Читать книгу As Far as the Stars - Virginia Macgregor - Страница 14

Chapter Four

15.23 EST

It’s been two hours since the UKFlyer official told us that the plane is missing. The plane with 267 crew and passengers on it. And Blake. Possibly. Or possibly not. I’m not sure what’s worse: knowing for sure that the person you’re waiting for is on a plane that’s vanished into thin air or not knowing whether the person you’re waiting for even got on the plane. I guess I do know. I guess that being on a missing plane is worse. But still, you get my point: this whole situation sucks.

I text Blake for like the millionth time – on both the numbers, the one from the other night when he asked me to book the flight and the other one where he told me that he was heading to Dulles. And I get that it’s stupid because he’s probably nowhere near either of those phones right now, but I don’t know what else to do.

Where are you?

I wait a beat.

Still no answer.

So, I text his actual cell in the hope that he found it:

Hi Blake, please tell me where you are – got to get to the wedding.

I shove my phone into the back pocket of my shorts and look around at the people who’ve been waiting with me for more news. They’ve gone quiet, like they’re scared to say anything out loud.

How can a plane just disappear? It’s not like Mom’s car keys or Dad’s hairline. We’re talking about thousands of tons of aluminium with hundreds of people on it. And it’s not like it’s an obscure route – planes from Heathrow land in DC all the time: it’s a clean, well-worn journey over the Atlantic. And they’d have been in contact with air traffic control the whole way, wouldn’t they?

Ground crew from the airline hand out water bottles and meal vouchers, like we’re the victims of some kind of natural disaster. Then they let us go back to the arrivals lounge where the cafes and restaurants are.

Whenever someone from UKFlyer talks to us, they say the same thing:

We’re on the case.

We’ll keep you updated on any developments.

Try not to worry.

So, we wait.

And wait.

And wait some more.

Which is driving me totally crazy. Because waiting is the one thing I can’t afford to do right now.

Blake’s going to be fine. He’s always fine. Being fine is in his DNA. Born under a lucky star and all that. What’s not going to be fine is him ruining our sister’s wedding.

The arrivals terminal has got even busier. A few people managed to get chairs. Most of us are standing or sitting on the floor.

I notice the toddler who was screaming earlier, sprawled on his dad’s lap, asleep.

And I notice the quiet, tangle-haired guy. He’s making another paper model from a sheet of newspaper, some kind of small bird, its wings spread wide. It’s totally amazing how quickly he makes those models. And how they go from being this big piece of paper to a tiny representation of something, like he’s creating a miniature world.

He brings the newspaper bird over to the woman with the baby, who’s been crying for what feels like the last hour. She’s taken him out of his sling and is bouncing him on her knee to calm him down. It takes her a few seconds to notice the guy standing there, with his paper bird.

He holds it out to her. She looks up at him.

‘For your baby,’ I hear him say.

The mom takes the bird from him, places it in her open palm and stares at it, as though she’s waiting for it to flap its wings and take off. When the baby notices the bird, he stops crying and starts swiping at it with his chubby fingers.

‘Thank you,’ the mom says.

The guy gives her this nod, accompanied by a little bow, and then goes back to sitting on the floor and takes another piece of scrap paper out of his backpack.

And then a new wave of people pours through the arrivals gate.

That’s the worst thing about all this: the fact that other planes are landing all the time. Planes full of people – including planes from Heathrow.

I keep scanning the passengers coming through, hoping to see Blake’s crazy black hair sticking up over everyone’s heads. I’m totally ready to storm up to him and make a scene, to lay into him for, well, being Blake: late, disorganised, unaware of anything else that’s going on in the world besides himself – and infuriatingly loveable with it so that just as I’m yelling at him I’ll want to hug him too. Because I’ve missed him this summer. I miss him whenever he’s away.

I get my phone out to text him again but then realise how stupid it is when I don’t even know what number to call, so I put it away.

Blake probably lost his cell on purpose. He gave up his smart phone a few years ago, claiming that it interfered with his creativity. The one he’s got now only texts and calls and rarely has much connectivity. Mom makes him have it for safety reasons – and so we can stay in touch with each other as a family. But if he had a choice, he’d toss it in the trash.

We get weird looks from the people who come to collect the passengers from the other planes: they’re wondering why we’re all hanging out here in the arrivals lounge. But then they find whoever it is they came for and walk off and we get left behind again.

I sit with my back against the wall.

My phone buzzes. I grab it out of my pocket thinking that, at last, Blake’s getting in touch.

But it’s a message from Mom.

Has Blake landed? Tried to call him, no answer.

I get that stomach-acid taste at the back of my throat again.

I texted her when I left DC – the first time. Before I got halfway to Nashville and had to turn around again because my brother messed up his travel plans. Which I haven’t told her about. What Mom thinks is happening is that I’m standing in Nashville International Airport waiting to pick Blake up and that we’re going to drive to the hotel together and that we’ll be showing up anytime now.

Not yet

I text back.

What’s going on?

She texts back, almost as soon as I’ve sent my message.

Plane’s late

I write back.

And then my phone starts ringing. It’s Mom. Obviously. She wants more information.

I don’t answer.

Because I’m a coward.

Because I can’t face having to explain it all to her: Blake getting on the wrong plane and me having to drive all the way back to DC and that there’s a chance we might not make it for the family breakfast. That if I don’t get some answer soon, we might not make it for the wedding itself.

All the saliva in my mouth dries up. I can’t let myself go there. He’s going to make it. He has to.

Can’t talk

I text back.

She’ll think I’m driving. That will buy me some time.

She sends another message:

Remember we’re having breakfast at Louis’s.

Okay.

I text back.

I’m really feeling sick now.

I should tell her what’s going on but she’ll implode. And then she’ll tell Jude and Jude will fall apart. And Dad will have to deal with it and Dad’s a crisis-avoider so he’ll panic and then go into hiding somewhere, which will make Mom even more mad.

Telling them that it’s even worse than me and Blake being late for the wedding stuff – that his plane’s gone off radar, that no one knows where he is – isn’t even an option.

I screw my eyes shut to block out the world.

This is the last time I’m covering for you, Blake, I say to myself. The last damn time.

I was nine the first time Blake disappeared. The first time I had to lie for him.

He snuck into my room in the middle of the night, his guitar case and a holdall slung over his shoulder.

‘Tell them to let me sleep in.’

I was still asleep myself – it was three in the morning – so I wasn’t registering what he was telling me.

‘What?’ I asked.

‘Tomorrow morning. Tell them not to disturb me. Tell them I’m sleeping.’

I sat up and rubbed my eyes.

‘Mom and Dad?’ I asked.

He nodded.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Not sure yet.’

Blake’s words didn’t make sense. At age nine this was how the world worked: when you left one place you did so with the express intention of going to another specific location.

So I changed my line of questioning.

‘Why are you going?’

‘To play.’ He tapped his guitar case.

‘Why can’t you play here?’

‘I need inspiration.’

Blake was always going off to find inspiration. He was always going off period.

I have a restless soul, Air, he’d say, sounding like he was thirty rather than thirteen.

That didn’t make sense to me either, not then.

‘Why can’t you find inspiration here?’ I asked.

He raised his big black eyebrows. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah, really.’

‘I need some space, Air.’

He’d said it before. That the music – and the lyrics – wouldn’t come here, at home. I thought that it was a mean thing to say. Like being with us was stopping him from doing what he loved most.

‘When are you coming back?’ I asked.

He shrugged.

‘You can’t sleep in for ever.’

He grinned in that goofy way he had that made me feel warm and happy and like everything was good with the world.

‘For ever? It won’t be for ever, Air.’

‘So why are you taking a holdall?’

‘In case.’

‘In case what?’

‘In case I need some of my stuff.’

I sat up taller. ‘People don’t need their stuff if they’re coming back quickly.’

‘Just cover for me, Air – will you do that?’

‘What if Mom goes into your room and finds out that you’re not there?’

He tilted his head to one side. The gel in his hair had worn off, so long dark strands fell into his eyes.

‘You’re the smart one in the family, Air, you’ll find a way to cover for me.’

Then he kissed the top of my head and walked off to my window – the one that had access to the street below.

‘You are coming back, aren’t you?’ I asked.

I was worried that one day Blake would go so far that he’d get lost – or decide that coming back was too much hassle. He loved Mom and Dad and Jude and me but that didn’t mean he was going to live with us for ever. And he didn’t like DC. Blake was always going on about how he couldn’t wait to be eighteen, how then he could do anything he wanted.

When his body was halfway out of the window, he turned around and smiled:

‘For you little sis?’ He smiled. ‘I’ll always come back.’

He blew me a kiss then pulled his guitar case and holdall through the window.

‘And even if I don’t –’ he went on.

I leapt out of bed, ran up to the window and leant out. ‘Even if you don’t? What’s that’s supposed to mean?’

He put his fingers under my chin and tilted my face up to the sky.

‘They’re always there, right?’

It was a clear night so although the light pollution in DC was bad, the sky still looked amazing: like someone had pierced a thousand holes in the black canopy of the sky letting the light that lived behind it shine through.

‘Yeah, they’re always there.’

‘Well, so am I – like your stars.’

‘My stars?’

He nodded.

Blake knew how much I loved them, even then.

When I was nine years old, I’d thought that was a wonderful thing to say: that he’d always be with me, because the stars were always with us too. But when I got older and understood about how old the stars were and the whole light years–distance thing – and the fact that it’s basically impossible to measure the distance between us and the stars – I realised that what he told me that night wasn’t anywhere close to wonderful. He was basically telling me that even if I could still see him, he might be millions of light years away.

Nothing’s been confirmed yet.

Any moment now I might get a text from Blake saying that he got a flight to Nashville after all. Which means that he’ll make it for the family breakfast – that it’ll just be me who misses it. Which won’t be a big deal.

Or that he was late for the flight and got onto one that’s arriving later. Which, depending on his arrival time, will at least give us enough time to get to Nashville for the rehearsal dinner.

Whatever happens, we’d be there for the wedding. And, in the end, that’s all that matters.

Or that bald UKFlyer guy who’s in charge of keeping us up to date will tell us that the plane’s back on radar, that air traffic control got it wrong, and that the UKFlyer0217 has landed. That the passengers are coming through passport control and that, in a few minutes, they’ll be with us.

‘Can I borrow your phone?’

Leda’s head shoots up from my lap. She thumps her tail against my thigh so hard that I put my hand on it to press it down.

I look up too. He’s standing there, the pale, tangle-haired, paper-folding guy. And he’s staring at me, his eyes wide behind his tortoiseshell glasses.

‘My mobile’s out of charge,’ he explains.

Yeah, he definitely sounds English, like Mom and our relatives back in the UK. Mom’s got a bit of a Scottish lilt because that’s where she lived until she was ten and all her family come from there, but mostly she sounds English.

The guy adjusts his glasses and keeps staring at me.

‘Sure.’ I hand him my cell, relieved that I don’t have to keep looking at Mom’s messages popping up.

When he starts swiping at the screen, I notice that his fingers are shaking.

I’ve been so swept up with thinking about my family and the wedding and what’s going to happen in the next forty-eight hours if Blake doesn’t show up, that I kind of forgot that all these people around me are also waiting for news about those they came to collect. Blake could be anywhere right now, but they know that their loved ones are on the plane. And maybe they don’t have families like ours – or moms like our mom – to hold them all together.

While he’s using my phone, I look past him at a TV screen on the far side of the room. And then I notice some of the people who’ve been waiting with us, getting to their feet and turning to look at it too.

Which makes the guy look up from my cell and turn to the TV screen as well.

It’s the ABC news feed that’s been on this whole time with weather reports and the latest from the Yankees– Red Sox game and details about tomorrow’s eclipse.

Except none of those things are on the screen.

Instead, there’s a grainy picture. It keeps wobbling out of focus: a large piece of metal, floating on the sea.