The Sky Above Us

by Natalie Lund

“I don’t think she’s ready.” She takes two measured breaths, like she’s trying to stop crying, but her voice quivers anyway. “I’m worried about her.”

  “Do you think—” I’m not sure that the words are coming out right, so I start again. “Do you think that if you figure out what they were doing, it could help her?”

  My eyes are on the road, but I can feel her watching me. “Yes,” she says. “And me.”

  “And me too,” I say.

  She nods. “Yeah, you too.” She says it so gently it feels like my mom saying my name.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  IZZY

  Five days after

  I DON’T WANT to go inside. I’d rather walk back to the marina and watch the ocean with the binoculars until it’s too dark to see. Then slip into the water, test its so-called magic, and swim to the boys. But, even from the driveway, I can hear Luna whimpering. She darts down the stairs to our lawn as soon as I open the door, pissing on the grass like a drunk boy.

  Israel found Luna’s mother near one of our dad’s work sites when we were twelve. She’d made herself a cave under an abandoned tarp and was nursing four pups. Luna was pudgy and white while the other three puppies were lean and mottled gray like pigeons. He took them home, and eventually sold off all but her.

  We didn’t realize Luna was deaf until the Centenos almost ran her over backing out of their driveway. She’d found a chicken bone and was happily crunching it to bits when they braked hard and leaned on the horn. So Israel taught her tricks with hand signals. If he made a gun shape with his hand, she’d fall onto her side. If he brought four fingers to his thumb like a bird beak, she’d bark. Come, he’d say by curling his fingers toward his upward-facing palm.

  I’m following her around the yard now, flapping my fingers closed to beckon her inside. She’s ignoring me purposefully, planting her butt between the two of us so that I have to make eye contact with the star of her anus.

  “Damn it, Luna,” I say, trying again to shuffle in front of her face, but she bounces around again, showing me her wagging tail. She probably wants to play. If Israel, the giver of treats, isn’t around to throw her slimy tennis balls and tug on her rag toy, I’m next best.

  I touch my mouth, the signal for food, and she conveniently sees me. She practically gallops back up the stairs to the house.

  “I guess you’re my responsibility now.”

  Inside, she points her nose at her empty bowl. If Israel were planning to leave for good, wouldn’t he have left his beloved dog with someone who gives a damn?

  I dump a cup of kibble into her bowl, and she gobbles it up like it might vanish if she doesn’t hurry.

  “Bela?” my mom calls. “Bela?”

  I groan. “So I was chopped liver before, but now y’all need me?” I say to Luna, who doesn’t look up from her bowl.

  My mom is back in her bedroom cave. She’s closed all the vents so the room feels like a sauna. The blinds are shut, casting everything in fuzzy daytime shadows: the dresser, a rocking chair piled with funeral clothes, and the bed, where my mom’s head is barely visible above the comforter. Even from the doorway, I can see her hair is unwashed and matted with sweat.

  “Mami, it smells like a gym locker room in here. We need to air it out.”

  “No, tengo frío,” she says.

  I don’t know how she could be cold in such a stuffy room. I perch on the edge of the bed.

  “Bela, Bela.” She grabs my hand and grips it to her chest. “I need to ask you something.”

  I expect her to ask me why Israel did it. Dolphin or not, we’d both agree he ran out of our lives.

  “¿Fuimos buenos padres?”

  It’s heartbreaking the way her voice tremors. Were they good parents? Sure, I resented how they favored Israel because he did better in school, but I never doubted their love for me. We didn’t have a lot of toys growing up, so my mom invented games—who could build the tallest towers with cans, who could cook the best meal with mystery ingredients like sardines and olives, who could memorize all the words to a song and perform it. She would leave work to bring me malta and saltines if I was sick. My dad would make our favorite empanadas stuffed with shark meat. He bought me my first video camera, so I could play director and boss Israel around.

  “Yeah, you still are good parents,” I say.

  She shakes her head at this—not as though she’s disagreeing about her parenting, but like she isn’t a parent anymore. The headshake stings.

  “If we were such good parents, why didn’t he leave a note?” she wails.

  “Well, he didn’t know he wasn’t coming back,” I say, though I’m not sure that’s true.

  She looks at me dully like she doesn’t remember why I’m here. Did Israel know he’d take our parents with him too—burying our dad even deeper in work and our mom in this gym-smelling cocoon? Did he know and do it anyway?

  “You should eat something,” I say, because food is the one way our family takes care of each other.

  “No tengo hambre,” she says peevishly.

  “I’ll make you a plate,” I say, even though she’s clearly not hungry.

  In the kitchen, I throw out a few containers of untouched funeral food our neighbors brought. I manage to assemble a plate for her from the leftovers that are still good, and heat them in the microwave. I shoo Luna off the nest she’s made on the living room couch. A few dog hair tumbleweeds stir and settle as I walk by, so I turn on the robot vacuum, which Luna hates. She clings to my heels as I climb the stairs with my mom’s plate.

  Mom’s back is turned to the door now, and she’s pretending to be asleep. Luna nudges her with her nose.

  “Mami, you know I still need you, right?” When she doesn’t move, I try one last time in Spanish: “Todavía te necesito.”

  She still doesn’t roll over. So I leave the plate where Luna will undoubtedly get to it. I don’t hang the funeral clothes or open the vents or crack a window.

  If they aren’t going to parent me, I won’t daughter them.

  * * *

  • • •

  I retrieve Israel’s iPad and the shoebox from my closet, where I’ve been hiding them in case the police return to search his room again.

  I climb onto the roof. Seated and finally alone, I let the exhaustion from the day seep into me: the final funeral, the boat trip, my mother’s dismissiveness.

  Cass and Janie may have been impressed by the dolphin show, but they still have doubts. I could take them out every day to see the boys, and they wouldn’t be any closer to actually believing. There’s no way to prove it, and even if I can—what does proving it do? I can’t change what the boys did. My only hope is to figure out how to talk to them like the old man talks to the whale in Janie’s script.

  I lift the binoculars toward the ocean, but it’s gotten too dark to see much. The ocean is almost the same navy as the sky. The beach looks empty. No dolphins.

  What my mom said haunts me: Why didn’t he leave a note?

  I’ve already spent hours on the tablet, reading every single text and message stored there, taking screenshots of his browser history so I don’t mess anything up, and opening all the apps. His electronic life was huge and boring. The only relevant thing I’ve found is the email thread with Peter.

  “What should I do next?” I ask the ocean. “What would you do next?” Despite his insistence to the contrary and my parents’ opinions, Israel and I had plenty in common.

  Easy. I’d find my wife and son.

  I check the photos I took of Israel’s history. He’d searched their names a month before the crash. I navigate to the pages he clicked and stare at the photos he must have found: a stern silver-haired woman, a pale man with a rat face. I pin the woman’s address on a map. Did he actually go there? The Israel I knew was so cautious, but this Israel who learned to fly a plane? I don�
�t know.

  I open a window to compose an email from his account.

  Hi, Peter, this is Israel’s twin, Izzy. I’m not sure if you heard, but my brother was in a plane crash. Can we talk?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CASS

  Six days after

  THE DIRECTIONS ON my phone lead us to the mainland. First there’s a stretch of outlet malls and big-box chains, followed by treeless subdivisions, and finally miles of cattle ranches, their longhorns watching the highway with what looks like boredom.

  We miss the drive and make a turn at a ranch a couple miles down the road. We slow when we get back to the dot on the GPS map. It’s a dirt drive, marked with a small blue sign: Gerard Township Airport. When we turn, it feels like we are entering some postapocalyptic future. Nothing but dust, dirt, and a few sun-strangled plants for miles. There are three small hangars—all a faded silver—as easily from this imagined future as from some distant past. The middle hangar’s door is wide-open and two trucks are parked nearby. An old man in coveralls sits in a lawn chair outside, his legs kicked out, eyes closed, and a newspaper unfolded on his chest. He doesn’t stir as we climb out of Janie’s car.

  Another man emerges from the hangar. He has a gray goatee and a single slim gold bar earring. He’s dressed in a short-sleeve plaid shirt, ratty jeans, a red baseball cap with a torn brim, and brand-new-looking cowboy boots with teal stars cut into the gold leather. They’re dressy, like the kind of boots you’d expect to see on a teenage girl at a country concert.

  “Here for lessons?” The man’s voice surprises me with its thinness.

  “Are you Bradley Simpson?” I ask.

  The brim of the man’s hat is so curved you can’t see his eyes. “Brad. Who’s asking?”

  “We’re friends of the boys who—”

  The man lifts his hand to cut me off. “I spoke to the police three times already.”

  “The police?” I echo, hoping he’ll tell me more if I play innocent.

  “I said all there is to say. They broke in and stole my plane.”

  Janie’s attention appears to have wandered, and she’s edging closer to the hangar, trying to see inside. Izzy would badger her way in, but what can I do? Channel my mother. Be empathic.

  “I’m sure this has been hard on you,” I say.

  He starts to rock back and forth in his boots. I wish I could see his eyes, but the question seems to have worked. “Hard on me?” he repeats.

  It’s an in, and I take a stab at it. “Well, you knew them too,” I say.

  His cheeks pucker like he’s biting the insides of his cheeks at this. “As students taking lessons. Perfectly legal business. Nothing more.” He catches a glimpse of Janie. “Where you going?” he asks, his voice a high whine.

  “I like planes,” Janie says as she slips inside the hangar.

  He mutters a curse and follows. I do too.

  It’s hot and dark inside, and there are two white planes lined up like pelicans drying their wings. The plane on the left is much smaller, like it might only hold one person. The other is larger—but not by much. Both planes have maroon racing stripes and combinations of letters and numbers painted on their sides. Janie wanders up to one and pats it on the side like it’s a pet. I’m drawn to the empty spot, space for a third plane. This is where Shane stood before dawn that Sunday morning. What was he thinking as he climbed inside?

  “How did they get it out?” I ask. “Wouldn’t they have needed a key?”

  “I don’t have to answer your questions. Unless you’re here for lessons, you need to leave.”

  I’m about to give up, to turn and leave, but Janie pulls open one of the plane doors, and he spins toward her. She climbs into the cockpit. “Yes,” she says. “We’re here for lessons.”

  The man traces his goatee over and over, his forefinger on one side of his face and his thumb on the other. He seems off-balance, unsure. “You’re over sixteen?”

  “We are,” she says.

  “It’ll cost you.” He says this firmly, and I can’t help eyeing his boots again.

  “How much?” Janie asks.

  “Usually between seven and ten grand per person if you do it all the way to licensing.”

  How on earth could the boys afford that? How could we?

  But Janie simply nods. “How do we sign up?”

  * * *

  • • •

  As soon as we’re back in her car, I don’t waste another minute. “What exactly is the plan here?”

  She belts herself in and shrugs. “If we spend time with him in these lessons, we might be able to get our questions answered.”

  “Yeah, but how are we going to pay for it?”

  “I’ve saved a bunch for college.”

  “There’s no way we can use your college money.” My own college fund is dismally empty; being a volleyball camp counselor for a few weeks out of the summer doesn’t pay much. I’ll need all the scholarships and loans I can get.

  Janie shrugs. “It’s not like my dad won’t help me out if I need more. Plus, I figure we’ll only have to do a few lessons—not the whole process. I should have enough for you, at least.”

  “Me?” I ask.

  “Well, I’m terrified of heights, so I’ll only do the ground parts.”

  She’s looking over her shoulder to back out of the parking space. I’m not sure if she registers my shock. “Janie, I can’t fly a plane.”

  “Well, not yet.”

  “No, but, like, I can’t.” I emphasize the word can’t because it’s not about heights or knowing how. It’s about that moment on the beach that I won’t allow myself to replay. It’s about Shane.

  Janie glances at me and then back out the windshield. “I understand.”

  Izzy wouldn’t hesitate. She’d learn to fly for Israel. For me. I bet I could call her now, admit how Janie and I have spent our afternoon, and she’d jump at the chance. But there’s part of me that wants to keep the information for myself, decide how and when to tell her what I learn. Because I want to protect her? Because I want to be the one to hurt her? Because I want to be the one who decides.

  We drive in silence through downtown, where streams of tourists with ice cream cones and shopping bags clog the sidewalks.

  Janie turns onto my street. “Here we go,” she says as though she’s a cabdriver delivering me to my destination. And, I’ll admit, that is how I’ve treated her.

  “Okay. I’ll do it,” I tell her.

  “Great.” She nods, like she expected me to agree all along.

  SECURE MESSAGE THREAD

  IsC: Hi, my name’s Israel. Thanks for letting me message you.

  OtherPlanes: I’m Glen. Apologies for insisting on the encrypted app. RS isn’t a very secure forum. That’s why I never reveal anything about my current identity there. Who knows how the government might try to use people like us.

  So how can I help you?

  IsC: I guess I want to know how you deal with the memories.

  OtherPlanes: Well, in my last life, I didn’t care about them. Didn’t care about anything except me. This time around I’m using them to live better, to contribute. That’s why I’m on RS so much.

  IsC: They don’t haunt you?

  OtherPlanes: I don’t know about “haunt.” Sure, they can be scary. My last end was pretty violent. But I wouldn’t trade them for anything. They make us special.

  IsC: I don’t want to be special. I just want to sleep.

  OtherPlanes: I don’t need much sleep myself. I’m a transcriptionist and can work odd hours.

  IsC: So there’s no way out? I just have to remember for the rest of my life and try to do better than last time?

  OtherPlanes: There’s a way out, but it’s no guarantee that you won’t have the same problem in the next life.

&
nbsp; IsC: What is it?

  OtherPlanes: The doorway. A portal between lives. Between chances.

  IsC: I read your posts in RS about that. It seems pretty terrifying.

  OtherPlanes: More terrifying than dying every night?

  IsC: Ha. Good point. Ok, so how do I find it? What do I do?

  OtherPlanes: You need to learn how to fly.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  NATE

  Thirteen days before

  IN THE OPERATING room, a middle-aged nurse with a sharp chin and a military-like flattop asked Nate to count down. After five, he opened his eyes.

  “Four-three-two-one,” he said.

  The nurse cocked his head.

  “Aren’t I supposed to be counting down?” Nate asked, but the words came out slurred.

  “It’s over,” the nurse said. “You’re done. We’re going to move you into recovery, where your family is waiting.”

  Nate took stock of his body. His tongue felt heavy and his brain filled with cotton. He couldn’t feel his knee at all or it finally felt normal, like it had before the injury when he didn’t notice his own body.

  “Did they take my knee off?” he asked the nurse.

  The nurse laughed and shook his head. “They only replaced your ligament.”

  “With a dead person’s.”

  “Correct. A tendon from a cadaver,” the nurse said.

  “Does that make me part zombie?”

  “No,” the nurse said.

  “What do they do with the old one?”

  “The ligament? It gets disposed of with other medical waste.”

  “Too bad,” Nate said. Janie would make a weird joke about keeping it, wearing it on the outside of his body like a piece of jewelry.

  “Once the anesthesia wears off, we’ll get you up and walking. Dr. Dennis wants you using the knee as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll be like the walking dead.” The more he spoke, the more limber his tongue felt. He wished he could shake the cotton out of his brain as easily. He felt like he was missing something—what was it?