Aprilynne Pike - Earthbound

I remember the plane going down.

Not the crash exactly, but the moments beforeand while it must have been only moments, when I look back, it takes much longer.

I was sitting with my forehead pressed against the tiny window, looking through the cloudless air at farms and settlements passing below me, when the engine exploded, rocking the plane into a crazy tilt that tossed me back and forth in my seat. The actual blast was surprisingly quietmuffled by the insulated fuselage, I imaginebut the billowing clouds of coal-black smoke pouring off the wing were impossible to miss.

Every nerve in my body clanged, but my eyes stayed riveted to the roiling smoke that streamed back from the engine just feet from my window. My aching fingers clung to the armrests to hold myself steady as the plane dipped forward, then plunged, the momentum forcing me against my seat.

The pop and hiss of hundreds of oxygen masks, springing from the ceiling like venomous snakes, startled my attention away from the smoking wing. Reflexes honed by dozens of droning safety speeches sent hands darting out to grab the oxygen masks, the adults securing their own masks before assisting others.

But I didnt bother with mine.

Not even when my mother pushed it at me, her eyes dancing with terror as she gripped my fathers arm so tightly I knew her fingernails must be drawing blood.

It was the flight attendant who made me understand. Two of them were standing in the aisle, trying to get everyones attention, demonstrating the crash positionlike that was going to help. But I focused on the third one. He wasnt attempting to buckle up or help the passengers; he just stood, his body strangely still amid the chaos, looking out the window, two tears rolling down his cheeks.

Thats when I knew we were all about to die.

And in that moment, my fear melted away and I felt completely at peace. No life flashing before my eyes or sudden aching regrets. Just an overwhelming peace.

I relaxed, stopped struggling, and watched out the window as the ground rushed up to swallow me.

I stare at the photos in horror. It has to be true; theres no other explanation.

The timing couldnt be better.

Or worse.

Shes gone? I ask in my iciest voice. Im not mad at him; Im mad at myself for not seeing it sooner. I should have. Everything balances on a knifes edge and this could destroy it all.

Or save it.

Were doing everything we can. Hes nattering on about their efforts, but I dont have the patience to listen. I walk over to the window, arms crossed over my chest, staring down at the lush garden below, seeing nothing.

Not nothing. Seeing her face. That face Ive known since almost before I can remember my own. That face I thought I was finally free of.

Except now I can never be free. I need her. We need her. Its difficult not to choke on the bitter irony that after everything shes done, I need her. Without her, everything will fall to pieces.

Worse than it has already.

And I almost killed her.

Therapy is the epitome of the best and worst of everything in my life. I sit ramrod straight on the couch, tears threatening to spill. I blink, forcing them back. Not because Im embarrassedIve cried gallons in front of Elizabeth. Im just sick to death of crying.

I dont like to talk about my parents, but its Elizabeths job to make me once in a while. Like today. She tried to focus on happy memories, but this time all that did was remind me that theyre never going to happen again. That chapter of my life is over.

Gone.

Forever.

A huge, gaping forever.

Hey, Elizabeth says, startling me back to her office with an audible gasp. It could be worse. You could be a brain-injured orphan with a weak leg and be having a bad hair day.

For just a second I stare at her, wide-eyed, trying to decide if the joke is funny or not. But her expressionmelodramatic concern with just a hint of true sympathy behind itcracks through my shell and I start to laugh and swipe at my eyes at the same time.

I have, I admit, kind of a weird relationship with my therapist. I theorize its because neither of us thinks Im crazy.

She doesnt even let me call her Dr. Stanleywhich is what the diplomas hanging on her wall sayjust Elizabeth. At first I thought it was one of those cheap shortcuts adults try to take with teenagers to get them to relax and spill their guts, but Elizabeth seriously squirmed every time I called her Dr. Stanley and after a while I finally switched. Now it comes naturally.

Seriously, Tavia, Elizabeth says, her voice soft and sober. Its not supposed to be easy. I think youre very brave and that youre handling things extremely well.

It doesnt feel like it, I admit, shrugging into a black hoodie. Ive always liked sweatshirts in general, but these days, anything that covers my headand with it the scar beneath my still-too-short hairis a distinct preference.

Then trust my professional analysis, Elizabeth says with a smile as she escorts me through the darkened and empty waiting room. Youre not walking home, are you? she asks once we reach the exit. We had to reschedule our regular appointment, so its after hours and her secretarySecretary Barbie, I call her, because her face looks like plastic and she basically never talks to mehas already gone home.

No, Reese is coming. I usually do walkon the orders of my physical therapistbut since itll be getting dark soon, Reese insisted on picking me up today.

I guess thats fine.

True to her organized, punctual personality, my aunt is already waiting for me, her BMW parked right in front of the door. She leans across the car, pushing the passenger door open and giving Elizabeth a little finger wave.

Hey, Tave. How was it? she asks as she pulls away from the curb, her eyes scanning the road.

It was therapy, I say, clicking my seat belt. It was therapeutic. I lean my head against the passenger-side window, not wanting to talk about it. Therapy is well, its personal. And even though Im immensely grateful to Reese and my uncle, Jay, for taking in a step-niece they hardly knew, they dont really feel like family.

Luckily, Reese takes the hint and flips the radio on as we turn out of the parking lot. She has a never-ending well of patience. For me, at least. Clients on the phone? Not so much.

As we drive, I take in the streets around mePortsmouth, New Hampshire, is one of the United States oldest cities and they do a really good job of preserving colonial sites. Im a closet history nerd, and the first couple of months I was here, I would walk for as long as my injured leg would let me, exploring the monuments and markers and museums. It feels fitting, somehowa city mired in its past, me trapped in my own.

And the whole city is so beautiful. I love old buildingsthey just dont build them the same way anymore. Theres a grace and beauty to them that society has lost. No matter how elegant the whole deco thing is supposed to be, theres something in the hand-carved intricacies of colonial architecture that sets off a mourning within me for what once was.

My favorites are the occasional perfectly preserved eighteenth-century houses nestled amid modern homes in a normal neighborhood. Like a treasure, hidden in the sand, just waiting to be discovered. Its hard to find them while driving around at the breakneck speed Reese favors, because theyre usually set back from the road and often sheltered by the leafy canopy of an ancient tree. But when I walk alone, I look for them. Id love to know the stories behind them, but Im too nervous to go knock on some strangers door.