Epic

by Lark O'Neal

  It hits me: I am flying over the ocean. Right now, this minute, I am in the sky over the Pacific. All that is below me is water filled with whales and fish and maybe some ships. I think of someone on the deck of a boat looking up to the lights of the plane streaking over their heads and it makes me slightly dizzy. I am no longer an ordinary person with an ordinary life in a city in Colorado. I am on my way to New Zealand, a place people always tell me they want to see. I have family there.

  The feeling is like helium, and I float over the lady still snoring in her seat. For a little while I just sit there, floaty and happy.

  Then I pull out my notebook and quietly set up my tray. I pull out the roll of Mentos Tyler gave me and set them on the tray, too. By the light of my iPad, I scribble all the things I’ve just noticed—the muted roar of the engine and the sounds of people snoring, and the way it doesn’t feel we are moving at all and yet it does.

  When that’s done, I think I’m too excited to sleep, but the next thing I know sunlight is flooding into the cabin and everyone is moving around, getting things out of the cupboards overhead. A flight attendant is making her way down the aisles with glasses of water, and I take one gratefully. “Open your window shade, please,” she says.

  I push it up. “Oh, my God!”

  Below is the sea, shining pale turquoise and mountain blue and darkest blue, and on that water is a spill of islands off the coast of a bigger island. There is more ocean on the other side of the green and furry lands. “That’s it, isn’t it?” I say to my seatmate.

  She nods and touches my shoulder. “Beautiful, isn’t it? I’ve come here many times, but I never get over that first sight.”

  I don’t think I ever will, either. I send a whisper of thanks to whatever beings might be listening, to whatever arrangement of events led me to be here.

  And then I hold it in a little balloon of thought and send it up to my friend Virginia, who was killed at a restaurant we both worked in, sharing it with her. Maybe that’s just mystical bullshit, but you never know. It can’t hurt.

  * * *

  The next thing is getting through customs in Auckland. Even though my dad said my New Zealand passport would make it all go fast, the lines are long here, too, and I’m starting to feel grouchy and disconnected. My skin doesn’t fit right, and the backs of my eyes are grainy like I’ve been awake for seven years.

  But even this is dazzling. In line in across from me is a whole family of women in saris with long black hair. The saris are all different, brilliant colors. Even the old women’s middles show, brown and soft, and they have a hundred bracelets on each arm. Down the line a little way from them is a big, powerful-looking man wearing an expensive-looking brown suit, and his whole face is tattooed and menacing. It’s hard not to stare, but he must feel me and turns a hard eye my way. Embarrassed, I look down.

  But I’m staring at everyone, and they’re all staring at me. We’re too wiped out to do anything else. The line inches along, and finally I’m at the window and the woman says, “Welcome back,” stamps my passport and sends me through.

  That’s it?

  The hallway is pale and industrial, quiet with tired passengers headed for the swinging doors, so it’s a shock to exit into the terminal, full of noise and light and color. I stop and blink, going faint with the smell of coffee, trying to figure out where it’s coming from. My plane won’t board for—I look around for a clock and find one on the wall—two hours. Plenty of time.

  But first I head into the ladies’ room and prop my backpack on the sink in a dry spot. I try to make myself and my stuff as small as possible, roll up my sleeves and wash my face and hands thoroughly, getting rid of the old make up and the grease and the breath of all those people overnight breathing the same air. My eyes still look really tired, but at least they’re not all smeary anymore. I pat my face dry with paper towels, then find my brush and quickly release the braid. A dark-eyed girl watches me until her mother makes her turn around.

  It feels so good to brush my hair! The bristles on my scalp, the sense of getting things under control as I weave it back into a tight braid that I flip over my shoulder, then dig into my backpack for some lip-gloss and mascara to freshen my face a little. I’m still pale and tired looking, but once I shake out my scarf and loop it just right I’m feeling a lot better. I wanted some good boots but never found any I could afford, and I’m okay with my jeans and tennis shoes today. Comfortable.

  Once that’s done, I head back out to get some money changed and buy a cup of coffee. It makes me feel cosmopolitan to exchange four American twenties for a stack of New Zealand dollars. And coins. They have dollar coins, and the paper money is beautiful, with tiny see-through holograms of leaves on each bill. Tucking most of it back into my pack, way down at the bottom, I keep a twenty out and take it over to the coffee stand.

  A family is running the stand, a couple of men who must be brothers manning the orders and pass-out bar, a girl with a black scarf over her head making the coffees. I peer at the board and there are things I recognize, but I don’t want the same thing I’d get at home. “What’s a flat white?” I ask the guy.

  “Coffee and milk. Like cappuccino with no foam.”

  “I’ll have that, please. Large.”

  The airport here is much, much smaller than the ones I’ve been to so far, and I find the gate without any trouble. Outside it’s raining hard, and I wonder if that will mean another delay and how will I get in touch with my dad? Except—ahaha! —I have my iPad. I settle at the gate with my coffee, which is thicker and richer than a latte. I like it, and I especially like it when the caffeine hits my body.

  I sign onto the airport’s wireless network and call up my email. The connection is slow, and while I’m waiting I sip coffee and look around at my fellow passengers. There’s a young, hip-looking crowd, some with that snowboarder look, knitted hats with tails and too-big pants, and I realize that it’s winter here.

  And Saturday. Not Friday. I left on Thursday and Friday was swallowed by the mysterious dateline. Weird.

  “Are you with the film crew?” A guy sitting in the chair next to mine asks in a strong New Zealand accent. He’s maybe thirty, with curly hair and a goatee that’s working its way into a full beard.

  I look at him with one eyebrow raised and take a sip of my coffee. “Is that a line?”

  He grins. “You’re American!”

  “Kind of. I was born here. First visit back since I was six.”

  “Cool.” His eyes are the color of a mountain creek, clear and brown. “Where’d you live in the States?”

  “Colorado.”

  “So you’re coming from one beauty to the next.” He inclines his head. “You’re really not with the crew?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m a cameraman with Fern Productions. We’re heading to the South Island, Nelson and Queenstown and a couple of other spots, to shoot a series of commercials for a tour company. You look like the kids they cast as elves.” He touches my braid. “We had a hard time finding girls with long enough hair. You ever do any acting?”

  I let go of a very un-actress-y snort. “Uh, no. And this is beginning to be creepy, ok?”

  “Sorry.” He raises his hands, palm out. “Not like that at all.” He looks over his shoulder. “Hey, Colin, come on over here.”

  A tall guy about my age, skinny and overtly gay, swishes over. He’s stunningly pretty, with the fat mouth of a Calvin Klein model and the kind of long, graceful limbs that photograph well. “Yeah?”

  “Tell her that we’re shooting adverts, will you?”

  “You’re not with the crew?” he says in a very different accent, maybe English.

  I shake my head. My email blips, and I look at it, feeling as disoriented as if I’ve been standing on my head for twenty-two hours.

  The first guy says, “Poor girl’s jet-lagged. Here, sweetheart, this is my card.”

  I take it from him, raise my eyebrows in q
uestion.

  “I want you to give me a call. Where are you headed now?”

  “To see my dad outside of Nelson. He runs a winery.”

  “No kidding. We’re shooting on a winery over there. Brown Mountain. Is that your dad?

  “No.” I almost say it’s Long Cloud Winery, but I don’t. The whole thing is strange, and I’m not really all here.

  The model/actor drops into a crouch and peers at me. “You do look elfish. Your hair is perfect.” Up close, he’s even more perfect, and I find myself staring the way you would stare at a painting. “I’m Colin Hamstead. You can look me up on your iPad if you like. We’re legit, and we’ll be shooting for the next three weeks all over the South Island. I’m sure our director would want to talk to you.”

  I hold the card between my fingers, not sure what to say.

  “Look me up,” he says. “You’ll see it’s not a hustle.”

  Nothing like this has ever happened to me. He seems sincere, and, anyway, it won’t hurt anything to look him up. I type in the address he gives me, and there’s a full modeling portfolio attached to an agency name I recognize. There are shots of him in clothing and perfume ads, all high end, for the kind of glossy magazines that cost as much as a good meal.

  The goatee-guy says, “Will you let us ring you when you get home?”

  I stare at them both and then rub my temple. “Okay, look. My dad is meeting me in Nelson. I’ll ask him what he thinks. For now, I’d really just like to be left alone so I can read my email from my boyfriend.”

  “Right.” Colin slaps his knee. “See you in Nelson.”

  The first guy smiles. “We are the real thing. And you’ve got a face.”

  “Most people do.”

  He grins and gives me a little salute as they leave. “Cheers.”

  Finally I can read my email. There’s nothing much there. Tyler doesn’t seem to use straight email much that I know of, only Facebook and Instagram, where he posts arty pictures he takes with an Olloclip. Mostly, we text, but now I guess we’ll—

  As if my thoughts made them appear, the message box on my iPad populates with a little red 5. Five unread messages.

  I open the box. The texts are all from Tyler. They make a poem:

  11 pm:

  Night creeps in

  Air smells of paint

  Rain on the roof

  Beer in a bottle and really

  I’m just missing my baby

  Touched and smiling, I text back: Landed safely. Feel like my eyes are going to fall out.

  A text comes right back: Hey! Are you in Nelson?

  No, waiting in the Auckland airport. What are you doing?

  There’s a delay between texts, as if they have to fly a long, long way across the ocean. In between, I drink coffee and look out the far window. It looks gray and ugly. I expected sunshine.

  Painting. Thinking about you. It’s raining. Remember that afternoon in my studio?

  My ears go hot as I think of his mouth on my neck, my body. How could I forget?

  What time is it there?

  I ask

  Almost noon

  Friday, right? It’s Saturday. 4 pm here. So you’re one day ahead of me, but four hours behind in time?…

  Right.

  It makes me dizzy. Mind bending that I just didn’t have a Friday.

  You’ll get it back on the way home.

  The people around me start to shuffle and pick up their things. Boarding now. Gotta go. Weird stuff happened this afternoon. Will tell you abt it ltr.

  When do you get to your Dad’s?

  No idea. Hours.

  I’ll be around. Xoxo

  Xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo :)

  I turn off the wireless, and tuck my iPad into its sleeve and back into the layers of t-shirts that kept it safe. We all file through the doors, and I’m wondering when to take off my shoes, but we just walk through a scanner and head out onto the blacktop. It’s still raining. Not, not hard anymore, but enough to get my hair wet. So much for looking nice when we land.

  But I’m getting so tired now I can hardly find a reason to care. I feel like I’m moving through some kind of gel, in slow motion, as if voices have slowed down, and my legs, too, and all I want is to go to bed at some point and really sleep. Lying down.

  My seat is by the window, and I’ve been settled in it for two seconds, just long enough to fasten my seat belt, when I lean my head against the wall and let sleep drag me under.

  Chapter THREE

  I’m out until the wheels hit the ground, jolting me awake. My throat is so dry that I know I’ve been sleeping with my mouth open. Embarrassing. After digging in my backpack for the bottle of water I’d finally had a chance to buy, I take a long, long swallow, then fall back in my seat and look out the window. It’s wet and gray, and the clouds are nestled over a line of blue mountains.

  The plane stops in the middle of the tarmac and some guys rush stairs to the plane, so we are definitely going to get wet again. This makes me feel wildly emotional—I so wanted to look my best when I saw my dad! Instead I’m going to be bleary-eyed and pale, and dripping like a drowned rat.

  Some rational part of my heart says he won’t care,butit’s hard to hear it through my dull brain. Is this what jet lag feels like? I expected the tiredness. I didn’t expect to lose 100 IQ points.

  At the door the flight attendant hands me an umbrella with a smile. It keeps me dry down the steps and across the terminal, which is so wide open and unfortified that I feel like I’m in an old movie. Any old terrorist could just waltz right in.

  I close the umbrella, handing it off to a smiling employee, and follow the other passengers into the terminal. My stomach squeezes hard as I see the people waiting. I scan their faces and don’t see my dad. What if he forgot to come get me? I go back over them again, still nothing.

  “Jess!”

  I whirl toward the voice, and there he is, in the flesh. Not tall, not short, wearing a white t-shirt that says Global Warming is Not Cool, and jeans. He has a beard, and if a face could beam sunlight, his would. It’s the happiest face I have ever seen in my life. I raise a hand, half-smiling.

  My dad rushes toward the gate, and I find myself feeling insanely shy, my heart pounding in my chest, because what do you do when you haven’t seen your dad in fourteen years and you don’t really know anything about him? I have no idea how to act.

  My dad knows. He flings his arms around me in a giant bear hug, shoulders shaking. It’s the smell of him that washes over me, so familiar, and wakes up some little kid part of me that grips his back and buries my face in his shoulder. “Daddy!” I say, and that’s all, because he’s rocking me, hugging me.

  “Oh my God,” he breathes, “oh my God. I never thought I’d ever see you again, Jess.” His hug is so tight I can barely breathe, and I don’t care. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Me, too,” I whisper, and there is so much emotion in my chest that my lungs feel like they might explode. I didn’t know it would feel so exactly the way this does, like I’ve been waiting to get back here, that somehow something is fixed by my arriving, but my main feeling is a shaky sense of relief. In fact, it’s so intense my knees actually start to tremble and I squeak out, “I need to sit down for a second.”

  “Of course, of course, come right over here.” He settles me in a plastic chair. “Do you want some water?”

  I put my head between my knees, the way I did when I nearly fainted at the restaurant the first day I met Tyler, when my whole life turned upside down.

  Now it’s happening again.

  A swell of images and feelings is pushing at a locked door in my mind, and it’s terrifying. I didn’t know those things were there until this minute, didn’t know I remembered anything about my life here. Eventually I’ll have to open that door and find out what’s behind it, but for now I just need to get myself together. I breathe in, once, twice, very slowly. My dad has his hand on my shoulder, and I’m grateful for the warmth, the steadiness.
After a minute I feel stable enough to raise my head. “Whew. Sorry. I don’t know what that was all about.”

  “No worries. Your old dad overwhelmed you a little, maybe.” He squats, touching my arm. “You all right?”

  “I didn’t know I’d remember this airport,” I say, and realize that’s part of what set me off. Being inside this airport, seeing the walls, the light, something about it.

  “The brain is a funny thing.” He stands. “Come on. Let’s get your bag, and then I’ll buy you a coffee and a slice for the drive.”

  “A slice?” Does he mean pizza?

  “Cake in American.” His grin makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.

  I muster up a smile. “Thanks. That sounds great, actually.”

  At baggage claim the camera guy and the actor—Colin, was it?—approach my dad. The camera guy raises an eyebrow at me. “This your dad?”

  I nod.

  “It’s all right to talk to him?”

  I shrug. To my dad I say, “These guys say they’re with a film crew.”

  “What film crew?”

  Camera Guy hands him a card. The same one he gave me. “We’ll be filming a series of commercials, here and in the Queenstown area. All high-end tourist industry stuff for the foreign markets. We’re using…uh…a Lord of the Rings theme, and your daughter would be a very good elf.”

  My dad shows nothing. “And?”

  “We’d like her to audition, have a camera test. I know the director will want to see her. The pay is typical, $6000.”

  That gets my attention. “For the job?”

  “Per week.” The actor smiles. “Not bad, right?

  I look at my dad, still suspicious but a little more intrigued. “Maybe call tomorrow or something? After we check it out.”

  “Your choice.”

  I nod, surprising myself by taking charge. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Right now, I just want to be with my dad.”

  With that salute again, the cameraman nods and steps away. Colin lingers a little longer. “Give it some real thought,” he says. “The camera loves you.” He holds up his phone and shows me a shot of myself gazing pensively gazing into the middle distance. It’s a good shot, but it feels weird that he took it.