to give herself a funeral.
A symbolic, spiritual cleansing. A farewell.
The
Phoenix
was on its way to an island off the African coast, leaving her no option but to postpone her escape until landfall. Curiously, instead of panic, a sense of belonging had suffused her, blending with the sense of déjà vu that had dogged her since coming aboard. Though probably temporary, her life here left her feeling free and alive.
So unlike her past.
She’d been the consummate good girl, striving her whole life to please. Always the dutiful daughter, the understanding girlfriend, the perfect little soldier.
No more.
She would no longer drag the garbage of her life behind her like Marley’s ghost in Dickens’s
A Christmas Carol.
It was time to cut the chains.
Theo coughed softly.
The sound pulled her from her thoughts, back to the old-fashioned sailing ship and the innocent cabin boy who gazed at her with wonder. She smiled at him. “I treasure our friendship, Theo.”
“Aye, me too. I’m glad for all your tales of the flying machines. I could hear ‘em again and again.”
She rummaged through her sack of odds and ends. “If you’d been born in my time, I bet you would have been a pilot.” She plucked out her flight jacket. “Here you go, kiddo. It’s yours.”
Stunned, Theo lifted the garment from her hands, holding the jacket at arms’ length.
“Put it on,” she urged.
His eyes widened as he flushed and hugged it to his chest.
“Go on!”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes,” she said. “Now go eat your supper.”
“Aye, Carly.” Grinning, he stepped backward and stumbled over a knotted rope. Righting himself, he let out a whoop of joy and sprinted toward the stairs that led belowdecks.
Carly returned her gaze to the water. She propped her elbows on the railing, cradling her chin in her hands. About the only thing that hadn’t changed in the amazing events of the last two weeks was how much she loved the sea and sky. Tonight, the water was alight with brushstrokes of mauve, highlighting the sun, a shimmering white-hot ball poised above the horizon. The sky was an enormous blue dome unbroken by clouds or contrails, the white streaks left by jets in a typical twenty-first-century sky.
No craft would traverse the heavens for another eighty years.
She shivered with a poignant sense of loss. She’d loved flying, the freedom and thrill of it. It had been something she was good at. Her career had brought her pride, a sense of direction. It had taken her out of poverty and given her a life, and the financial means to care for her mother.
Though she missed her mother desperately, Carly comforted herself with the knowledge that Rose Callahan had finally escaped her pain. She had been ill for as long as Carly could remember. Their roles had been reversed throughout her childhood. Carly had been the one to take care of the house, cook their meager meals, administer medicines to ease her mother’s pain, using what free time was left to accomplish chores. Which was why, she supposed, she didn’t give a second thought to many of the menial tasks associated with nineteenth-century living.
The relentless wind snapped her pant legs against her thighs, reminding her that as soon as the sun set, the biting dampness would return. She’d better get on with it.
She emptied her pockets. Into the waves went her water-warped notepad, a ruined lipstick, and two leaking pens. She hurled them into the waves and watched them disappear behind the ship. Slowly, reverently, she peeled the fabric patches off the Velcro that held them to her flight suit. It was what she’d been trained to do if she were shot down in war. Since no one here believed her identity anyway, stripping away the bits of cloth gave her a strange sense of freedom. Labels; that’s all they were.
Name tag, squadron patch, flag—she studied them, tracing the shape of her hard-won aviator wings with her fingertip. Then she smirked at the grinning skull and
A symbolic, spiritual cleansing. A farewell.
The
Phoenix
was on its way to an island off the African coast, leaving her no option but to postpone her escape until landfall. Curiously, instead of panic, a sense of belonging had suffused her, blending with the sense of déjà vu that had dogged her since coming aboard. Though probably temporary, her life here left her feeling free and alive.
So unlike her past.
She’d been the consummate good girl, striving her whole life to please. Always the dutiful daughter, the understanding girlfriend, the perfect little soldier.
No more.
She would no longer drag the garbage of her life behind her like Marley’s ghost in Dickens’s
A Christmas Carol.
It was time to cut the chains.
Theo coughed softly.
The sound pulled her from her thoughts, back to the old-fashioned sailing ship and the innocent cabin boy who gazed at her with wonder. She smiled at him. “I treasure our friendship, Theo.”
“Aye, me too. I’m glad for all your tales of the flying machines. I could hear ‘em again and again.”
She rummaged through her sack of odds and ends. “If you’d been born in my time, I bet you would have been a pilot.” She plucked out her flight jacket. “Here you go, kiddo. It’s yours.”
Stunned, Theo lifted the garment from her hands, holding the jacket at arms’ length.
“Put it on,” she urged.
His eyes widened as he flushed and hugged it to his chest.
“Go on!”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes,” she said. “Now go eat your supper.”
“Aye, Carly.” Grinning, he stepped backward and stumbled over a knotted rope. Righting himself, he let out a whoop of joy and sprinted toward the stairs that led belowdecks.
Carly returned her gaze to the water. She propped her elbows on the railing, cradling her chin in her hands. About the only thing that hadn’t changed in the amazing events of the last two weeks was how much she loved the sea and sky. Tonight, the water was alight with brushstrokes of mauve, highlighting the sun, a shimmering white-hot ball poised above the horizon. The sky was an enormous blue dome unbroken by clouds or contrails, the white streaks left by jets in a typical twenty-first-century sky.
No craft would traverse the heavens for another eighty years.
She shivered with a poignant sense of loss. She’d loved flying, the freedom and thrill of it. It had been something she was good at. Her career had brought her pride, a sense of direction. It had taken her out of poverty and given her a life, and the financial means to care for her mother.
Though she missed her mother desperately, Carly comforted herself with the knowledge that Rose Callahan had finally escaped her pain. She had been ill for as long as Carly could remember. Their roles had been reversed throughout her childhood. Carly had been the one to take care of the house, cook their meager meals, administer medicines to ease her mother’s pain, using what free time was left to accomplish chores. Which was why, she supposed, she didn’t give a second thought to many of the menial tasks associated with nineteenth-century living.
The relentless wind snapped her pant legs against her thighs, reminding her that as soon as the sun set, the biting dampness would return. She’d better get on with it.
She emptied her pockets. Into the waves went her water-warped notepad, a ruined lipstick, and two leaking pens. She hurled them into the waves and watched them disappear behind the ship. Slowly, reverently, she peeled the fabric patches off the Velcro that held them to her flight suit. It was what she’d been trained to do if she were shot down in war. Since no one here believed her identity anyway, stripping away the bits of cloth gave her a strange sense of freedom. Labels; that’s all they were.
Name tag, squadron patch, flag—she studied them, tracing the shape of her hard-won aviator wings with her fingertip. Then she smirked at the grinning skull and
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