Goodbye, Miss February Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual places or events is entirely coincidental.

  © 2019 Sally O’Brien All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  ISBN 978-1-54398-914-4 eBook 978-1-54398-915-1

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  One

  “What was that? Oh my god, we’re going to crash! I’ll never see Thelma again!” I grabbed the arm of the young girl sitting next to me. “Tell Andy I tried to get there.” The plane shuddered again. I screamed, clinging desperately to my new friend, “Miss! Miss!” I waved my free arm at the flight attendant.

  “Just a little turbulence,” my seatmate said. “Nothing to worry about.” She began prying my fingers off her arm. I’d have to look up turbulence but had a good idea it meant shaking plane.

  “Are you sure?” I stretched across her to see out the window. If fluffy white clouds caused turbulence, we were in big trouble.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Trying to look out the window. Can you see if the wing’s still there?”

  “It is. A little turbulence is perfectly normal.”

  “Maybe we should tell someone. Miss! Miss!”

  “Try pushing the call button.”

  I jabbed the indicated switch repeatedly, and eventually, at least several minutes later, the flight attendant appeared, the willowy one who’d found a spot for my bag when I was boarding. I’d been told to store my carry-on in the overhead compartment but the one assigned to my seat was already full, and where was I supposed to put my things if people stole my space?

  With a stiff smile the woman said she remembered me, turbulence was nothing to worry about, and, yes, she was sure.

  “Okay, but I’d better tell the pilot.” I was reaching for my seat belt when I realized I was being silly. “No, wait, I can’t do that. Passengers aren’t allowed to chat with the pilot, are they?” I was glad I didn’t have to unclasp my seatbelt after the trouble I’d had fastening it in the first place. I hadn’t been able to find it until the girl beside me, who weighed less than I had when I was born, said I was sitting on it. Once I used gymnastic moves I hadn’t attempted in years to retrieve it, she helped me buckle it.

  “No, no, I’ll tell him. You just relax and enjoy the flight.” With a pat on my shoulder the attendant left to share my concerns with the pilot. The girl Velcroed to my side pried my last finger loose and, shaking her arm to restore circulation, returned to reading.

  She seemed distressed. If the plane crash prevented me from taking care of Andy, I could at least help this frightened young woman by entertaining her with a few stories.

  “People at the airport can be so helpful,” I said. “Like today, a nice lady in the waiting area spotted my pantyhose and without warning said, ‘If the plane catches on fire, the nylon will melt and your legs will be burned to a crisp. Right down to the bone.’ She appeared to expect me to strip the offending stockings off on the spot.”

  I waited for my seatmate to say something but she didn’t seem interested in my legs. I tried a different story. “Other people aren’t helpful, just interesting. I saw a young mother with suitcases and a baby hanging from her shoulder herding two preschoolers ahead of her. The little girl reminded me of the children I read stories to at the library, and I smiled at her. She darted behind her mother and pulled her little brother with her. Andy—that’s my sister—used to take care of me like that. Three years older, she’d guided me across busy streets and saved me from mean boys who threw snowballs.”

  I took a little break to remember Andy at her finest—and make sure the plane’s wings were still attached—before continuing. “Watching that mother choreograph and direct, I admired the things today’s women handle routinely. Crossing the prairie in high-topped shoes while fighting off wolves must have been stressful, but the idea of traveling alone on an airplane with Chris—that’s my daughter—when she was a baby would have been terrifying. My husband wouldn’t have let me do that anyway.”

  The lump in my throat stopped me from saying more. My new friend didn’t notice. Well, I’d done my best to calm her—and me, if I was going to be honest.

  After shredding a tissue into confetti, I leafed through an entire magazine before realizing I was holding it upside down. The other passengers attempted to distract me, especially the screaming child in the next row. I tried to convince myself that hurtling through space was absolutely normal, natural, and delightful.

  Certain that I’d hidden my nervousness well and my seatmate had no idea I was sixty and on my first plane ride, I felt like telling her about Andy so she could reassure me—preferably with a guarantee that Andy would be fine but I’d settle for reports of people who, defying all odds, were now illness free. However, the girl responded to all attempts at conversation with a low-wattage smile before returning to the book she held in front of her face.

  Telling myself to relax, I closed my eyes and thought back to this morning.

  “Miss February is the prettiest.” I’d said that to Thelma when we were looking at the calendar in the kitchen. Then I poured another cup of coffee, not that I needed caffeine to keep me awake after Andy’s call last night. But for Thelma’s sake I couldn’t show my concern. Forcing myself to smile, I flipped the calendar pages, pointing out the good and bad about each.

  Miss February’s cool green eyes followed me across the kitchen, making me want to smooth the fur between her ears and under her chin. Thelma rubbed against my ankle.

  I assured her she was pretty too and reached down to run my hand the length of her. I ended with a quick tug on the tail, and she pulled away. She doesn’t allow liberties with her tail.

  While Thelma focused her attention on a buzzing fly I leafed through the pages, ending with the current month. “But February, look at her. Don’t you think she’s elegant lying on that red velvet pillow?”

  No response from Thelma. She’d seen the luggage by the front door and knew I was trying to distract her.

  She did a little desperation dance, more weight shifting than disco, and I said, “Okay, Mommy’s going to be gone for a few days. Not long. You’ll hardly notice.” She stared without blinking and I told her to quit trying to make me feel guilty. “I’m sorry if your feelings are hurt but you know I have to go. Andy’s never needed
me before. When Mom and Dad died, she TOLD me to come; this time she’s ASKING.

  I paced around the room, pausing to straighten the blue gingham curtains over the sink. JoAnn and I had hung them last week. The cats marching through the ones Chris made in her high school sewing class never quite met in the middle, and JoAnn said I didn’t need more cats in the kitchen, especially ones that couldn’t walk in a straight line.

  Out of habit I reached for a cookie. The jar was empty, of course. I’d finished the Oreos last night and wouldn’t see another one until I was back home. No junk food at Andy’s. One Christmas I bought her a T-shirt with the words Eat Healthy, Exercise, Die Anyway. She’s probably never worn it.

  Thelma looked intently at the cat food cupboard, and I assured her she wouldn’t starve, JoAnn would come every day to give her food and water. “And see . . .” I placed two cans of gourmet cat food on the counter. “You’ll still have your Sunday treat.” Thelma looked away in disgust. I added another can.

  I’d have to talk to JoAnn about Thelma’s food. This wasn’t the time to cut back on calories. An extra can of Fancy Feast couldn’t hurt.

  What would I do without JoAnn? Last night as soon as I promised Andy I’d be there right away, I realized I had no idea how to buy a plane ticket. My fingers automatically punched in JoAnn’s phone number, and, as usual, she was a lifesaver. Without asking why, she’d walked me through the online purchase.

  She’d been a godsend at the airport too. Check-in was confusing, to say the least. What happened to real people behind the counter? I had to do everything myself. Actually, JoAnn did. Thank goodness I had her with me. The instructions claimed the kiosk that had put honest people out of work was easy to use and asked me to insert my credit card. But I’d already paid for my ticket and I certainly didn’t want to be charged twice. JoAnn explained while the line behind us grew. The kiosk asked many questions and eventually was happy enough to kick out my boarding pass.

  The next battle was luggage. When JoAnn picked me up she asked why I’d bought black, said everyone on the plane would have black and I wouldn’t recognize mine at the baggage claim. But she was the one who told me to buy it. It was on sale, and she’d claimed it was a steal. She admitted that was true but never thought I’d take it anywhere.

  I had two bags to check and one was overweight. How could a few blouses weigh so much? I suppose it was the shoes but I couldn’t leave any of them home. What if I wanted to wear the blue suit but didn’t have the blue shoes? JoAnn solved the problem by shuffling things between the two bags. I guess the blue suit and shoes didn’t need to travel together. The man wanted my credit card again so he could charge for my luggage—thirty dollars per bag each way. I hadn’t realized the suitcases needed their own tickets, thought mine would cover all of us. When JoAnn asked if I preferred leaving my clothes behind, I handed over the card. Satisfied at last, the agent plastered tags on everything but my forehead and gave me a receipt for the luggage “in case it gets lost.” Oh dear.

  When we’d gone as far as JoAnn could, she made certain I was holding my boarding pass and driver’s license, waved away my last-minute messages for Thelma, and left. I was on my own. There I sat in the airport, a part of San Jose I’d never seen before, gripping a flimsy piece of paper they called a boarding pass that was supposed to get me on the plane. At least that’s what JoAnn and the tired man who shoved my bags onto the conveyor belt had assured me.

  My eyes snapped open. How long had my mind been wandering? What if the pilot had needed my help?

  Since I didn’t trust the call button, although I kept my finger on it just in case, I continued to shout to the attendant for progress reports. She told me to quit calling her Miss—after five calls in thirty minutes, we should be on a first-name basis.

  Her efforts to sidetrack me were working until I spotted the man across the aisle.

  “Miss! Miss!”

  A different attendant appeared, the one I thought at one time must have been a school principal—“Keep moving. Find a seat. Buckle up.” I’d half expected her to say, “No running in the aisles.”

  “What is it this time, Ms. Emerling? You can’t keep shouting. It’s disturbing the other passengers.”

  “They’ll be more disturbed when the plane goes down. Look at that man.”

  Her eyes flicked to the offending gentleman. “What about him?”

  “He’s using a LAPTOP! Everyone knows that will cause the plane to crash.”

  “Oh.” A smile crossed her face. “It’s okay. Electronic devices—you know, laptops, cellphones, iPads—won’t cause a problem as long as they’re in airplane mode.” She rattled off an explanation involving suspending radio-frequency signals and other stuff I didn’t understand, and ended with, “You type text or email messages which are saved in memory and sent when airplane mode is disabled. Too bad you don’t have something you could write on. It would take your mind off . . . well, things.”

  “I have an iPad. Would that work? My friend gave it to me before I left. It was going to be my birthday present but she thought she’d give it to me now so we could keep in touch. I don’t know how to use it, though.”

  The girl next to me became the most animated I’d seen her and offered to help. She retrieved the iPad from my tote bag and pushed buttons until a keyboard appeared. “There. Just press the keys with the ball of your index finger— like a typewriter. It’s slow but gets the job done. You can type notes to your friends.”

  “Yes, I understood that part. I write something to someone and when we crash it’s sent, right?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “That’s what she said. ‘Messages are saved and sent when the airplane is disabled.’ That’s a nice way of saying ‘when it crashes.’”

  The girl’s mouth opened and closed. “Sure.” She returned to her book with a sigh.

  I started with my sister. She needed to know why I didn’t respond to her first ever request for help.

  Two

  Dear Andy,

  I’m sorry I failed you. I tried to get there, honest. The girl sitting next to me promised to tell you. Isn’t it ironic that you’ve flown hundreds of times to countries all over the world , even dangerous ones, and I die on my first flight, going from California to a little town in Iowa? I’ve always admired how brave you were for doing all those things—taking your paintings to New York and Europe to display at art shows, skiing in the Alps, white water rafting in the Rockies. Always on the go, off doing something exciting.

  The most courageous thing I’ve done is drive to the grocery store.

  The plane is about to crash. I have to admit I’ve never been as afraid as I am right now--except for when you called last night. I knew something was terribly wrong. You ASKED ME TO COME. You’ve never asked me for anything before.

  “Miss February is the prettiest.” I’d said that to Thelma this morning when we were looking at the calendar in the kitchen. Naturally I assured her she was pretty too. She was already upset because I was leaving.

  I paced around the room and looked at the clock. Three clocks, actually: one on the stove, one on the microwave, and the Krazy Kat one with the pendulum tail you gave me for Christmas. Five minutes had gone by since I last checked. It felt like fifty so I looked again. Nope. Five. I willed the time to move faster, to when we’d be together and you’d tell me everything was okay. You’ve always chased away my monsters—and cancer’s the scariest ever.

  More pacing. Another clock check. Five more minutes had gone by. Well, maybe three.

  I was wiping three drops of water off the granite countertop when the doorbell rang. I told Thelma JoAnn was here and she should be nice to her, JoAnn didn’t deserve a snippy cat when she did so much for us. Without waiting for Thelma’s nod of agreement, I opened the door.

  JoAnn’s “Ready, Jane?” sounded brisk. She was outfitted in her usual flannel shirt and denim j
eans and looked like a sun-weathered cowgirl—minus the buckskins and horse. Her sharp glance took in my puffy, red-rimmed eyes. I should have known the powder wouldn’t fool her.

  Have you ever heard of an iPad? That’s what JoAnn called the Etch-a-Sketch she gave me. She has one too, said we could use them to keep in touch. She claimed you’d show me how to use it so I hope you know how.

  Not all of JoAnn’s ideas are good but I thanked her anyway.

  I gave Thelma another farewell pat and told her to be good, JoAnn would take care of her. JoAnn and Thelma exchanged looks. They’d never been close.

  Now I’m on the plane, waiting for it to crash. You’ve taken care of me my whole life and now it’s my turn. Rest assured, I’ll be helping the doctors from heaven and, if necessary, guiding the surgeon’s hands.

  Your favorite sister,

  Jane

  P.S. How would you like to adopt a cat? Thelma will love Iowa summers and you can explain the winters later.

  I poked my seatmate. “I’m finished with the first letter. How do I change to another one?”

  She gave it a moment’s thought. “Well, just keep going. The iPad will straighten out who to send them to.”

  “Wow, that’s really smart. Guess that’s what they call fake intelligence.”

  The plane was still level. I had time to write the hardest letter.

  Dear Thelma,

  Mommy will be gone a little longer than expected but don’t you worry, JoAnn will take good care of you.

  “Miss February is the prettiest.” Remember, I said that to you this morning when we were looking at the calendar? Of course I told you how beautiful you are too. We were sitting in the kitchen at the round oak table Marvin bought when we moved from the apartment in Sunnyvale. Hard to believe that was thirty years ago.

  Of course you don’t remember your daddy. He died before you and Louise came to live with me. I ended up changing Louise’s name to Bob, and he died young of feline AIDS. I told people he had pneumonia.

  Now Daddy’s gone and Andy . . . No, not Andy. Except for my daughter you and Andy are all the family I have.