Helicopter Seeds

Imagine: 

Cheyenne Yasuda. A dancer with feathered costumes and twinkling sequins in her eyes. She was a former ballerina whose blistered feet couldn’t fit into pointe shoes. Her reputation spread through the lips of her neighbors and was for the way her O’s were stretched long and echoed in the back of her throat when she talked. 

Her name was musical and belonged under a spotlight or carved into a plaque. That’s what her family believed, anyways. But her name actually meant “one who speaks incoherently,” which was also true. There was no rhythm or rhyme to the tone of her cracked voice and how it flew up and down the ladder all the time. She was only a dancer, not a singer. 

Cheyenne’s family nurtured a garden of green-tipped succulents. They called them names that started with P or M, and made sure they fit when the breeze tickled the trees. 

Every day, Cheyenne jumped on the trampoline in her backyard. She’d pump her legs until the springs stole her breath and the helicopter seeds spun gold into the chilly air. She was the girl who still lived with her parents at age 27. 

Cheyenne was a child at heart but had met a man. His name was Tomas and he had big hands like the sun. He was a farmer with rusted metal wheelbarrows and cows that pierced silence. At first Cheyenne thought he was a crazy man who lived on a farm with no running water, but after a while she got to know him. They were married, then, living separate, and planned to have a child. Perhaps that’s when she would move out of her parents’ house. 

Cheyenne had a big imagination. 

Imagine: 

Bill Waterson. A traveler of the world who collected stamps and postcards with bridges or long-nosed ladies. He knew the housewives liked to fantasize that he got around in a white and pink-striped hot air balloon that tripped across the clouds. 

But he didn’t, and he didn’t have many friends who would listen to his stories. They usually came rolling off the tip of his tongue, half-baked thoughts and words that settled into your ears. Bill was the kind of man who had a large voice and ideas that never left the notepad in his zippered pocket. 

To be honest, his family did not know where he was. They called him, once a year, on his birthday. Sometimes he didn’t pick up with mud painted under his eyes or his fists winking like car blinkers on the tray table in the airplane. (This might be reasonable evidence for the case of the hot air balloon fantasies.) 

Bill had a reputation, of sorts. It was carried from doorstep to doorstep of his neighbors. He was the man who hung pretty, intricately woven bracelets on your doorknob in the middle of the night with a note that read, Africa. He never stayed long but he had acquaintances everywhere he went. He ran away at age 15 and never came back. He had no regrets. 

Alas, there was no love interest for Bill. He kept his eyes on the pavement and continued walking. He was lonely. 

Bill did not believe in the word “lost.” 

Imagine:

These two people, connected by nothing but scribbles on the backs of envelopes and satellites that orbit and trace circles of white into the stars, were friends. They knew everything about each other and yet Cheyenne didn’t call on Bill’s birthday. Time skipped by like the clicking numbers on a calculator, straightforward and logical. 

But, Bill didn’t seem to understand. He couldn’t make sense of why Cheyenne lived with her parents in a three-bedroom house near the highway. Or why she still danced despite the fact that people snickered at her accent and the way her fingers dipped through the holes in her jeans. 

Cheyenne didn’t give it much thought, but she did wonder why Bill was always escaping from the people who loved him and why if they were ever in the same city, Bill would lift away on his hot air balloon the next day without sending a message. 

Sometimes, though, they talked on the phone. One blistering Friday morning, Cheyenne was perched in a booth at her local cafe, stirring milk into a latte she wasn’t going to drink. She watched the milk swirl into provocative shapes, like the tiny limbs of children and messy hearts. 

Bill, on the other side of the world, was in an airport in Beijing. His suitcase trailed behind him as he walked, the broken wheel skidding and screeching as it bounced around on its hinge. There were white patterns built across the ceiling and chairs that plant crooks in your spine. 

Cheyenne is the one who called. 

Imagine: 

Their conversation. 

“Hello? This is Bill Waterson speaking.” 

“Bill. Only a little voice in my ear.”

“Who is this?”

“Pretending is a waste of time, Bill. Don’t you dare hang up.” 

“ . . . Yasuda. It’s been a minute.” 

“More than a minute, Bill. A year and two-hundred seventy-eight days.” 

“You missed me that much? We’re barely friends and you counted.” 

“I . . . live a boring life. Haven’t seen Tomas in a month.” 

“Your big farmer?” 

“Yes.” 

“What’s he doing nowadays?” 

“Don’t know. Haven’t seen him . . . What’s that noise in the background, Bill?” 

“I’m at an airport.” 

“Oh. Where?” 

“Beijing.” 

“I don’t know—” 

“It’s in China.” 

“—why you’re always running away from your problems.” 

“I do not.”

“And the people who love you.” 

“Like you and farmer-man. Why haven’t you called him? Why haven’t you moved in?” 

“I . . .” 

“Why haven’t you had a child yet?” 

“ . . . I found out about my second miscarriage a few days ago.” 

“What?”

“My child, in my stomach, it—”

“I—I know. What does Tomas think?” 

“I haven’t told him.” 

“What?!” 

“I’ve got to go, Bill.” 

“Why haven’t you told Tomas?” 

“He wouldn’t care. He’s a farmer. His crop comes before me and our children.” 

“Oh. But you should still tell him.” 

“ . . . Why haven’t you told your parents where you are?” 

“Um, because they don’t need to know. I ran away when I was a teen.” 

“I know, Bill, but they’re probably worried about you. Don’t you remember all those happy times when it rained helicopter seeds in my backyard? Our parents would drink ice tea and talk about our futures—of course, until you ran away.”

“And Tomas is probably worried about you.” 

“My parents have talked to your parents and asked me about you. Enough is enough. I’m going to call your parents.” 

“Wait, what?” 

“Beijing, China, right?” 

“I’m calling Tomas.” 

“You don’t have his number.” 

“I’ll find it somehow. The signs in this airport are very confusing. I’ll find it later.” 

“Alright, fine. My latte is getting cold.” 

“This was a waste of time.” 

“It’s not like you’re the one calling. Until two-hundred and seventy-eight days from now.” 

“Whatever.” 

“Goodbye, Bill. I wish you happiness.” 

“ . . . I do remember those helicopter seeds.” 

“You do?” 

“I do.” 

“Oh, good.” 

“We used to laugh into the air. I remember thinking that those seeds were free in a way that I wasn’t. So I left.”

“To become the seeds?” 

“I guess. Goodbye, Cheyenne.”