meal. The sun continues to rise as the wind shifts, and finally, Ruby looks up at me, a wide smile on her glowing face.

  “Now.”

  I release.

  My arms fold around Ruby’s shoulders, pulling her back and holding her tightly against my chest. She rests her hands on my forearms and leans against my shoulder. Her tears drip onto my skin and I hold on tighter

  The plane dips and lifts like the waves in the ocean before us. Another breeze sweeps in, catching the paper and propelling it forward, faster and faster, until it dives . . . into the sand.

  We stare in silence. One, two, three—I count the seconds. At five we burst out laughing. Our little plane is toppled over by a wave and tugged out to sea. Ruby and I laugh again—our tears of hilarity mingling with our tears of loss.

  “Dear Mom, and Mr. and Mrs. Pratt,” she giggles, wiping under her eyes. “This plane represents shoddy craftsmanship.”

  The plane is tossed around by the tide. In and out, in and out. Like us. Like life.

  “No,” I whisper near her cheek.

  Ruby turns in my arms and I use my thumbs to brush away her tears as her big brown eyes stare into mine, questioning me. I merely smile. Everything clicks into place. There’s no doubt how we came to be, and where we’re going. Losing our parents isn’t something we can change, we would give up anything to bring them back, but we can’t bring back the dead.

  I lean close, the same salty beach air lingering between our mouths, and assure her of our future with my lips and with one simple truth.

  “That plane represents a boy and a girl who never would have met, if not for the things we lost.”

  PAPER PLANES SERIES

  Have you read Cole and Sam’s story? How about Amber and Olle’s?

  Here’s a sneak peak of each …

  FOUND OUT ABOUT YOU

  Cole

  FLIGHT 397 MEMORIAL—JUNE 17, 1993

  One year ago, metal and debris washed upon this shore, littering the sand with bits and pieces. Lingering smoke marred the peaceful blue of the early summer sky where a plane fell in a ball of fire.

  One year ago, phone calls were made. Loved ones were lost. Lives were changed. Families were shattered. And new ones built.

  I search out Brett and Amber. I barely knew them a year ago. Today they’re my family. My brother and sister. Brett’s standing near the water, pensive as he gazes out at the horizon. He’s the opposite of Amber, who’s heading my way in a hurry. She appears tense and angry, even from this far away.

  The briny tang of the ocean rides past on a warm breeze. I close my eyes, imagining the scene from a year ago as I say goodbye to the nightmare of the crash. I open my eyes again when screams of high-pitched, childish laughter reach me. Children chasing the rolling tide superimpose my vision of loss. My lips twitch. Joy is preferable to grief.

  Sand clings stubbornly to the soles of my dress shoes as I leave the beach. I stomp on the boardwalk as I shake my pant legs. Pants at the beach in June. I’m dying here.

  A blur of black appears in my peripheral vision. Amber. Her blonde head tilts toward the ground as she makes her way across the sand and steps onto the boardwalk.

  “Hey.” My voice is barely audible. A funeral voice.

  She ignores me.

  “Amber?”

  Her head shakes hastily. Her hand lifts, waving me off as she hurries by, the floral scent of her mother’s perfume mixing with that of the beach.

  “Wait, what’s wrong?” My shoes tap noisily on the wooden boardwalk as I pursue her.

  “I’m fine. I need a minute.” Her words come out broken. Strained.

  “Amber? Talk to me about it.”

  She runs headlong into a couple, her hand covering her mouth as she shakes her head once again.

  “Amber?” Curious glances turn my way from the lingering memorial attendees and a few beachgoers who didn’t know today’s memorial would take over their vacation spot.

  What happened? Where’s Brett? What am I supposed to do with her? She ducks into the women’s restroom. What is she doing? Now what? Sweat beads across my forehead. Do I leave her alone? Stay here? What’s the protocol for handling over-emotional teenage girls? Why didn’t we cover this in med school?

  “Is she okay? Can I help you in some way?” I turn toward the voice to find a gorgeous brunette standing behind me.

  “Can you tell me how to lure a teenage girl out of the restroom?” The brunette’s eyes go wide, the greenish-gray bolts of shock threatening to strike me down. What the . . .

  “Oh, no! No, no, no.” My head won’t shake fast enough. “She’s my sister, I swear. We’re—” I shove my fingers through my hair, barely controlling the urge to tear the strands out. “Her parents died in the crash. Flight 397.” I point toward the memorial in case she has no clue what I’m talking about. That’s dumb, everyone here knows about 397. “She’s upset. I don’t know—” Where is Brett when I need him?

  “Okay, okay.” Her fingertips carefully graze my arm. “Let me go in there and check on her for you.” She vanishes through the doorway, leaving me gaping.

  She doesn’t believe me. That was a patented ‘okay, creeper’ response if I ever heard one. She’s probably preparing herself to grab Amber and run.

  I search for Brett once again, my eyes scanning past the dunes to the shore beyond. He’s finally heading my way.

  “Brett.” I wave him over. “Something upset Amber and she hightailed it into the girls’ room and won’t come out.”

  “She what?” He picks up his pace, panic morphing his facial expression.

  I catch his elbow as tries to plow by. “Hey, you can’t go in there. I got help. Hang on.” Should that have been my response? There’s no mistaking his worry for his—no, our sister. I still suck at this sibling concept.

  “What happened?”

  I shrug his question off with a shake of my head. I haven’t a clue what’s going on.

  “Here she is.” The brunette appears in the doorway with Amber beside her. She wasn’t preparing for a grab and run after all. Thank goodness for small miracles.

  Brett moves forward, immediately wrapping an arm over Amber’s shoulders. “Am?”

  Take notes, Cole.

  Amber’s swollen eyes flick my way. “I’m okay. I’m fine,” she sniffles as she leans into Brett’s side.

  Brett nods, steering her away. Just like that? He made it seem so easy. My eyes follow them for a few steps. Amber’s back straightens as she swipes at her face. Brett lowers his head, whispering something as they walk away. At work I can console strangers when they lose a loved one, but I can’t handle my own sister? I shove my hands into my pockets. Today has been a day.

  “Thank you for helping my sister,” I sigh heavily, turning my head for a better look at my bathroom hero’s profile. Not a bad sight at all.

  “It was no problem. I’m really glad you weren’t lying.” The corner of her mouth pulls up slightly.

  Those curiously colored eyes look back at me, and for a moment, time stands silently still. Remember, Cole, joy is preferable to grief. I turn and face her fully. “Yeah? What would you have done if I were?”

  “I probably would’ve sought the help of all the other ladies in the restroom to gang up on you while we made a run for it.”

  I draw a deep breat
h, standing taller and flexing my chest muscles. Schwarzenegger I am not. “I’m unsure whether I should be offended that you think I look like the type of guy who preys on teenage girls or grateful you felt the need to enlist the help of others to get past me.”

  “Definitely the latter,” she laughs. It comes in waves, muffled behind her hand, then loud and throaty as she throws her head back.

  Her laughter is contagious, and I easily join in. “Thanks for attempting to make me feel better. I had a moment of helplessness there. I’m not good at handling teenage girls.” Foot in mouth, dude. “I mean, I’m normally not so bad with my bedside manner.”

  Her laughter softens to small chuckles beneath her breath. “Bedside manner, huh?”

  “Doctor. I’m a doctor. I’m not bragging about my bedside bedside manner. I should shut up now.” Holy cow, I’m unnerved. The urge to slap my hand over my mouth is strong. If only it wouldn’t make me look like a bigger idiot.

  She chews on her bottom lip, curbing a smile. “In my experience with teenage girls, it’s best to stay quiet and let them ride out their emotional roller coaster.”

  “Stay quiet? I think I can do that. Any other advice?”

  “She’s always right.”

  “She is, is she? Now, is that advice pertaining to Amber specifically? Or all women in general?”

  “All women.” Her raspy laughter sets my pulse racing.

  “I’ll file that away for later use.” I push the sleeves of my dress shirt up my forearms, deliberately flexing my muscles with each movement. Her eyes follow me, and I sneak a peek at the time to hide the obviousness of my little show. It’s getting late. Afternoon shadows from the rapidly setting sun cover the bathhouse. “I should probably go check on them.” My gaze drifts back to this woman. A chunk of her dark hair rests in the V of her dress at her chest. I struggle to pry my eyes away.

  “Oh, yeah. Of course.” Her hand spreads over where my gaze rested, her fingers nervously playing with the neckline of her dress. She sweeps her long hair over one shoulder, covering herself. She absolutely caught me staring. “Your family needs you.”

  “Thank you again, honestly.” I lower my head, confiding with a wink. “I don’t know if you

  noticed, but I was panicking before you came along.”

  “I now see that’s what it was.” Her smile wavers as her eyes flit around the memorial before she looks at me again. “I’m glad I was the one to stumble onto you, doctor.”

  “Me, too.” I tap two fingers to my temple, lifting my brows. “I’ll lock your advice away for safekeeping until I need it.”

  I step backward. I don’t see beautiful women like her often, and I don’t want to walk away too quickly. I should get her name. See if she’s local. My lips part, but I swallow the words. We’re at a memorial site. She probably lost someone. She is dressed in black. It wouldn’t be appropriate. Shoving my hands into my pants pockets, I turn away with a nod and a smile, forcing the little voice telling me to ‘do something’ back into its box.

  Get her name, Cole. I roll my eyes; the voice won’t stay locked away. He’s—I’m—completely nuts. Halfway down the boardwalk, I give in and turn around.

  She’s gone.

  A heaviness settles in my chest as my gaze scans over the area. There’s no one around. The

  pavilion is vacant. The beach and boardwalk are nearly empty, too. Dwelling on it won’t help. Amber and Brett are making their way up the beach toward me as their Gram heads my way from the memorial site. I drop my search for my mystery hero.

  What kind of guy picks up a girl at a memorial service anyway? I grin. If I could rewind the moment, the answer would be me.

  My lips twitch. I’m just that kind of guy.

  CRIMINAL

  Olle

  FRIDAY—JUNE 7, 1996

  Settling into the chair under the orange tent, I scan the rows of market vendors as my fingers lazily stroke my beard. Marja smiles kindly across the way, and I offer her a nod, but keep my gaze from lingering before moving on. The last thing I need is to attract her attention. The wind sweeps my hair into my face, so I grab a rubber band from my pocket and tie it back as I look over my table one last time. Everything is in place for customers.

  In an attempt to get comfortable and prepare for the long summer day, I cross my arms and lean back. People pass by. People browse. Fellow Finns nod with a ‘moi’ or ‘päivää,’ which I return out of habit.

  Leena might think it is good for me to meet the customers, but I would rather remain unseen at home in the workshop where I do not have to be bothered with the bustle of the city. Leena better feel well tomorrow. A full day at the kauppatori is more than enough for me. If I have to stomach another day of tourist after tourist, business will not do well. I am not Leena. It is why I hired her to run the stand in the first place. Isä or Ukki could come and be the face of the family business when they were alive, but that is not me. Not anymore.

  The sun is high in the sky as I finish my lunch. I lick my thumb and crumple the wrapper before tossing it away as a beautiful blonde with a hiking pack slung across her back leisurely wanders up to the stand.

  “Päivää.” I sit back, allowing her to peruse in peace.

  “Oh, I don’t speak—” Her hand waves through the air, like she is swatting away the word as she continues, “Finlandish, or whatever.”

  Ah, American girl. Ignorant American girl, at that.

  I will speak to be polite, but do not expect me to carry on a conversation for long. It is not in my blood.

  Though, if she does not even know what we speak, I am not sure I want to rescue her and speak English. I have already had to carry on conversations with several different Americans today and it is only twelve o’clock.

  I do not have the energy, so I nod respectfully and cross my arms, releasing her from conversation. I will resort to hand gestures and pointing if she asks for prices.

  Her eyes wander the table, studying it intently. I study it with her, seeing it as she does. Vases line the back. Glass birds and eggs sit atop glass stands on the right. Candlesticks and bowls dot the front. She carefully picks up a vase and smiles. “I’ve never seen anything like this before. It’s designed to look like a lake? It’s amazing.”

  “Tha— Kiitos.” Hemmetii. Her eyebrow arches. Good. She has no idea I thanked her. I bite my tongue, holding back that I understand her.

  “Do you, uh . . . make these?” Her hands mimic what she must think my job looks like. Is she molding imaginary clay?

  I stare blankly. Does she think I am dumb?

  “You have no idea what I’m saying. Perfect. I’m making an idiot of myself speaking English to a hot, grizzly Finlandman.”

  My lips twitch, but thankfully she cannot see it behind my long, wild beard.

  She sets down the vase with a heavy sigh and waves. “Thanks.”

  “Ole hyvä.” I take too much pleasure answering her in Finnish.

  “Yeah, have a good day or . . . you too . . . or whatever you said.” She tucks a wisp of hair behind her ear as she turns away.

  Shaking my head, I muffle my laughter behind my hand.

  Word to the wise, American girl, learn a little bit about the country you are visiting before making the trip. It will get you far. Understanding the smallest phrases like ‘thank you’ and ‘you’re welcome’ might save you from humiliation or tip you off to the fact that I understand everything you say.

  Her huge pack knocks into the stand holding the hand-blown ornaments. “Oh!” she squeaks. The glass clinks as they knock into each other.

  I shoot up with a curse, grabbing for the wooden tree.

  “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see those there.” Her hands and arms fly about as she catches her bottom lip with her teeth.

  Does she have tears in her eyes? I grunt a dismissal of her apology and steady the ornaments. I examine them. Nothing broken. She can relax. No need to cry.

  Her swift intake of breath catches my attention.


  “Planes.” Her fingers stretch out, plucking a clear, gold airplane hanging from the tree. “These are—” She sighs, her eyes catching mine for the first time. “Beautiful,” she says, her voice filled with awe, one hand covering her heart.

  Beautiful, indeed. Her eyes match the sky. Every shade of blue swirled into one. Could I match the blues of her irises in glass?

  “How much?” Her fingers rub together. Is that the universal sign for cash? I point to the sign at the base of the ornament stand.

  “Oh, I didn’t see that.” She flashes a half-smile as she digs through her wallet and hands me ten euros. “Thank you.”

  I nod. Why did I choose her to hold back my English? My mouth opens to respond, to keep her here. For what? To talk to a pretty girl a little bit longer? I cannot start speaking English now. I have taken this too far.

  Her shapely figure disappears into the crowd and I force my attention on the next customer approaching.

  * * *

  I am calling Leena as soon as I get home to see how she is doing. I sold well enough, but I cannot handle another day of interacting. The tourists would appreciate someone who does not mind being here, I am sure. We need more pieces to sell, anyway. No one is going to get that done except for me.

  Boxing up the remaining pieces of glass, I haul them to the van. When I return to the tent for take down, I am distracted by the beautiful blonde American from earlier walking over the cobblestone toward me. She does not look as carefree and cheerful as she did a few hours ago. Her full lips turn down as she scours the emptying tori, a frantic look marring her striking eyes.

  I am in trouble.

  She pauses in front of my stand and her brows furrow when she looks to me. Her mouth opens, but she shakes her head and turns away. Probably thinking I am no help. Is she okei?