The Flight

The sun shined through the window that morning, hitting her full in the face. It seemed to be struggling to get up, to rise past the trees that lined the yard. The light flickered in between leaves and branches, rays of that strange, magnetic glow reaching to touch her through a thin glass pane. It filled the room, giving the impression that the walls had turned into tiny, flickering flames. Huddled under the blankets, Lana was warm for a moment, comfortable and comforted. 

Then the warmth turned to heat and in a second she was burning.

Screaming, she wrenched herself up, throwing off the blankets, nearly falling out of bed. The flames were all around her, licking at her, eating away at her from the inside, somehow, even though they were outside, of course they were, she could see them–

Then the illusion, the nightmare, was over, at least somewhat. The walls were no longer covered in fire and neither was she. The sunlight returned to a honey-sweet glow. The panic in Lana’s chest seemed to falter a bit. Her heart slowed. Abuela’s. A voice in the back of her head seemed to pierce through. You’re at Abuela’s. That is where you are. It was distant, but calmed her slightly. Even as the thought was just starting to retreat back into the dark muddle of her mind, she was standing, pulling a robe over the clothing she had worn the night before. Maybe for the past few nights, actually. 

She opened the door to her room a crack. The hallway was warm, almost muggy. It made Lana’s skin tingle unpleasantly. But this was how Abuela liked it, and so nearly the whole house was kept like this, except, of course, for the room where Lana slept. She had always liked it cold before, so that she could snuggle under layers of quilts and comforters, but now she could hardly stand anything else. The cold seemed like a friend – either keeping her in the present, reminding her where she was, or numbing out everything. 

Lana crept downstairs quietly. Abuela was already up, making breakfast, so Lana didn’t have to fear waking her, but there seemed to be something else in this old house that was sleeping. Something both frightening and familiar. When she had tried to explain it, Abuela had simply waved her off. “Por supuesto duerme algo aquí. ¿Que creias que fue mi compañía todos estos años?”

That was what Lana liked about Abuela. She understood what Lana was trying to say before she could even say it. Which meant neither of them had to say much of anything at all, and that worked quite nicely for both of them. And her food was wonderful. 

Lana began to catch whiffs of something from the other room. Honey and cinnamon, and something savory, too. Chorizo? Probably. She drifted into the kitchen with the other delicious odors, finding Abuela bent over the stove. It was such a sweet, familiar sight that any part of Lana that was still in a slight panic calmed. Her brain fogged over as she inhaled every breath of spiced air. 

“Te oia gritando,” said Abuela, without turning around. Lana’s soft footfalls allowed her to sneak up on and startle everyone but her grandmother, who, despite being hard of hearing in every other aspect, always seemed to know when there was another person in the room. She would not let her granddaughter be a ghost, though that’s often how Lana felt. Ghostlike, wandering, lost, maybe (but not stranded, she reminded herself, when panic began to rise again).

“Yeah.” Lana padded over to the stove and took a spoonful of simmering potatoes and chorizo. No explanations required. Only confirmation. And no questions or concerns from Abuela, only a plate handed to Lana heaped high with baked goods and fruit. Lana took it to the table and sat down. As it was every morning, the food melted on her tongue, spreading flavor all over her mouth. She had devoured the whole plate by the time Abuela set a different one, this one with papas and chorizo, in front of her. Lana had gained weight since coming to live with Abuela, her arms and cheeks rounding out again. This had delighted everyone. The doctors said it was a sign that her health, both mental and physical, was improving. She didn’t have the energy to tell them that it was just that her grandmother’s food was the only kind that didn’t taste like ash.

They sat mostly in silence, Lana eating, Abuela watching her eat. She didn’t ever seem to eat herself (at least Lana had never seen her do so), but was still quite round. Maybe she had become fat just from being around food so much. 

As Lana finished breakfast, Abuela reached for her hand from across the table and took it. “¿Recuerdas quien eres?” She asked, as she did every day. 

“Yes.” The word came almost automatically, robotically. 

“¿Recuerdas lo que pasó?”

“Yes.”

“Y qué vas a hacer?”

This question was new. It caught Lana off guard, shocked her, almost. This was not part of the routine, not scheduled, not planned. Not what she wanted or needed. She needed the familiarity, the order, and this question was like a bullet tearing through all that, shattering it. Behind it was something ugly and unknown. Lana pulled her hand away. In a moment she was standing up and sweeping back up to her room, feeling hurt, though not sure why. Then she pulled back into the dark recesses of her mind and blocked it out, though not before she saw the disappointed look on Abuela’s face.

She pulled the curtains of her room shut and climbed into bed, letting the cold sink into her bones. 

It’s dark. Early in the morning, both of us tired, but excited. Driving in your old minivan, whose AC, overhead lights, and about a million other things are broken. The car’s a piece of junk, and we both know it. You often groan dramatically whenever we climb into it, once again pointing out all the reasons you should get rid of it. But you never do, and I question that you even want to. I always get the feeling that there’s something about the ripped seats, cracked windows, and the weird smell that’s precious to you, and you just don’t want to tell me what it is. I’m fine with that. Unlike some people, whose idea of being best friends revolves around telling each other everything, ours is about being fine with not needing to know every tiny detail. Not even all the big stuff. Just the sort of stuff that affects the other person.

You have the radio, the only working luxury of the van, blasting, the windows rolled down to let in the cool night time air. I’m laughing as you bleat the words of the song that’s playing. Your singing is terrible, though only in that car, with me. In reality your voice is beautiful. At least I assume it is, because you were in the highest level choir at our highschool, and you received about twenty different music scholarships from colleges all over the whole country. But somehow, I think you’re embarrassed to sing in front of me, for a reason I can’t quite figure out. You’re happy to plague the neighborhoods we drive past with your awful renditions of Adele. 

I’m laughing so hard that there are tears in my eyes. Then you’re laughing, too, both of us giddy with the prospect of adventure, the two of us, setting off into the unknown. 

The unknown of being alone. 

All flights were canceled. Did she know that? 

Did she know I’d be left behind, stranded?

The girl that Lana met in the mirror every day was still a stranger. A burnt, angry stranger that no one could possibly even stand to look at if they knew the real Lana. A stranger who Abuela could not hold the hand of and stare directly at every morning. It was not possible. 

A therapist who came to the house occasionally had helpfully put a sticky note with the word “LANA” in big, bright letters and an arrow that she guessed was supposed to point at her face on the bathroom mirror. Instead it veered off to the left slightly and pointed down at her feet. This made sense, really, since her feet had been one of the few things to remain untouched by the fire. They were nice-looking feet, all in all, with evenly separated toes and smooth brown skin. No blisters, no scars. Lana still painted them, often, though she wasn’t entirely sure why. Maybe she just liked how it looked. 

Lana washed her hands and face in the cold faucet water. It felt good, woke her up slightly, drew her further out of her nightmare. Although it hadn’t been a nightmare this time, not really, not yet. Just a harmless memory. Maybe even a happy one, if it could be viewed separate from what followed. 

But as her mind involuntarily drifted towards that thing that followed, it seemed that things went blank, that it was taken away from her, or she from it. A sort of fog cloaked the room, blurring the edges of the mirror, of her ruined face…

A sharp knock at the door dispelled the fog. “Lana?” She heard Abuela’s voice seeping through the wood. “¿Qué pasa, mija?”

Lana realized that the water was still running in the faucet. She quickly turned it off. How long had she been standing there, watching the water run, she wondered? A minute? Ten? An hour, maybe? She turned and opened the door. Abuela was standing there, and Lana caught a bit of concern on her face before it was replaced by annoyance. Then something different, that made Lana feel weary. Abuela turned suddenly and began to walk back down the stairs, towards the front door. “Vamos, Lana,” she said. 

“What?”

“Vamos en un camino. Y porque me hablas en inglés?”

A sharp pain, somewhere in her stomach. ¿Por qué no hablas español a mi? in broken spanish. A moment Lana couldn’t quite place, and maybe didn’t want to. She stood in silence instead of answering her grandmother’s question. Silence that meant it had something to do with the trauma. Abuela knew what her lack of a response said immediately. She sighed.

“Pronto no voy a aceptar esas excusas.” She continued to hobble down the stairs. Not entirely sure why she was doing it, Lana followed. They stepped out the door into the warm late-august air. Abuela began to walk slowly down the sidewalk. A blond woman walking her dog waved and smiled gently, but didn’t say anything. The neighbors were under the impression that Lana’s grandmother didn’t know how to speak English, when, in fact, she simply refused to on principle. Ever since her son had practically forced her to move to be near them in the United States, she hadn’t spoken anything but Spanish, and proudly let everyone believe that she knew nothing else. Lana, her poor, maybe insane granddaughter, only added to this image of something very pitiable, which Abuela did not seem to mind in the slightest. 

Lana fiddled mindlessly with her long black hair, waiting for the questions she was sure Abuela would soon fire at her. The same chorus of “do you remember?”s. But they didn’t come. Instead, her grandmother lifted her face up, smiling slightly as the sun hit it. When Lana refused to do the same, staring resolutely at the pavement, Abuela smacked her sharply under the chin. Annoyed, Lana tilted her head back, but shielded her eyes from the light and did not smile. The heat felt like tiny, venomous pricks in her skin.

“La luz no puede dañarte, querida,” Abuela said. “Tampoco el calor.”

Lana winced. Her heart began to beat frantically. That same fog began to creep into her senses. 

“Escucha.” Her grandmother was staring at her now. “Escúchame. Sé que no quieres pensar en lo que pasó. Pero también sé que no vas a pensar en lo que va a pasar antes que pienses en lo que te daño. Y Evalina no apreciaría lo que estás haciendo con tu vida.”

There was something like anger boiling in Lana’s stomach. What could she say for Evalina, who didn’t ask Lana to say or do anything she didn’t want to, and certainly couldn’t now? Evalina, who would never sing for Lana and would never sing at all ever again? Evalina, who would never catch the plane they were supposed to take together, and had boarded a different one that Lana had somehow missed. Lana opened her mouth to say all of this, to make her grandmother, this small, fierce woman who loved her, hurt as much as Lana did, because there was no one else left to hurt. Evalina didn’t have to. Lana did. 

Her best friend’s burns had been once and final. Lana felt them every minute of every day.

But a strangled, hoarse “No,” was all that escaped Lana’s mouth before she turned and started walking. Away from her grandmother, away from the pain. But not before she saw the laughter on Evalina’s face, the excitement at the approaching adventure, heard the music, tasted the sweetness. 

Not before she saw it all go up in flames.

The sun is just peeking above the horizon when you stop singing suddenly. “I guess on our trip you’ll have to speak Spanish with the locals, won’t you? And translate for me.”

“Yeah, if necessary.” I try to keep my voice casual, but there’s a familiar uncomfortable feeling in my stomach that says there’s something wrong about this. “I mean, we’ll probably end up in some spanish-speaking country.”

“Good,” you say, somewhat smugly. But then we sit in silence for a while, and neither of us have ever liked silence between us. So you add, “how come you never speak Spanish in front of me, Lana?”

I shrug. She stopped asking me this a long time ago, just like I stopped asking why she didn’t sing for me. But this is the beginning of something new. Maybe talking about this would propel us into new places even more so than the two plane tickets in my suitcase would. “I guess… well, Spanish felt like something that didn’t belong in the part of my life that you were in. Like, I have two lives - the one with you, and the one without you, and –” I glance over at you, sure you’re smiling at how cheesy my words are, but your face is serious and thoughtful. “and I don’t want to mix those two worlds. I guess I’m afraid of messing ours up.”

I take a deep breath and wait. We both know it’s your turn now. 

“I supposed it’s the same way for me. With singing. I like our little world, too.”

I nod. We’re both so serious that it feels strange. Finally, you make a face at me and say “ugh, feelings.” Then we’re both laughing again.

And then the sun seems to glow red as it reaches the tops of the houses. The car glows red. A stoplight glows red and you’re pressing on the brakes but the car is so old and something’s broken and we can’t stop and there’s a loud, angry sound that I think is a horn honking and you try to swerve–

But then it’s too late. Something explodes, probably the engine. I hear screaming - mine, yours - as our little world is consumed by the fire. 

The screaming goes on for a long time in my head. Longer than the pain of the burns last. And when it stops, something inside of me swears that it will never start again.

By the time the flashback was over, Lana had walked a long way. Maybe a mile, maybe more. Far more, she was sure, than Abuela could have gone. Poor Abuela. She didn’t deserve this. All of it. The burden that Lana was now. The weight of the sadness that had taken up residence in the house. “Is that what the sleeping thing is?” She wondered aloud, without meaning to. The words became a sort of mantra in her head as she sat down beneath a tree and looked around, wondering how she would get back home. It blocked out the screaming. But it didn’t fully cover up her grandmother's words. That to move forward, she had to look back. Maybe that’s what this was – looking back. 

It was so painful. Lana hated it. Would she ever not hate it, she wondered? Probably not. And would Evalina be glad that she hated it, that it hurt? Probably she’d be glad that Lana hated it. Not so glad that it hurt. Friends didn’t like each other to hurt. 

But it didn’t matter what Evalina thought anymore. She was dead.

But what if I want it to matter? A little voice in the back of Lana’s head whispered. And what if Abuela and my parents and the people who love me want it to? It seemed like such a nonsensical thing to think, but also important. Like there was reason behind the strange words.

And maybe, caring what Evalina would want would eventually become what the living people who loved her wanted. And then she could want it, too. 

Perhaps this line of thought only made sense to Lana. Maybe it was supposed to be like that. But just thinking again, at all, felt good. Sweet. Like that sweetness that had been in the car before everything went wrong. Can I get back to that? Lana wondered. Then she whispered it to the trees and the open air. And she said it louder still. “Can I get back to that?” 

In answer, sunlight fell softly on Lana’s face.

And though she did not turn to it, she did not turn away.