Read Online Fly Away by Kristin Hannah - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kristin Hannah
Tags: Fiction, Contemporary Women
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talking.
I can’t take any more of this. Kate had asked me to keep people smiling. No one livens up a party like you, Tul. Be there for me.
Always, girlfriend .
I break free of the women and go over to the CD player. This old-man jazz music isn’t
helping. “This is for you, Katie Scarlett,” I say, and pop a CD into the slot. When
the music starts, I crank up the volume.
I see Johnny across the room. The love of her life, and, sadly, the only man in my
own. The only man I’ve ever been able to count on. When I look at him, I see how battered
he is, how broken. Maybe if you didn’t know him you wouldn’t see it—the downward shoulders,
the place he’d missed in his morning shave, the lines beneath his eyes that had been
etched there by the string of nights when he hadn’t slept. I know he has no comfort
to offer me, that he has been scrubbed bare by grief.
I’ve known this man for most of my life, first as my boss and then as my best friend’s
husband. For all the big events of both our lives, we’ve been together, and that’s
a comfort to me. Just seeing him eases my loneliness a little. I need that, to feel
less alone on this day when I’ve lost my best friend. Before I can go to him, he turns
away.
The music, our music, pours like elixir into my veins, fills me. Without even thinking,
I sway to the beat. I know I should smile, but my sadness is waking again, uncoiling.
I see the way people are looking at me. Staring. As if I’m inappropriate somehow.
But they are people who didn’t know her. I was her best friend.
The music, our music, brings her back to me in a way no spoken words ever could.
“Katie,” I murmur as if she were beside me.
I see people backing away from me.
I don’t care what they think. I turn and there she is.
Kate.
I come to a stop in front of an easel. On it is a picture of Kate and me. In it, we
are young and smiling, with our arms looped around each other. I can’t remember when
it was taken—the nineties, judging by my completely unflattering “Rachel” haircut
and vest and cargo pants.
Grief pulls the legs out from underneath me and I fall to my knees. The tears I have
been holding back all day burst out of me in great, wracking sobs. The music changes
to Journey’s Don … n’t stop bee-lieving and I cry even harder.
How long am I there? Forever.
Finally, I feel a hand on my shoulder, and a gentle touch. I look up and see Margie
through my tears. The tenderness in her gaze makes me cry again.
“Come on,” she says, helping me to my feet. I cling to her, let her help me into the
kitchen, which is busy with women doing dishes, and then into the laundry room, where
it is quiet. We hold on to each other but say nothing. What is there to say? The woman
we love is gone.
Gone .
And suddenly I am beyond tired. I am exhausted. I feel myself drooping like a fading
tulip. Mascara stings my eyes; my vision is still watery with tears. I touch Margie’s
shoulder, noticing how thin and fragile she has become.
I follow her out of the shadowy laundry room and make my way back into the living
room, but I know instantly that I can’t be here anymore. To my shame, I can’t do what
Kate asked of me. I can’t pretend to celebrate her life. Me, who has spent a lifetime
pretending to be fine-good-great, can’t do that now. It is too soon.
* * *
The next thing I know, it’s morning. Before I even open my eyes it hits me. She’s gone .
I groan out loud. Is this my new life, this constant rediscovery of loss?
As I get out of bed, I feel a headache start. It gathers behind my eyes, pulses. I
have cried in my sleep again. It is an old childhood habit that grief has reanimated.
It reminds me that I am fragile.
It is a state of being that offends me, but I can’t seem to find the strength to combat
it.
My bedroom feels foreign to me, too. I have hardly been here in the last five months.
In June,
I can’t take any more of this. Kate had asked me to keep people smiling. No one livens up a party like you, Tul. Be there for me.
Always, girlfriend .
I break free of the women and go over to the CD player. This old-man jazz music isn’t
helping. “This is for you, Katie Scarlett,” I say, and pop a CD into the slot. When
the music starts, I crank up the volume.
I see Johnny across the room. The love of her life, and, sadly, the only man in my
own. The only man I’ve ever been able to count on. When I look at him, I see how battered
he is, how broken. Maybe if you didn’t know him you wouldn’t see it—the downward shoulders,
the place he’d missed in his morning shave, the lines beneath his eyes that had been
etched there by the string of nights when he hadn’t slept. I know he has no comfort
to offer me, that he has been scrubbed bare by grief.
I’ve known this man for most of my life, first as my boss and then as my best friend’s
husband. For all the big events of both our lives, we’ve been together, and that’s
a comfort to me. Just seeing him eases my loneliness a little. I need that, to feel
less alone on this day when I’ve lost my best friend. Before I can go to him, he turns
away.
The music, our music, pours like elixir into my veins, fills me. Without even thinking,
I sway to the beat. I know I should smile, but my sadness is waking again, uncoiling.
I see the way people are looking at me. Staring. As if I’m inappropriate somehow.
But they are people who didn’t know her. I was her best friend.
The music, our music, brings her back to me in a way no spoken words ever could.
“Katie,” I murmur as if she were beside me.
I see people backing away from me.
I don’t care what they think. I turn and there she is.
Kate.
I come to a stop in front of an easel. On it is a picture of Kate and me. In it, we
are young and smiling, with our arms looped around each other. I can’t remember when
it was taken—the nineties, judging by my completely unflattering “Rachel” haircut
and vest and cargo pants.
Grief pulls the legs out from underneath me and I fall to my knees. The tears I have
been holding back all day burst out of me in great, wracking sobs. The music changes
to Journey’s Don … n’t stop bee-lieving and I cry even harder.
How long am I there? Forever.
Finally, I feel a hand on my shoulder, and a gentle touch. I look up and see Margie
through my tears. The tenderness in her gaze makes me cry again.
“Come on,” she says, helping me to my feet. I cling to her, let her help me into the
kitchen, which is busy with women doing dishes, and then into the laundry room, where
it is quiet. We hold on to each other but say nothing. What is there to say? The woman
we love is gone.
Gone .
And suddenly I am beyond tired. I am exhausted. I feel myself drooping like a fading
tulip. Mascara stings my eyes; my vision is still watery with tears. I touch Margie’s
shoulder, noticing how thin and fragile she has become.
I follow her out of the shadowy laundry room and make my way back into the living
room, but I know instantly that I can’t be here anymore. To my shame, I can’t do what
Kate asked of me. I can’t pretend to celebrate her life. Me, who has spent a lifetime
pretending to be fine-good-great, can’t do that now. It is too soon.
* * *
The next thing I know, it’s morning. Before I even open my eyes it hits me. She’s gone .
I groan out loud. Is this my new life, this constant rediscovery of loss?
As I get out of bed, I feel a headache start. It gathers behind my eyes, pulses. I
have cried in my sleep again. It is an old childhood habit that grief has reanimated.
It reminds me that I am fragile.
It is a state of being that offends me, but I can’t seem to find the strength to combat
it.
My bedroom feels foreign to me, too. I have hardly been here in the last five months.
In June,
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