Flight Season: A Novel

by Marie Marquardt

I’d be feeling pretty good if I didn’t smell like a locker room and have sand stuck in every crevice of my body. I’m thinking about the twelve-hour shift I’m about to work. I really hope I have time for a shower.

  Vivi’s still covered in sand too. I keep studying her arms and her face from the backseat. I’m tempted to reach out and run my hand across her skin—to wipe the sand away, to feel it rough under my fingertips, but I don’t.

  By the time Vivi pulls up to the service entrance, light is coming up in the sky. She turns off the music. I text Bertrand, and he sends one of the custodial workers from the fifth floor to open the service door. I think maybe the guy is a cousin of his or something. Whoever he is, it’s very brave of him to risk his job helping us sneak a fugitive back into the hospital.

  As the door rolls open, Ángel reaches over and puts his hand on top of Vivi’s.

  “Stay here,” he says.

  “I’m coming up,” she tells him. “I’ll be with you until they get here, okay?”

  “Please, no,” he says “I want to remember you here, like this—with the sand and the car and the light in the sky.”

  “But—”

  “Please,” he says. “TJ will take me back. He will stay. You will go. Please.”

  She nods, her eyes filling with tears.

  “This is what we remember,” he tells her, squeezing her hand. “This. Not that.”

  She nods again and watches as Ángel lets go of her hand, leans back in the seat, and lets his eyes fall shut.

  “Let’s go, vato,” he says to me.

  I want to say, Okay, homie, because I know that’s what I’m supposed to say. It’s what I always say. We have done it a hundred times before, right? But I can’t make the words come. So I unfold the wheelchair in silence, open his door, and lift him out. Bertrand’s cousin comes to take the oxygen tank, and I start to push Ángel up the ramp.

  Vivi doesn’t say a word, and neither one of us looks back.

  We make it to the heart ward forty-eight minutes before the end of Bertrand’s shift—with time to spare.

  I take a quick shower and put on scrubs.

  “Let’s get him cleaned up,” Bertrand says when I come back into Ángel’s room.

  Bertrand and I work quietly and carefully.

  We start by giving Ángel the best goddamned sponge bath anyone has ever had. We clean off every last grain of sand; we use Q-tips to clean out his ears. We trim his toenails. We fill his hair with shampoo and then release the bubbles with warm water. We don’t say a word, because we want to let him rest. Ángel, clearly exhausted, keeps his eyes closed and his body limp.

  When he’s clean and dry, Bertrand steps back.

  “Let’s get him a fresh line,” he whispers. “Who knows what kind of nurses they have in that place they’re taking him. I don’t want them digging around under his skin, causing him pain.”

  I nod and head over to the supply drawer.

  “I want you to do it,” Bertrand says. “I’ll show you.”

  “I can’t,” I whisper. “You know I’m not a nurse yet. I’m not supposed to—”

  “You’re a better nurse than nine-tenths of the nurses in this hospital,” he says. “You can and you will. Come on.”

  I nod and follow Bertrand to Ángel’s bed. He takes Ángel’s arm lightly in his hands and he starts to explain, quietly, the unique contours of his arm, the strange patterns of his veins and arteries. He points out which ones are shot, and which ones are still good. Then he makes me take Ángel’s arm. “Go on,” he urges. Ángel opens his eyes, looks at me, and nods once. I take the needle and I plunge it deep into Ángel’s arm. I feel resistance, and then I press gently so that the needle will move through the walls of the vein. I feel it stop in precisely the right place.

  “Good,” Bertrand says. “Very good.”

  We connect the new stint, administer his meds, check his oxygen and fluid levels. We prepare Ángel in the only way that we know how, and then we wait.

  When they come for him, the bastards put him in handcuffs.

  Prashanti has arrived by then. She pleads with them not to. They tell her it’s protocol. Bertrand and I lift him out of the bed and into a wheelchair. The two cops, in bulletproof vests with ICE written in huge letters across their backs, stand on either side of the wheelchair, their hands resting on their guns. They tell me to push Ángel out into the hall, and so I do.

  It feels like the entire hospital has come out to say good-bye. Most of them don’t speak. They line the walls of the hallways, watching. Doctors, nurses, techs. Mrs. Blankenship and Mr. Blackstone. Custodial workers with their mop buckets and white-jacketed interns. They all stand side by side and watch.

  We move out of the ICU and into the central atrium. A couple of people are behaving really strangely, trying to stop the police from taking him, and I hear some people singing. I think maybe it’s Sharon leading a small impromptu choir—one of her Jesus songs, but I can’t place which one.

  A few people reach out to hug him or to slap him high five, but most do nothing but watch and bear quiet witness.

  When we reach the other side of the atrium, Deshawn, the cafeteria worker who brings Ángel’s food, gives him a fist bump, which isn’t all that easy to do in handcuffs. Ángel smiles and lets his cuffed hands drop to his lap. And then we’re heading through the glass doors, toward the cop car that will take him to some detention center in Georgia.

  Bertrand and I lift him into the car, and then Bertrand wraps him up in one of those warm blankets he likes so much.

  “Thank you,” Ángel murmurs, his eyes closed.

  We step back and the cop shuts the door.

  The whole thing is so pointless and terrible that I want to punch the side of this stupid black car. I want to kick the shit out if it. I want to scream and yell and destroy something—or someone.

  But I don’t, because Ángel has opened his eyes. He’s looking at me through the car window. So instead I put my hand up to the glass, and he puts his hands up on the other side of the glass, one handprint against mine.

  We stay like that, looking at our hands, until the cop car starts to pull away.

  Ángel was right to make Vivi stay away. It’s fucking heartbreaking.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  VIVI

  BIRD JOURNAL

  August 12, approximately 6:30 A.M. (from memory)

  I have no words to describe this abundance. None at all.

  Hey. You okay?

  Not really. You?

  Same.

  When the text came in from TJ, I was stretched out on my bed in the A-frame’s loft, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the awful silence.

  No wheep, wheep of the American oystercatchers, no kyah-yah of the willet, no semipalmated plover’s chu-wee or sandpiper’s spink. Not even the rasping squawk of the brown pelican.

  Nothing.

  How did Ángel do?

  Fine.

  I stare for a long time at TJ’s response. Fine. Such a pointless word. Does it mean anything? Or is it just filler, one of those words that waits around to be used when there’s absolutely no way to say what needs to be said?

  When I don’t respond, TJ sends me another text:

  But Richard was a hot mess.

  No surprise there.

  Crying like a baby. And that resident from California, Dr. Santana, she practically threw her body across the hall to keep them from taking him. Prashanti had to hold her back.

  I sit up in my bed to respond.

  Would have been worth seeing.

  And the whole time Sharon was singing really loud—some Jesus song about a rugged cross or something.

  Of course. Was Bertrand there?

  Yeah, he stayed. Helped me get Ángel into the cop car.

  The cop car. I was almost smiling, thinking about Prashanti and Dr. Santana, Sharon and the Jesus songs. But I’m not anymore.

  Did they treat him like a criminal? Did they make him sit in the back? All of the
se questions rush to my mind, but I don’t think I can handle the answers to them. Seconds tick by, and I know TJ is waiting for a response.

  That must have sucked.

  Yeah.

  TJ doesn’t give me time to try forming a response to that one. Instead he sends another text immediately:

  Can I come get you at five tomorrow? I wanna show you something.

  Okay.

  Five A.M.

  ???

  What in the world could TJ want to show me at five in the morning? And why would he be willing to lose precious sleep to do it?

  Are you in?

  I guess. What’s another sleepless night?

  See you at five.

  Okay.

  Sweet dreams.

  I do not have sweet dreams. I stay up all night thinking about Ángel, wondering what it’s like—the prison they took him to. I stare up at the roof, missing the acoustic tile ceiling above the sofa in Ángel’s hospital room, my mom’s origami birds. I stress about whether they have a bed that moves up and down, warm blankets—any blankets at all.

  I stress about Alice, my financial aid counselor, and the email she sent me this afternoon.

  Dear Vivi,

  I hope that you are enjoying these final days of summer. Here in New Haven, we are all hard at work preparing for your return and the return of your fellow students. I contacted a colleague at the College Board about your CSS PROFILE form. Unfortunately, it’s still in process, which means that you and your mother will receive a bill for the full fall semester tuition early next week.

  Please don’t despair! We are working with the bursar’s office to confirm that you will be granted a temporary waiver until we determine your family’s financial obligation, and you should be allowed to register for classes.

  More soon!

  Alice

  I stress about my “family’s financial obligation,” trying to figure out how Mom and I could possibly pay even a small portion of the thirty-thousand-dollar bill, while also managing to get a roof over Mom’s head and food in her fridge. The Tesla money is all we have, and it’s not going to last forever.

  And, of course, I also distract myself from all of this anxiety with memories of TJ’s touch, wondering where he wants to take me at five in the morning and how my body is going to handle being alone with him.

  Which makes me stress.

  Finally, at four fifteen, I drag myself out of bed and take a long, hot shower. I make two coffees and sit outside on the stairs to wait for TJ.

  I know I shouldn’t feel so relieved when I see him pull up in a beat-up old SUV, his headlights shining in my face. But God, it feels good to see him. Immediately my chest hurts less, and my breath comes into my lungs more steadily.

  He leans out of the driver’s-side window. “Jump in.”

  I guess this is the “piece-of-shit truck” that threw us together. I like it. It’s sexy, actually, especially with him in the driver’s seat, his bare arm resting on the windowsill.

  I climb into the seat. The fabric is torn, and foam bulges out from the rip. I reach across the gearshift to hand him the coffee I made for him.

  “Looks like we have enough coffee.” He gestures toward the backseat, where a thermos and two empty mugs are shoved between the cushions.

  “Yours is better,” I say. “Thanks.”

  “Where’s the Tesla?”

  “Sold it. They came to get it Thursday. A couple from Ormond Beach. They paid cash.”

  “That’s great!” He pulls away from the house. “So you have the money to go back to Yale?”

  “Technically, yes,” I say. “But it seems a little irresponsible to spend all we have on a semester of college.”

  “Don’t those schools have, like, fancy scholarships and financial aid and stuff?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I should get financial aid. But I don’t know how much yet, so it’s kind of stressful. I’m just wondering whether it’s really worth it—maybe I should look into state schools.”

  “Sounds good to me,” he says. “But you’re asking a guy who’s about to graduate from community college, so—”

  “You’re about to graduate?”

  “Yup. I’m finishing my practicum at the hospital next week. Then it’s just two easy online classes until I’m Thomas Jefferson Carvalho, Registered Nurse.”

  “That’s amazing,” I say. “You know what you want to do with your life. And you’re doing it!”

  “It is.” He smiles. “And it’s especially cool that I’ve finally finished paying for it.”

  At a stoplight, TJ reaches past me into the glove compartment and pulls out a red bandana.

  “We’re almost there,” he says. “I know this sounds creepy or perverted or something, but it would be really great if you would put this over your eyes.”

  I let out a laugh. “Not gonna happen.”

  “Please,” he begs. “I promise this outing is one hundred percent G-rated.”

  I shoot a skeptical look at him, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks.

  “Promise,” he says. “Pinkie swear.”

  He holds out his pinkie toward me. Not sure I can handle even the touch of his finger, I grab the bandana from him instead and busy myself folding it.

  “You’d better be telling the truth,” I say as I wrap it around my head and pull it tight.

  Three minutes later the SUV makes a right turn and then slows to a stop.

  I hear him get out and close his door. I fumble to open mine, but he gets to it before I can find the handle.

  “I’m going to hold on to your elbow now,” he says as I step down from the SUV. “Just to guide you.”

  His touch is light on my elbow, but still it feels like his hand is tugging my entire body toward him. I want to climb into his touch and stay there. I want to feel his hand on my arm, my shoulder, my stomach. I want to feel that gentle touch across my chest.…

  I decide to focus on my other senses. Sight is out, so I concentrate very hard on our footsteps on the asphalt. We stop and I hear keys in a door. I hear an alarm beeping.

  “Wait here,” he says, and his arm drops from my elbow. I listen as he punches in numbers and the alarm stops. I feel him by my side again, before he even takes my elbow. I focus on the sound, and the feel of the air on my skin. We are inside, walking through a cool room. But not for long.

  I hear a door swing open, and the warm air hits me. We step out onto a boardwalk or a dock, something made of wood, and he leads me through the dark. It’s impossible not to notice the smell—or rather, stench. It smells terrible, like some combination of a zoo and a swamp. I bring my hand up to my nose.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Sorry about the smell. It’s pretty nasty.”

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll see.”

  We walk for a minute or two and then he stops. “Sit down. No, wait. Lie down. It will be better if you lie down.”

  I’m not feeling all that G-rated, hearing him say this, his voice anxious. I lie down on my back. Wood slats press against it. I start to notice a sound, soft at first.

  “Yes!” he whispers, sounding proud of himself. “Perfect timing.”

  “For what?” I ask. The sound is growing louder. It’s like the world is waking up. It’s—

  “Ready?” he asks, pulling the bandana from my eyes.

  Birds. It’s birds. Oh my God, so many birds in one place. I’m on my back, looking up into the trees and they’re everywhere. The sun is coming up and the birds are waking up and oh my God, it’s astounding!

  “Is this enough birds for you?” TJ is sitting at my side, studying my expression, my utter delight.

  White egrets, cattle egrets, snowy egrets, roseate spoonbills …

  “Roseate spoonbills!” I call out. I can’t help it. They’re everywhere.

  “Which ones are those?” he asks.

  I point up to a tree, where there are six perfect specimens all huddled together—waking up, stretching their wings. “There,” I
say. “And there!” I point across the boardwalk to another tree. “And there, and—oh my God, TJ—look at that tricolor heron. It’s amazing!”

  Tricolor herons, blue herons, wood storks …

  “You think maybe these guys will help with all those big decisions?” TJ asks.

  I’m so overwhelmed that I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know where to look! There are birds everywhere, crammed into every tree that surrounds us.

  “A great egret.” I sigh. “Look at that great egret—oh no, wait! There are two of them. Look, TJ!”

  “I’m looking!” he says, his voice rising to meet my excitement. “I see them. I mean, they’re all just birds to me, but I see them!”

  I had no idea there could be this many birds in one place.

  “Why are they all here?” I ask, my voice filled with wonder. “What are they all doing?”

  TJ lets out a laugh. “There are a couple hundred alligators swimming around below us,” he says. “Scares away the predators.”

  “Alligators?” I jump up to a seated position and look around me. He’s right. We are sitting on a boardwalk, and below us is a swamp in which alligators are, quite literally, packed so tight into the murky water that they’re piled on top of each other. And most of them are huge. Enormous.

  “Are we at the—”

  “Alligator Farm.” He nods and lifts a key to show me. “Sabrina gave me her key. So, yeah, we’re breaking the law again—two nights in a row. Not bad.”

  I laugh, and it feels fantastic.

  “We’ll need to get out of here before it opens,” he says.

  “How long do we have?” I ask. “And why didn’t you tell me to bring my journal? I can’t believe I don’t have my journal!”

  “About a half hour,” he says. “And I wanted you to watch them, not scribble in that book the whole time. Plus, it would have ruined the surprise.”

  “I was so incredibly wrong about the Alligator Farm,” I say, easing onto my back again. “So, so wrong.”

  TJ stretches out on the boardwalk so that we are lying head to head. We don’t speak. Instead we rest together above the predators, under a sky full of birds.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  TJ

  “I KNOW WHAT I’M GOING to do,” Vivi says, sitting up on the boardwalk.