by Laurie Fox
LATE morning, there was a tap at the door. Roused from a shallow sleep, I rose from my rocking chair and shuffled in stockinged feet to the entrance hall. The front door stuck. After several false starts, I cracked it open an inch to find my daughter, hands tucked in her armpits, shivering with all the dignity she could muster. Greasy curls hung at her ears like weeds, and in the place of her wool scarf she’d wound a frayed bandana around her throat. “Hello Parental Unit,” she said evenly.
“Hello Offspring,” I answered. I looked past her twitching form to the road, searching for evidence of transportation. I couldn’t believe she’d mounted our steep hill on foot.
“Thanks for the birthday card,” I said at a loss.
“Yeah, well, I just came by to borrow something.” Her sandaled feet shifted back and forth on the porch to keep warm.
“Yes?” I said.
“The, um, you know.” She pointed inarticulately, indicating somewhere in the house.
“Berry. I really don’t.”
“You know,” she repeated. “That book of yours.” I pursed my lips. “The one about the rabbit. The rabbit in rehab.”
“Oh, that,” I said. “Sure, let me get it. Would you like to come in?”
No, she waved her hands, chewed the inside of her cheek. Peering around me to the living room, her dark brows knitted. “Who—who’s that?” she asked.
“What?”
“The mysterious lady.”
“Oh, her,” I said, smiling helplessly. “I think you’ll want to meet her.”
“I’m busy,” she demurred. But she was interested. “She looks kinda familiar,” Berry said, craning her neck.
“And she has quite the story,” I added.
“Doesn’t everybody?” Berry smirked.
“Well, hers is long and tangled.”
“They’re, like, only the best kind,” she said.
“Let me get that book,” I said, wandering off.
From the hall I watched as Berry padded into the foyer, then tiptoed over to Jane. She studied Jane’s breathing, noted its rhythm and depth, its low-pitched hum. I shouldn’t have been surprised when the two began breathing in sync—Berry’s gift for mimicking sound could have an eloquent beauty.
Now Berry stood over Jane, taking hold of her chair. I was astonished at how gently she rocked it while gazing out the great wall of glass, studying the bare trees, the city’s distant towers. Then she lifted her chin, and her melancholy eyes took in a universe of unseen things. The sun, a bit late for its debut, winked and placed her inside a column of gold. Contrary to what Berry had always maintained, she didn’t care much for the night, far preferring the company of light. I know because she seemed so at home there.
I proceeded down the hall to fetch Bunny’s Blue. It occurred to me that, at the first opportunity, I would have to rework the ending.
A Final Word on Flying
FREUD was wrong, you know. Flying is not about sex—it’s sex that’s about flying. Because flying is about the spirit leaving the body behind, escaping the harrowing world of flesh, the deficient world of bone. But it’s not about abandoning pleasure—pleasure comes along for the ride!
As a young thing with precious little life experience, taking my maiden voyage was my first exercise in faith. An education in free will and New Physics, being air-bound literally upended my ideas. It taught me that I would never be merely a body: there was so much more to life than corporeality.
When I first flew out my bedroom window in a sincere attempt to follow in Peter’s footsteps, I had logged barely a mile before I came to a shattering conclusion: I am not a body at all. I am something entirely new.
I decided then to dedicate my life to whatever invisible force had brought me here—aloft over the emerald hills, soaring above the Bay Bridge, over the glittering swells of seawater. I made a promise to myself to always remember this day, a day when I was the opposite of fear and the very picture of freedom. The moment when I became pure energy. And I vowed that this mysterious force would never be suppressed or consumed by a life down on Earth.
In a formal gesture, I raised my right hand, spread my shaking fingers, and executed the Darling pledge: a tender blow to the forehead with the flat of the hand. It was a done deal and there would be no turning back. I was married to metaphysics now and, like my great-grandmother, would be forever counted among the passing strange.
DEEPLY FELT THANKS
TO MY EDITOR at Simon & Schuster, the radiant, passionate, and wise Marysue Rucci; to my Simon & Schuster family, especially to David Rosenthal, Carolyn Reidy, Melissa Possick, Victoria Meyer, Aileen Boyle, Emily Remes, Alexis Welby, Victor John Villanueva, Jonathon Brodman, Jason Warshof, and Ellen Sasahara for their inestimable contributions. To Tara Parsons, for daily sustenance and assistance.
To literary confidante and muse Judith Ehrlich. To those gifted readers who donated their time, ear, and brilliant ruminations on the ways of the world—Carolyn Cooke, Emma King, Nina Byornsson, and Joyce Engelson. To Donna Bulseco and John Kalpus, my daring, intrepid researchers. To those generous, talented, and exacting friends who reviewed early portions of this work—Joanna Pulcini, Laurie Chittenden, Randall Babtkis, Tim Farrington, Kathleen Caldwell, and Claire Farrington.
To Mary Ann Naples, who found me. To Lynn Goldberg and Megan Underwood for their invaluable support.
To Robert Levine, Jonathan Kirsch, and Liza Nelligan for their wisdom, counsel, and emotional support; Mark Chimsky for his gift of Pan; Melissa Rallis for her gift of stars; and to James Le Brecht of Sound Artists for his time and knowledge. To Karen and Darryl Darling of the Darling House in Santa Cruz for their hospitality.
And most especially: to Linda Chester, my luminous agent, treasured friend, and kindred spirit who makes the writing life possible and oh-so-real. To my cherished colleague Gary Jaffe for a million daily things (and that’s a low estimate). To Harriet Frank, my tenderhearted, supportive mother, and to Larry, my wildly creative brother, who is ever an inspiration. And to my husband, D. Patrick Miller, who, in spite of being Peter Pan–illiterate, served this book and its author in boundless ways, and who every day offers me a world more fabulous and durable than The Neverland. Patrick, come fly with me!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LAURIE FOX is the author of Sexy Hieroglyphics and My Sister from the Black Lagoon. A former bookseller and creative-writing teacher, she has worked in the publishing industry for seventeen years. Laurie lives with her husband, author/journalist D. Patrick Miller, and her cats, Lewis and Gracie, in Berkeley, California. For more information about Laurie’s work, please refer to: lauriefox.com
