by K. C. Maher
I hug her close and kiss her forehead. Ever since I left Sterling lying naked in our bed, my impulses toward Amanda have lacked all semblance of lust. My love for her is no less thrilling for being pure.
We stand up. ‘Where’s your phone? I’ll text your mother now that she can’t stop us. She should at least know where you are.’
Amanda grins and drops her iPhone into a metal trash receptacle.
‘Honey! What about your friends? Your music and photos?’
‘Oh, yeah.’ She gazes inside, then shakes her head. ‘I don’t care. Just so long as Cheryl doesn’t know about this. ’Cause even if you’re right and she can’t stop us, she’ll call up everyone she can think of and scream bloody murder.’
That’s true. Cheryl could and would stop us before we reach the Magic Kingdom.
‘We have an hour before the flight. Let’s wait in the Sky Club.’
I might not have thought of everything, but I did make sure I wasn’t stripped of my rarely used membership when Bank of America fired me. She takes my hand, swinging it as we walk. ‘You know how when we would cuddle, you’d tell me it was too much?’
‘Yes.’
We enter an empty elevator that goes up a short way. ‘I figured it out. You and I feel too much for our puny bodies to hold.’ When the elevator opens, I’m resting one hand on her head and the other on her shoulder. We step toward the dark glass doors to the lounge and her eyes, lit from within, hold mine in a clarity that seems surreal.
She pulls me closer, reaching up, and I’m drawn right into her otherworldly amber eyes. Then she braces her hands atop my shoulders. ‘For me, this is ten times too much, Walter. I love you a million times too much, and I always will.’
‘I feel the exact same about you.’ I stroke Amanda’s head and set her on her feet.
In the lounge, we sit at a table where we can see the jets landing and taking off.
I ask the waiter for sparkling water, much as I’d like a straight Scotch, and say that, ‘Disney’s undiscovered princess here will have a “Little Flyer’s Special.”’
When the waiter has retreated, Amanda frowns. ‘Really. Little Flyer’s Special?’
‘Silly name, but I think you’ll like it.’
When the waiter hands Amanda 7 Up in a frosted martini glass, she accepts it graciously. She extends her pinky, holds the glass stem carefully, and sips slowly. Then, she sets the drink on our small round table and swivels in her chair, giggling. She wobbles her head in a circle counter to her swiveling chair. ‘Remember?’
I laugh. ‘Bubbles go straight to your head.’
*
We’re the only first class passengers, which means we get to board the jet before the hundreds of other people on our flight. I encourage Amanda to take the window seat so she can watch us leaving the ground—and then the earth.
The flight attendant, a woman my age with stiff brown hair in a French twist, smiles at me. I smile back. She wears a uniform of blue and orange, and while Amanda is studying the in-flight magazine, she crouches beside me in the aisle and speaks in a hush. ‘Your daughter? She is lovely.’
‘Thank you.’ (That’s the expected response, I’m almost positive, but it sounds peculiar.)
The woman stands and wrings her hands once before bending down again and saying in a rush, ‘Forgive me, but you seem young to have a girl her age.’
I glance at Amanda, who pretends not to notice. ‘Her mother and I never married.’
Rising quickly to move on, the woman taps her knuckle against my outside armrest. ‘But you’re married now, I see.’
‘Yes, I’m married now.’ Halfway to her station, she turns back to smile at me.
Amanda whispers, ‘Why was she asking about me?’
‘I’ll tell you later.’
‘But we’re okay?’
‘We’re great.’
While the plane taxis to the runway, third in line, the flight attendant steers a small cart with one hand and carries a towel-wrapped champagne bottle (unopened) in her other hand.
‘None for me, thanks.’
She suggests beverages for Amanda, who says, ‘We had cocktails in the lounge.’
Again, the flight attendant smiles. ‘When you’re ready, I have cold salmon with cucumber-dill, roast beef sandwiches, a mélange of melon and berries, and whole-grain chips.’ Amanda declines politely, and I do the same.
‘It’s best to eat something to prevent queasiness. We have strawberry or vanilla-caramel parfait.’
The attendant appears concerned about being pushy, but has a litany she must recite. ‘It’s important to stay hydrated,’ she says, suggesting Perrier water.
‘Do you happen to have pomegranate juice we could mix with seltzer?’
‘No,’ she smiles at Amanda. ‘But I’ve got fresh Cherry Smash.’
‘I love Cherry Smash.’
I ask her to bring it later in the flight. The attendant nods and hurries upfront.
The Disney Channel lists a series of interviews with the cast of The Real Miranda.
We get our headphones out from our backpacks. ‘Don’t let me forget to buy you a new iPhone.’
The show starts but then the captain interrupts to describe the flight. After which, the interviews are replaced by a cartoon family demonstrating safety rules and regulations. A voice-over admonishes us to review this important information in the booklet we’ll find in the seatback ahead of us. Amanda reaches for it, but I say, ‘Look at your screen, honey. It’s Sam as a boy.’
In his interview, the young actor who plays Sam on The Real Miranda credits wardrobe, make-up, and occasional special camera effects for his miraculous bilocation powers. But to play a super-boy and super-girl simultaneously, he practiced with computerized sensors attached to his arms, legs, neck, and face. Other than clothes, hair, and make-up, the transformation involves using obscure muscles and a subtle variation in gestures. Demonstrating Sam as a super-boy, he narrows his eyes and angles his eyebrows upward. For Sam as a super-girl, his face softens and his mouth puffs slightly. He stands, feet apart, arms crossed, and changes from boy to girl to boy again. ‘Of course, I could exaggerate it more, but I think it’s more convincing to do less.’
The actress who plays Miranda grew up onscreen as the overeager little sister in an earlier Disney TV show. However, between filming that show and The Real Miranda, she attended a regular public high school, instead of being tutored. ‘So, I know just how Miranda feels. You enter high school and it really does seem like everyone else has special powers. If only because they all know each other.’ The actress enters the set that serves as her bedroom and pauses in front of a teddy bear and canopy bed, to explain why she chose them for the character. The designers have hung a picture of the Manhattan skyline on one of the bedroom walls—something Amanda and I hadn’t noticed before. The actress waves like a beauty queen and exits.
Iris appears with an acoustic guitar. She’s the songwriter for the show. Her short hair is shaped so that a tiny peak crests on top, emphasizing her pixyish quality.
‘Acting means a lot of waiting around, so I sit on the floor and play my guitar.’
The show already had a theme song, but one of the producers overheard Iris singing a song she had written. She plays what is now a well-loved refrain associated with Miranda feeling strange in super-strange Iowa.
‘The producer asked me to write an opening and a closing song for each episode. And, you know, some came out better than others, so they hired a co-songwriter. Chris works with me to make sure everything sounds professional.’
She bobbles her head and her eyes turn up—not really like Amanda’s but similar enough so that we look at each other and laugh.
Amanda taps my shoulder. We remove our headphones. ‘Her songs are so good. I hope she becomes a major pop star. She’s so tiny and funny with her pixy ears.’
The flight attendant brings us two icy bottles of Cherry Smash with tall glasses.
‘Hey, it’s the sa
me Cherry Smash we get at the farmers’ market. See? From New Jersey.’
The sour cherry flavor is intense. Amanda says I might want to dilute it with seltzer. But I take a long taste and tell her I love it as is.
*
As the Miranda interviews end, the captain announces we’ve reached cruising altitude and he expects a smooth flight to Orlando. Amanda suppresses a yawn. We turn off the screens and put away our headphones. She nods and her eyes close.
I tell her that I like Iris best. ‘To me, Miranda is just another pretty blonde girl.’
Amanda’s eyes fly open and her voice rises. ‘Am I?’
‘Are you what?’
‘I’m sort of blonde, Walter. And sort of pretty. Either way, I’ll always look more like Miranda than Iris.’
‘You do not look like Miranda or anyone else. Nobody I’ve ever seen comes close to resembling you. It’s impossible to think of you as just another pretty girl. Haven’t you noticed how people look at you, Amanda? They try not to stare, but they can’t help it. Your beauty is refined, perpetual motion.’
Amanda faces me briefly as she shakes out her hair, and once again I’m arrested by her beauty. After this trip, I won’t be allowed to see her again.
‘Are you telling me this to boost my self-esteem?’ she says at last.
I almost laugh but catch myself; she’s not teasing. I reply that, no, I wasn’t even thinking of her self-esteem. But she should pay attention to how people respond to her. ‘In five years or so, Cheryl will still be your mother, but she won’t have as much influence. Chances are that your life will become much easier.’
She rests a thumb on her lower lip.
No reason to hold back anymore, so I say, ‘I love everything about you, Amanda, and always have. You opened me up. You made me complete.’
She jumps in her seat. ‘Made? Past tense?’
‘Sorry. You make me happy. You always will, whether I’m with you still or only remembering how things used to be. Promise me that you’ll keep being funny even if you’re alone. And, this is important: Don’t let your physical beauty become a mask you hide behind. Normally, even the most interesting people are opaque at first. You’re never opaque; it’s a rare and wonderful quality.’
She drops her hands in her lap and closes her eyes, but I keep talking.
‘If I didn’t see you for twenty years, and then we were within a radius of several miles—I’d sense your proximity in a heartbeat.’
‘How?’
‘Because I feel as if you’re with me even when you aren’t.’
‘If you’re near me, will I know?’
‘I don’t know. When I was growing up, I learned to become unnoticeable. In some circumstances, it was important. But it made me distant even to myself. You changed that.’
She covers a yawn. ‘Excuse me. I’m sleepy.’ She searches my face for permission and finding it, rests her head against my chest. ‘Keep talking, Walter.’
I whisper, ‘Your eyelids are heavy, so heavy. You can’t keep them open. And now you’re asleep. You’re in a very deep sleep and when you wake, you’ll feel fantastic.’
The flight attendant arrives to collect the Cherry Smash bottles. Seeing Amanda, she fastens our tray tables and allows us to leave the armrest up. ‘Let her sleep but keep your seatbelts on. And if you support her head, she won’t wake up dizzy.’
I cup her chin and slide a hand under her hair, supporting her long, slender neck. I inhale her scent of exhausted, girlish excitement and marvel that in all our months of fraught intimacy, I never once watched her sleep.
Thirty Five
The jet lands with a gentle bump, waking Amanda without alarming her. While we taxi toward the terminal, she listens to her headphones and I leaf through the in-flight magazine. Seeing a small ad for the Dolphin Hotel, I phone for reservations. A man with a slight southern accent says that most people reserve accommodations months in advance, but I’m in luck. A ‘family suite’ with two separate bedrooms is available.
Inside the airport, Amanda takes my hand, swinging it to match her subliminal skip. We follow a small crowd into the airport shopping mall and her skip acquires a spinning sensation. We see the statue of Goofy and are immediately inside his candy store. I look past the bins and barrels of candy at an extensive fantasyland that’s both overflowing and carefully laid out with a Disney cornucopia of merchandise.
‘We need summer clothes, honey. I can already sense how hot we’ll be in the—’
‘Magic Kingdom. That’s my dream.’ Amanda picks up a men’s dark green Mickey Mouse shirt. ‘This would look great on you.’ Mickey is wearing a small-brimmed hat. One of his big white feet is high in the air, as if he’s dancing to the music coming through his fluorescent yellow earbuds. ‘I’m buying it for you,’ Amanda says, gesturing for me to turn around so she can match the shirt against my back. ‘Walter the hipster,’ she says, and I wince.
A cheerful middle-aged saleswoman asks if she can help us.
I start to say we’re interested in the Last Minute Getaway package but—saved by hesitation—tell her we’d like two, two-day passes instead. The TSA agent’s words resound in my head: the Getaway involves previous correspondence.
Nevertheless, I’m left with a nagging feeling I should offer some kind of justification. ‘Her mother is getting remarried,’ I blurt out.
Whether this quasi-non-sequitur makes me suspect or not, I don’t know. Luckily, the saleswoman nods and says, ‘I see. You’re here for your own adventure.’
‘Exactly,’ Amanda says.
The saleswoman escorts us to a long low counter behind the store and its main checkout area. She sits down at a computer equipped with Mickey Mouse ears. I remove my backpack and reach into the outer flap. First to appear are the flimsy printout plane tickets, which I set in front of her. Because even though they’re waste paper, they still attest to our having been vetted very recently by the TSA. I then present the woman with my passport and Amanda’s school I.D.
By now, of course, I’m acutely aware of how ill-planned this scheme really is. If the woman wonders about us, I’ll have to depend on Amanda to rescue us. When she says, ‘Daddy,’ doubts evaporate. Whereas I cannot explain why my supposed daughter’s last name differs from mine. In the bathroom on the plane, I practiced. Trying to look rueful, I sighed into the mirror, saying, ‘Well, to expedite the divorce, I agreed to her mother’s wish that the second half of Amanda’s last name be legally dropped.’ It hadn’t sounded ridiculous in private. But had I said it where anyone could hear me—even, or maybe especially, Amanda—we would have laughed.
Busy with my wallet, I attempt to gauge the Disney rep’s demeanor. If we fail to get into Disney World, our adventure will amount to Amanda watching me led away in handcuffs, while child welfare authorities escort her to a holding facility that will undoubtedly feel just like a jail.
I know the risks we are taking. For as spontaneous as this trip is, I researched kidnapping laws after that time I accidentally drove Amanda across a state line. A man suspected of molesting a child cannot explain it away. If anyone suspects the worst about Amanda and me, I’ll be arrested and Amanda will be interrogated by bureaucrats, judicial psychiatrists, and social workers demanding to know where I ‘touched her.’
The minute we return home and Amanda is secure, I will confess to kidnapping in the second degree, which is a class B felony. With my guilty plea and Amanda in Wisconsin, no one will need to question her.
Meanwhile, I wink in sympathy at the saleswoman sorting through our haphazard credentials. I try tickling Amanda’s neck only to find that her internal dance has jittered into anxiety. She ducks away.
I give the saleswoman my credit card. ‘Would you mind swiping that for me? My daughter’s upset about something.’
Amanda stands near the entrance and stares hard at a point in space. I slide beside her. ‘Everything’s fine, honey. Turn around and look. My credit card’s going through.’
Seeing th
is, Amanda bounds back, jumps in front of the saleswoman, and bestows a time-tripping smile on her.
Returning Amanda’s smile, the saleswoman recommends that we get the Magic Band magnetic wristbands that allow entry into any of the theme parks.
‘I’m sending your particulars to all the Magic Service Centers. You can get your wristbands at any of them.’
On tiptoe, Amanda twirls in a half-circle, thanking the woman. And, she clasps my arm. ‘Thank you, Daddy! I can’t believe it! Thank you.’
One more thing: The woman says that because neither of us has a Disney profile, she must ask us each ‘a security question.’
Amanda places the T-shirt on the counter, and hearing the question, says, ‘That’s easy. My father’s middle name is Galen. Walter Galen Mitchell.’
The woman asks me what Amanda’s middle name is. I don’t know, but I’m confident that the saleswoman doesn’t know it, either. Amanda’s school I.D. does not include a middle name or even an initial. So, I say, ‘Iris. Amanda Iris Jonette.’
This time, the woman winks at me.
Borrowing my credit card, Amanda buys the hipster Mickey Mouse T-shirt and we leave the store addled by pixy dust and anxiety. The edge and odor of the airport’s air-conditioning blast us with intimations of extreme Florida heat. Suddenly, we’re both exhausted.
Thirty Six
The airport’s shopping mall offers many more shops than just Disney. To our right looms a designer teenage girls’ boutique called Rainbows and Unicorns. Inside, a young woman wearing a short lacy skirt and an even lacier top offers to show Amanda the latest attire.
‘Some of the trendier styles,’ I say without thinking, ‘are a little overdone. I mean . . . risqué.’
‘Daddy, please. Go buy yourself some clothes and I’ll meet you someplace.’
The salesgirl says we can return anything I decide might be inappropriate. Turning to Amanda, she compliments her denim jacket. ‘I haven’t seen The Real Miranda clothes in those sun-washed colors before.’
