by Rand, Naomi;
Surviving Amelia
Naomi Rand
© 2018 Naomi Rand
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced or transmitted in any means,
electronic or mechanical, without permission in
writing from the publisher.
978-1-945805-47-9 paperback
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For Susan L., Helen M. and Nancy L.
They really were the best of times.
This is a work of fiction.
Acknowledgements
I began writing Surviving Amelia just after my father died. Over the course of the next six years, I lost my mother. Anna Rand had been one of only three women in her medical school class. She’d carved out a career as an OB GYN for herself against all odds. She was an abortion rights activist, a radical whose political views informed my own, and a true force of nature. Anna was a voracious reader, she subscribed to all sorts of magazines including The New Statesman and I.F. Stone’s Weekly; she read nonfiction, mainly history and political science, and loads of fiction. She had a soft spot for mysteries. It’s one of life’s cruel jokes that by the end of her life, she could barely string a sentence together.
When I began to write this book, a friend said, “I don’t understand why you want to write a literary novel when you figured out how to write mysteries.” She meant well, though I took umbrage at the time. She knew how hard it was to sell a literary novel. I could sell mysteries, so why change course? Looking back, I often wished I’d been able to take her advice. But the thing is, I couldn’t. This novel was what I had to write. By the time I finished, my parents were dead, one of my closest friends was in the process of losing his own mind to Alzheimer’s way too young, and my sons had grown up and had gone off to college and real life. Write what you know, they say. Apparently I took those words a little too much to heart.
Surviving Amelia is a work of fiction and that should be apparent from the first chapter. After all, a ghost comes to life and is a main character through the course of the novel. Still, I did read several books that grounded me in reality; Letters From Amelia by Jean L. Backus, The Sound of Wings by Mary S. Lovell, Amelia Earhart: The Mystery Solved by Elgen M.Long and Marie K. Long, Lost in Flight by Amelia Earhart, The Fun of It by Amelia Earhart and most crucial of all, Courage is the Price by Muriel Earhart Morrissey. Humans crave certainty which is why the where, why, and how of Earhart’s disappearance has proved to be such an enduring mystery. I have no allegiance to any particular theory though the book does find her stranded on an island.
I wish I could thank all my readers. But, in truth, there were far too many, and I wrote so many drafts. I am afraid of leaving someone out and so I thank you collectively and hope you will forgive me for not naming names, thank you for reading whatever draft you read and offering such wise editorial advice, thank you for supporting me through what has definitely been a mind bending process. Most of all, I want to thank my husband David, and my sons, Travis and Cody. Having the three of you in my life gives me such pleasure. You make me feel like I truly am the luckiest woman on the face of the earth.
1
Amelia
October 1937
AMELIA DUG HER navigator’s grave all day, using rocks and shells to shove back the earth. Her fingers were blistered, torn. But at least Fred was decently buried underground. On the forty-seventh day you rest, she told herself. Yet, it was more than that long. She knew from the notches carved into the bark of the palm tree. Fred had been dying for much of the time and she’d been nursing him through. It rained as she dug, making a mess of the grave. The hollowed out coconuts were filled to the brim. Not that it would do him any good now.
To think she’d imagined herself lucky, managing the landing without dying on impact. Fred had been able to pull the emergency radio out with him. That first day, they gathered wood to light a signal fire. Amelia’s lighter was still in her pocket, but soaked so thoroughly the flint wouldn’t catch. It took over an hour for the old scout method to work, sticks rubbed together, then finally a spark. There was a flame; a funnel of smoke that blasted up into the empty night sky. As it grew, they were both elated believing that the Itasca, the rescue boat that was tracking them just in case, would have no trouble spotting that tornado shaped cone.
Wrong.
Even as the battery weakened she sent out distress calls. “This is Amelia Earhart. I am stranded due west of Howland Island. Can you hear me?” No one responded.
It was hard not to lose hope, hard not to blame yourself. The jungle beyond the beach was impenetrable. And no one had emerged from it to find the castaways.
Amelia ran over it in her mind again and again. It always came out the same. The storm clouds had been too thick. She’d had no choice but to cruise at a higher altitude. Of course, doing that meant the fuel burned faster. And when the sun came up, there was no landing strip, nothing but choppy green water. The glare reflected off it, the sun all but swallowed up. She radioed to the Itasca again and again. She got no answer. Finally, Amelia used what was left of the gas to ease the descent. It worked and they were able to ditch instead of crashing into the water and dying on impact. It was truly a miracle.
A miracle of a sort. Every day, the sea birds wheeled above. They had no rifle, so they built a makeshift hunting implement using Fred’s pocketknife, attaching it to a branch with a strip of cloth torn from her shirt. Fred’s wound was infected. She kept cleaning it with salt water, but it still went septic. Thus Amelia was de facto hunter, gatherer, and cook. She waded into the surf, stabbing the fish to death, roasting them over the fire, sucking the flesh off the bones. She made him soup out of them when he could no longer chew, Amelia using a handmade spoon to ladle it into Fred’s mouth. The wound in his chest was swollen by then, the odor foul. He was feverish, delirious.
She promised him many things as he lay dying.
She would tell his wife he loved her.
She would make it clear it wasn’t his fault.
She would swear they’d been on course and Amelia had been the one to make the critical miscalculation.
She’d bring him home and bury him decently.
No, she would never mention the drinking. Amelia would say he’d been sober as a judge.
When it was over she couldn’t bear to leave his body out to rot. She told herself that if they were ever found, she would point out the grave and they could unearth him. Then she dug as best she could, scooping out the earth with shells. Amelia recited the Lord’s Prayer over him, although she hadn’t been to church since Grandfather and Grandmother Otis took her in Atchison.
“Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.”
She had termed religion claptrap, and had been known to spout Marx when pressed. Yet, after the prayer, Amelia raised an invisible glass. Would that there was a bartender up in heaven. Then Fred would be having his usual Scotch. A psalm sprang to mind. “Though I walk through the valley of death I will fear no evil.” Fred had never been afraid, even when he realized he was dying. It’s the breed, Amelia thought. We’re all fatalists. It’s how we explain what we do to ourselves. Exhausted, she shut her eyes. Above her the night sky glittered with stars.
2
Samantha Barry
August 1980
SAM WATCHED HER mother dig into an oversized purse and emerge victorious, emery board in hand. Brooke used it to file her blood red nails to a razor’s edge. Her outfit was classic, the tight yellow Capri pants and black sleeveless v-neck le
otard topped off with a signature Isadora Duncan length, caught in the wheel-spoke scarf. Mom and daughter were headed uptown by train, making for Barnard and freshman orientation. Although Brooke would have preferred to sit together, Sam was the one who separated, choosing the vacant corner seat across from her. Now they perched, like boxers, waiting in their opposing corners.
She’d tried, oh how she’d tried, to leave Brooke behind in their Brooklyn apartment. Sam had already suffered through four hours plus of tearful good-byes with “my little girl is leaving me” as the refrain.
“I’m not leaving you, I’m just going to college,” Sam repeated.
“You don’t understand at all,” Brooke insisted. “Wait till you’re a mother.”
“I’m only moving to Manhattan. It’s not even the suburbs. Mom, please.”
Brooke refused, sobbing as if her heart had broken.
Imagine if I’d actually applied to one of those other schools, Sam thought. Every time the guidance counselor gave her a brochure, her mother made her feelings abundantly clear.
“Berkeley? You’d be lost there. It’s far too big!”
“Michigan, you deserve better.”
“I did The Music Man in Chicago, the wind whips right off the lake. You’d hate it there. You’d freeze to death.”
“New Haven? Are you delirious? It’s not a place one lives. And who cares if it’s Yale, for god’s sake!”
“Georgetown? What are you studying, government? You’re pre-med!”
“Sweetheart, you’re not going to even consider Swarthmore. It’s stultifying.”
There was only one place worthy of her, Barnard College. It was the same seventh sister her mother and grandmother had attended. Lineage was important. Brooke’s plan for funding the four years was beyond optimistic. “Think of how happy we’ll make your grandmother. I’m sure she’ll offer to pay.”
What was she smoking? That is, besides the pot Sam’s brother, Win, had left behind. Grandmother Katherine never forked over a dime to help any of them out. The grandchildren were expected to prove themselves and pull themselves up by their bootstraps. This was odd advice, coming from a woman who had never had to work a day in her life and was living off of inherited wealth. Katherine owned houses in Bar Harbor and Palm Beach, plus a grand apartment on Park Avenue. Meanwhile, Sam could only afford college because of a financial aid package that included loans and a work-study assignment. When Sam graduated, she would have to pay the loans all back, something her grandmother had never been expected to do. Which was just as well.
Sam reminded herself that she could have gone to school to several other colleges and not had to pay a dime. The offers had been made. It was her choice to stay close to home. That was because being close meant she could hop on the subway. And doing that was a lot easier than hitching a ride to NYC on a plane. If Brooke needed her, she’d be there in a half an hour. Not that Brooke would. She’ll be just fine on her own, Sam told herself, then forced herself to mentally change the subject, playing a game she’d made up long ago. The goal was to figure out what advertisements lurked underneath the spray-painted graffiti tags in the subway car. As they rolled uptown, Sam found the hotline poster hidden under a huge orange “R.” The poster showed an anguished woman clutching a phone, begging the viewer to dial 1-800-I Confess. Under “A,” scales of justice touted Bail Bonds Available. And a “T” cut off the shoulders and face of a lanky model clutching her Virginia Slim. “R. A. T.” What a boring tag. Sam missed good old “Taki 183.”
The car made a perilous jerk as it pulled into the Wall Street station. Well-groomed men in perforated brown and black leather shoes lifted their briefcases, preparing to disembark. If only this subway would turn into a rocket. If only they were hurtling towards a distant galaxy. Once they docked, Sam could hug Brooke goodbye, Brooke sobbing and waving as the ship retreated. Ah well. Instead Sam was inside the train, clattering north, making for the thickets of the Upper West Side.
AT THE CITY Hall station, Sam spotted Keith Haring working away, his canvas a papered over advertisement panel on the station wall. He was wiry, balding under the ubiquitous cap. Haring wore soda bottle thick glasses. Sam had dubbed him “the chalk man.” He used white chalk on a black background. She loved the drawings. Dancing dogs. Flying fish. Faceless figures sprouting angel wings. Dabs of white lines round the edges of each indicated they were in motion. Because if you stop, you die, Sam thought. She waved, trying to get Brooke’s attention and point him out. But her mother was oblivious, foraging in her purse to emerge with a pack of Gitanes. “No Smoking. No Fumar.” Signs were posted in every car, not that you could read the warning under the tags. Still, everyone knew the law. Sam let her hand drop, embarrassed, as her mother puffed away. Brooke leaned back, shutting her eyes, savoring her nicotine soaked moment of defiance. Sam felt torn. Part of her couldn’t help but admire Brooke’s infernal, self-satisfied, fuck the world smile. The other part wished she could be anywhere else.
Sam wondered if anyone in the car guessed they were related. She had inherited her Mediterranean coloring from her father’s side of the family. Her eyes were brown, her hair jet black. Brooke’s naturally red hair was highlighted to hide the grey. Her complexion was pale, sprinkled with freckles. Brooke’s eyes were a brilliant jade green, courtesy of brand new color contacts. Sam’s mother was all girlie girl and “look at me!” Sam was purposefully, diligently the opposite, dressed in frayed jean shorts with a t-shirt bearing a faded photo of Exene Cervenka, the lead singer of X. A pair of gold stud earrings was her only bow to vanity.
Sam Berry emerged at 116th street and accelerated. She was already through the Barnard gates and asking for directions when she realized her mother wasn’t bringing up the rear. No Brooke in sight. Sam twisted round. The air was thick and slightly rancid. She was sweating bullets. Brooke knew the room number. Still, guilt licked at her. Instead of heading upstairs, Sam perched on the ledge outside Sulzberger, eyeing her soon to be classmates as they strolled past. Here, a Jewish American Princess; there, a preppie queen. Most undergraduates were accompanied by both well-dressed parents and toted more bags than the paltry duo Sam had packed. Trunks and valises and suitcases stamped with exotic ports of call rolled by. Who would she find here to talk to, Sam wondered? Who looked like they lived a life even remotely like hers? Panic gripped her. Just then Brooke appeared, accompanied by a clean-cut Columbia undergrad toting Sam’s suitcase.
“This is Matt. Matt, my daughter Samantha.”
“Hey,” Sam tried.
“Matt’s my knight in shining armor.”
He blushed. “Come on, this isn’t your daughter. You’re sisters, right?”
“You didn’t just say that,” Sam said, lifting an eyebrow. Matt ignored her. Her mother’s laugh tinkled. Matt’s gaze veered to Brooke’s ample cleavage. Sam’s humiliation was complete. Not that he was going to get anything for his trouble; Brooke used and abused and discarded boys like him routinely. In your wet dreams you tool, Sam thought.
Upstairs, her last name was one of two on the card next to the door of room 316. Inside a family was seated on the far bed looking like three ducks all in a row, albeit incredibly large, blond-haired blue-eyed ducks.
“I’m Lucy,” the youngest duck said, standing and extending a hand. Sam tilted her head back. Her roommate, Lucy, had to be close to six feet tall.
“And you must be Samantha,” the mother duck said. “I’m Alma Westcott, Lucy’s mom.”
Alma wore a yellow print calico dress with frills at the bottom of the sleeves. It was demure, sweet, and completely without pretension. No one within fifty miles of New York City would own something like that. Alma might as well have gone and painted the word “Tourist” on her forehead.
“Tom,” the father duck said. He gave Sam a firm and hearty handshake.
Alma was plump, a smiler. Tom was clean cut, serious, and wide as a house. Lucy was lanky, blond, and drop-dead gorgeous. Sam felt immediately outclassed. Lucy literally g
lowed. Sam decided that, being so attractive, Lucy must have drained the light from everything else and sucked it into her own body.
Brooke stood at the door saying goodbye to her new best friend. “You’re a doll.” She bestowed a high beam smile. The callow youth trotted off.
Taking a seat on the empty bed, Brooke homed in on the male in the room. “Brooke Barry,” she said to Tom. He took her extended hand and shook it hard enough to cause a dislocation. She opened her purse and dug inside and extracted the ever-ready pack of Gitanes. “Smoke?” she offered.
“Sure,” Lucy said.
“What?” Alma was clearly shocked.
“Just kidding,” Lucy said, catching Sam’s eye and exchanging a complicit smile.
Sam allowed herself to hope. Maybe it wouldn’t be a complete disaster, this room, this roommate, this seventh sister and its exclusively female college.
The room was tiny, the air fetid, the window shut tight. Sam would have opened it but Alma barred the way. She was at work unloading a huge steamer trunk. Sam set her duffel bag on the desk chair and unzipped it. Her skin caught in the metal teeth. “Damn!” she exclaimed.
“Oh dear, did you hurt yourself?” Alma asked.
“It’s okay,” Sam said, sucking the wound.
“We have Band-aids.”
“I’m fine. Really.” Her protest fell on deaf ears. Alma flourished a box. Extracting one, she un-stripped the paper and held it out so Sam could set her wounded digit down. “Good as new,” Alma said, wrapping it tight. Was she going to kiss it next, the way the school nurse used to?
Brooke hadn’t even noticed. She was too busy conferring with Alma’s husband, exhaling perfect smoke rings.
The room had two generic blond wood desks with matching dressers. Lucy’s side was already pretty in pink. Her bed sported a rose flushed comforter with matching bolsters, and twin pillowcases.
