Read Online Fly Away by Kristin Hannah - Free Book Online
Authors: Kristin Hannah
Tags: Fiction, Contemporary Women
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something to rest against. The river’s
gurgling song swirls around us.
Hey, Tul, she says.
At the sound of her voice, happiness unfolds within me, a beautiful white bird opening
its wings. Light is everywhere, bathing us. In it, I feel that beautiful peace again,
and it soothes me. I have been in pain for so long, and lonely for even longer.
I turn to Kate, drink in the sight of her. She is translucent almost, shimmery. When
she moves, even just a little, I can see a hint of the grass beneath her. When she
looks at me, I see both sadness and joy in her eyes and I wonder how those two emotions
can exist in such perfect balance within her. She sighs and I get a scent of lavender.
The river bubbles and slaps around us, sends up its rich, fecund scent of both new
growth and decay. It turns into music, our music; the wave tops form notes and rise
up and I can hear that old Terry Jacks song, We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun . How many nights had we hauled my little transistor radio down here and set it up
and listened to our music while we talked? “Dancing Queen” … “You Make Me Feel Like
Dancing” … “Hotel California” … “Da Do Run Run.”
What happened? Kate asks quietly.
I know what she is asking. Why am I here—and in the hospital.
Talk to me, Tul.
God, how I have missed hearing her say that to me. I want to talk to my best friend, tell her how I screwed up. She always made everything
okay. But the words don’t come to me. I can’t find them in my head; they dance away
like fairies when I reach for them.
You don’t need words. Just close your eyes and remember.
I remember when it started to go wrong. The one day that was worse than all the rest,
the one day that changed everything.
October of 2006. The funeral. I close my eyes and remember being in the middle of
the St. Cecilia’s parking lot all …
alone. There are cars all around me, parked neatly in their spots. A lot of SUVs,
I notice.
Kate has given me an iPod as her goodbye gift and a letter. I am supposed to listen
to “Dancing Queen” and dance all by myself. I don’t want to do it, but what choice
do I have, and really, when I hear the words you can dance, for a brief, wondrous moment, the music takes me away from here.
And then it is over.
I see her family coming toward me. Johnny; Kate’s parents, Margie and Bud; her kids;
her brother, Sean. They look like prisoners of war freed at the end of a long death
march—broken-spirited and surprised to be alive. We gather together and someone says
something—what, I don’t know. I answer. We pretend to be okay for each other. Johnny
is angry—how could it be any other way?
“People are coming to the house,” he says.
“It’s what she wanted,” Margie says. (How can she be standing? Her grief outweighs
her by a hundred pounds.)
The thought of it—a so-called celebration of Kate’s life—makes me feel sick.
I was not good at the whole making-death-a-positive-transition thing. How could I?
I wanted her to fight to the last breath. It was a mistake. I should have listened
to her fear, comforted her. Instead I’d promised her that everything would be okay,
that she would heal.
But I’d made another promise, too. At the end. I’d sworn to take care of her family,
to be there for her children, and I would not let her down again.
I follow Margie and Bud to their Volvo. Inside, the car smells like my childhood at
the Mularkeys’—menthol cigarettes, Jean Nate perfume, and hair spray.
I imagine Katie beside me again, in the backseat of the car, with her dad driving,
and her mom blowing smoke out the open window. I can almost hear John Denver singing
about his Rocky Mountain high.
The four miles that stretch between the Catholic church and the Ryan house seem to
take forever. Everywhere I look, I see Kate’s life. The drive-through coffee stand
she frequented, the ice-cream shop that
gurgling song swirls around us.
Hey, Tul, she says.
At the sound of her voice, happiness unfolds within me, a beautiful white bird opening
its wings. Light is everywhere, bathing us. In it, I feel that beautiful peace again,
and it soothes me. I have been in pain for so long, and lonely for even longer.
I turn to Kate, drink in the sight of her. She is translucent almost, shimmery. When
she moves, even just a little, I can see a hint of the grass beneath her. When she
looks at me, I see both sadness and joy in her eyes and I wonder how those two emotions
can exist in such perfect balance within her. She sighs and I get a scent of lavender.
The river bubbles and slaps around us, sends up its rich, fecund scent of both new
growth and decay. It turns into music, our music; the wave tops form notes and rise
up and I can hear that old Terry Jacks song, We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun . How many nights had we hauled my little transistor radio down here and set it up
and listened to our music while we talked? “Dancing Queen” … “You Make Me Feel Like
Dancing” … “Hotel California” … “Da Do Run Run.”
What happened? Kate asks quietly.
I know what she is asking. Why am I here—and in the hospital.
Talk to me, Tul.
God, how I have missed hearing her say that to me. I want to talk to my best friend, tell her how I screwed up. She always made everything
okay. But the words don’t come to me. I can’t find them in my head; they dance away
like fairies when I reach for them.
You don’t need words. Just close your eyes and remember.
I remember when it started to go wrong. The one day that was worse than all the rest,
the one day that changed everything.
October of 2006. The funeral. I close my eyes and remember being in the middle of
the St. Cecilia’s parking lot all …
alone. There are cars all around me, parked neatly in their spots. A lot of SUVs,
I notice.
Kate has given me an iPod as her goodbye gift and a letter. I am supposed to listen
to “Dancing Queen” and dance all by myself. I don’t want to do it, but what choice
do I have, and really, when I hear the words you can dance, for a brief, wondrous moment, the music takes me away from here.
And then it is over.
I see her family coming toward me. Johnny; Kate’s parents, Margie and Bud; her kids;
her brother, Sean. They look like prisoners of war freed at the end of a long death
march—broken-spirited and surprised to be alive. We gather together and someone says
something—what, I don’t know. I answer. We pretend to be okay for each other. Johnny
is angry—how could it be any other way?
“People are coming to the house,” he says.
“It’s what she wanted,” Margie says. (How can she be standing? Her grief outweighs
her by a hundred pounds.)
The thought of it—a so-called celebration of Kate’s life—makes me feel sick.
I was not good at the whole making-death-a-positive-transition thing. How could I?
I wanted her to fight to the last breath. It was a mistake. I should have listened
to her fear, comforted her. Instead I’d promised her that everything would be okay,
that she would heal.
But I’d made another promise, too. At the end. I’d sworn to take care of her family,
to be there for her children, and I would not let her down again.
I follow Margie and Bud to their Volvo. Inside, the car smells like my childhood at
the Mularkeys’—menthol cigarettes, Jean Nate perfume, and hair spray.
I imagine Katie beside me again, in the backseat of the car, with her dad driving,
and her mom blowing smoke out the open window. I can almost hear John Denver singing
about his Rocky Mountain high.
The four miles that stretch between the Catholic church and the Ryan house seem to
take forever. Everywhere I look, I see Kate’s life. The drive-through coffee stand
she frequented, the ice-cream shop that
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