Read Online Fly Away by Kristin Hannah - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kristin Hannah
Tags: Fiction, Contemporary Women
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made her favorite dulce de leche, the bookstore that was always her first stop at Christmastime.
And then we are there.
The yard has a wild, untended look to it. Overgrown. Katie had always been “going
to” learn to garden.
We park and I get out. Kate’s brother, Sean, comes up beside me. He is five years
younger than Kate and me … or than me, I guess … but he is so slight and nerdy and hunched that he looks older. His hair
is thinning and his glasses are out of date, but behind the lenses his green eyes
are so like Katie’s that I hug him.
Afterward, I step back, waiting for him to speak. He doesn’t, and neither do I. We
have never had much to say to each other and today is obviously not a day to begin
a conversation. Tomorrow he will return to his tech job in the Silicon Valley, where
I imagine him living alone, playing video games at night, and eating sandwiches for
every meal. I don’t know if this is even close to his life, but it’s how I see it.
He steps away and I am left alone at the car, staring up at a house that has always
felt like my home, too.
I can’t go in.
I can’t.
But I have to.
I draw in a deep breath. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s go on. I have
perfected the art of denial, haven’t I? I have always been able to ignore my pain,
smile, and go on. That’s what I have to do now.
For Kate.
I go inside and join Margie in the kitchen. Together, we go about the business of
setting up for a party. I move fast, becoming one of those bustling women who flit
like a hummingbird. It is the only way I can keep going. Don’t think about her. Don’t remember. Margie and I become a work crew, wordlessly readying this house for a party neither
of us wants to attend. I set up easels throughout the house and place photographs
on them, the pictures Kate had chosen to reflect her life. I can’t look at any of
them.
I am hanging on to my composure one indrawn breath at a time when I hear the doorbell
ring. Behind me, footsteps thud on hardwood.
It is time.
I turn and do my best to smile, but it is uneven and impossible to maintain. I move
through the crowd carefully, pouring wine and taking plates away. Every minute seems
like a triumph of will. As I move, I hear snippets of conversation. People are talking
about Kate, sharing memories. I don’t listen—it hurts too much and I am close to losing
it now—but the stories are everywhere. As I hear her bid at the Rotary auction, I realize that the people in this room are talking about a Kate I didn’t know, and
at that, sadness darts deep. And more. Jealousy.
A woman in an ill-fitting and outdated black dress comes up to me and says, “She talked
about you a lot.”
I smile at that, grateful. “We were best friends for more than thirty years.”
“She was so brave during her chemo, wasn’t she?”
I can’t answer that. I wasn’t there for her, not then. In the three decades of our
friendship, there was a two-year blip when a fight escalated. I had known how depressed
Kate was and I’d tried to help, but as is usual for me, I went about it all wrong.
In the end, I hurt Kate deeply and I didn’t apologize.
In my absence, my best friend battled cancer and had a double mastectomy. I was not
there for her when her hair fell out or when her test results turned bad or when she
decided to stop treatment. I will regret it for as long as I breathe.
“That second round was brutal,” says another woman, who looks like she has just come
from yoga, in black leggings, ballet flats, and an oversized black cardigan.
“I was there when she shaved her head,” another woman says. “She was laughing, calling herself GI Kate. I never saw her cry.”
I swallow hard.
“She brought lemon bars to Marah’s play, remember?” someone else says. “Only Katie
would bring treats when she was…”
“Dying,” someone else says quietly, and finally the women stop
And then we are there.
The yard has a wild, untended look to it. Overgrown. Katie had always been “going
to” learn to garden.
We park and I get out. Kate’s brother, Sean, comes up beside me. He is five years
younger than Kate and me … or than me, I guess … but he is so slight and nerdy and hunched that he looks older. His hair
is thinning and his glasses are out of date, but behind the lenses his green eyes
are so like Katie’s that I hug him.
Afterward, I step back, waiting for him to speak. He doesn’t, and neither do I. We
have never had much to say to each other and today is obviously not a day to begin
a conversation. Tomorrow he will return to his tech job in the Silicon Valley, where
I imagine him living alone, playing video games at night, and eating sandwiches for
every meal. I don’t know if this is even close to his life, but it’s how I see it.
He steps away and I am left alone at the car, staring up at a house that has always
felt like my home, too.
I can’t go in.
I can’t.
But I have to.
I draw in a deep breath. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s go on. I have
perfected the art of denial, haven’t I? I have always been able to ignore my pain,
smile, and go on. That’s what I have to do now.
For Kate.
I go inside and join Margie in the kitchen. Together, we go about the business of
setting up for a party. I move fast, becoming one of those bustling women who flit
like a hummingbird. It is the only way I can keep going. Don’t think about her. Don’t remember. Margie and I become a work crew, wordlessly readying this house for a party neither
of us wants to attend. I set up easels throughout the house and place photographs
on them, the pictures Kate had chosen to reflect her life. I can’t look at any of
them.
I am hanging on to my composure one indrawn breath at a time when I hear the doorbell
ring. Behind me, footsteps thud on hardwood.
It is time.
I turn and do my best to smile, but it is uneven and impossible to maintain. I move
through the crowd carefully, pouring wine and taking plates away. Every minute seems
like a triumph of will. As I move, I hear snippets of conversation. People are talking
about Kate, sharing memories. I don’t listen—it hurts too much and I am close to losing
it now—but the stories are everywhere. As I hear her bid at the Rotary auction, I realize that the people in this room are talking about a Kate I didn’t know, and
at that, sadness darts deep. And more. Jealousy.
A woman in an ill-fitting and outdated black dress comes up to me and says, “She talked
about you a lot.”
I smile at that, grateful. “We were best friends for more than thirty years.”
“She was so brave during her chemo, wasn’t she?”
I can’t answer that. I wasn’t there for her, not then. In the three decades of our
friendship, there was a two-year blip when a fight escalated. I had known how depressed
Kate was and I’d tried to help, but as is usual for me, I went about it all wrong.
In the end, I hurt Kate deeply and I didn’t apologize.
In my absence, my best friend battled cancer and had a double mastectomy. I was not
there for her when her hair fell out or when her test results turned bad or when she
decided to stop treatment. I will regret it for as long as I breathe.
“That second round was brutal,” says another woman, who looks like she has just come
from yoga, in black leggings, ballet flats, and an oversized black cardigan.
“I was there when she shaved her head,” another woman says. “She was laughing, calling herself GI Kate. I never saw her cry.”
I swallow hard.
“She brought lemon bars to Marah’s play, remember?” someone else says. “Only Katie
would bring treats when she was…”
“Dying,” someone else says quietly, and finally the women stop
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