Holding on to Thin Air

Trent Obertson was a private pilot who flew among the towering Chugach Mountains in Alaska.  He loved bobbing in and around the fluffy white clouds that hung like overripe melons among the snow covered peaks.  There was an expression for pilots who flew the Monomee Pass through the Nelchina into Talkeetna called, “Hanging on to thin air.” 

When flying this route, Trent noticed how much the cold and warm air would struggle for control that resulted in his plane being buffet during the flight.   His Cessna 206 was versatile, able to land in terrain that other planes could not.  Equipped with Tundra tires, he was able to land his plane on a rocky river bank to rescue a pair of stranded fishermen. 

Being a bush pilot takes a special kind of person.  Trent was proud to be one of the Brotherhood.

Today, however, he would be keeping his heels on the ground. Debbie, his wife, was still in bed when he made his coffee to wash down a stale bagel before heading out to St. Agnes Hospice in Anchorage. These visits to see his father Lloyd were getting harder and harder now that he was in the advanced stages of Alzheimer's.  Visiting him, it was doubtful he would even know Trent and the times he did, he would admonish him for the reckless antics of his youth.  Trent did these dangerous exploits, because he was rebellious of his father's tyrannical control. 

When his father had his logbook out, Trent knew they were in for a row.  His father became so agitated, Trent would often leave on the verge of tears.

Five years ago, his mother, Nora, had passed away peacefully after a long painful bout with cancer.  Calling him over to her bedside in her final hour, in her frail airy voice, requested, "Please Trent, look after your father.  He will be so lost when I'm gone."

"I promise mom." He held her hand and kissed her on the forehead.  It would be the last time he would do that.

"Dr. Grotan is a quack." Lloyd fumed when Trent emerged from the bedroom.

"Dad, there is nothing he can do.  There's nothing anyone can do.  Let's go for a walk. What do you say?" Trent draped his arm over his father's shoulder.  

"I don't want to take a walk.  I want the doctor to give your mother some pills so she can get better." He waved his hands wildly around his head.  Lloyd had just been diagnosed as being in the early stages of Alzheimer's when she passed away that morning.  The nurse called him in so he could spend her last moments with him. Married for almost fifty years, Lloyd exited her room with tears streaming down his tired wrinkled face announcing in a brusque tone, “She’s gone now.” 

“I’d better call the coroner.” Trent got out his cellphone.

“No. I want to spend a few moments with her before they come to hack her up.” He sniffed.  Trent had rarely seen his father cry, but his mother’s last words to him were still ringing in his ears.  

“Alright dad, as you wish.” He nodded as his own grief overcame him.  It was after dark when Trent made the call to the coroner.  Lloyd spent a few hours with her, holding her cold hand as he recited every memory they had shared.  When he came out this time, the color of his face had drained.  He sat in his chair and was silent as Trent made the call.

“I’m going to miss her.” He finally spoke, but there was no emotion in his voice or any hint in his facial expression. 

That evening, Trent wound up spending the night in his old room with posters of Axl Rose the lead singer of Guns ‘n’ Roses and Joe Montana dressed in his 49ers uniform looking for Jerry Rice downfield.  Despite his heavy mood, he slept as soundly as he had in weeks. 

Nora Kallihan-Obertson’s funeral was an uncomplicated and simple service where Reverend Shalter spoke of the seven-five years of her life.  He spoke of how she had been volunteering at the USO dance when he walked in wearing his pilot uniform.  She could not take her eyes off of him.  They were married a month after his discharge came through from the Korean War.  He would take Trent with him as he flew supplies into the villages around the Kuskokwim and Yukon Rivers even when the sun would not rise during the long dark winters above the Arctic Circle.  With a twinkle in his eye, he would tell his son that Santa Claus lived in North Pole, Alaska south of Fairbanks.  Trent vividly remembered flying into Lower Kagslag where the people all wore mukluks and seal skin parkas.  Their skin was dark and when they smiled, their eyes would disappear. They spoke a language he did not understand at the time, but his father did.

“Remember coming through these mountain passes, you have to be careful of the updraft pushing the downdraft.  Let your instincts guide you.” He instructed Trent who was learning how to be a bush pilot like him.  There was a lot of things you had to know, because flying in the Last Frontier was tricky even for experienced fliers.  Some of Lloyd’s contemporaries had met with unfortunate ends in the hostile landscape along some of the routes. When he turned sixteen, before getting his driver’s license, Trent had earned his pilot’s license.  Hired by Dwyer's Transportation Services, Trent began his career following in his father’s footsteps. 

“Dad.” Trent greeted his father as he walked into his room.  Dressed in his slippers and bathrobe, he sat there staring into his breakfast, a bowl of oatmeal. 

“Hello.” He did not even look up.

“How are you?” He asked knowing that the conversation would most likely not really go anywhere.

“Hmpt.” He grunted.

Nurse Rollins came in and wiped his chin where some of his breakfast had congealed.  He made a face of resistance like a toddler sitting in his high chair when his mother would wipe his dirty face. 

“Are we in a foul mood again?” She asked, tossing the soiled paper towel into the wastebasket. “You son, Trent is here to visit you.” 

“Who?” He growled.

“It’s me, dad, Trent.” He knew there would be no recognition.  He had learned not to be alarmed at his lack of response. It still hurt.  That was just part of the painful process of this ailment. 

“Trent?” His voice seemed distant and fuzzy.  Trent had gotten used to it.  He still did not like it.

“Tell Nora, I’ll be coming downstairs shortly.” He stated.  He knew better than to correct him.  The last time his father coldcocked him that brought stars to Trent’s eyes.  Dr. Wagner told him that it didn’t do anyone any good arguing with a patient in the late stages.  It was a lesson that was difficult for Trent to learn.  While his memory was slowly fading away, he still resembled the father he had grown to love and admire.  It was difficult to let that go.

“Sure dad, I’ll tell her.” There was a slight catch in his throat.  Even after all this time, Trent could not help feeling emotional when his father spoke of his late wife.  

“We have to get you ready for your shower.” Nurse Rollins put a blood pressure cuff on his thin frail arm.  Sometimes Trent could not bear to look at his father’s sinewy arms when she did this. “Good job.  Blood pressure looking mighty fine this morning.” 

“C’mon dad, let’s get ready for the shower.” Trent nodded. 

“Shower? Shower?” He was confused, but Nurse Rollins had him on his feet as she removed his bathrobe.

“Come along Mr. Obertson, we need to go to the bathroom.” She led him along.  He offered no resistance as he had in the past when she had to call Roberto to assist her.  

“Look at those clouds, would you?” He smiled as Trent pulled on the stick letting the plane climb as the engine fought with gravity. “Gorgeous day, isn’t it son?”

“Sure is dad.” His voice nearly sang as the plane gained altitude.  From this vantage point, he could see the jagged horizon along the peaks of the Chugiak Mountains.  Leveling off, the mighty engine began to purr.  Everything was right with the world.  It was clear sailing from here.  

His father screamed through most of his shower, but did not fight with Nurse Rollins as she scrubbed his leathery skin. Dressing him in a flannel shirt and jeans, she sent him back into the room where he would sit and stare at the muted television bolted to the wall on the beige colored walls opposite his bed.  In the late stages, patients were moved to private rooms due to their erratic behavior.   

Trent sat in the only other vacant chair in the room.  Later he would head to the house and start the long process of cleaning it out for eventual resale.  There was no possible way Lloyd would return to his home despite his excessive pleading and begging. 

To keep him quiet and content, Nurse Rollins put his logbook on the table next to his chair.  He would sometimes flip though the rusted, wrinkled pages of the ancient book to read some of the entries he had made over his time as a pilot.  He did not even notice it.  When he finally did, he peered at it as if it was some foreign object he had no connection to. 

“Trent, I’m afraid it won’t be long now.” Dr. Wagner entered the room.  He picked up Lloyd’s chart and had a cursory look at it, “We have noted some loss of fine and gross motor skills.  He can’t pick up a pen and write his name.  He has trouble holding a book.  His gait has become slower and more labored.”

“I’ve noticed his deterioration since my last visit, too.” Trent sighed.

“I am so sorry.” He patted Trent on the back.

“It’s all for the best, as cruel as it is for me to say.” Trent cocked his head, “There is nothing more for him here.  He does not even know who I am and every day he struggles to do the things he used to take for granted.”

“As a doctor, I hate the progression this thing takes.” He shook his head, “We will make sure he is well taken care of.” 

“The staff has done a remarkable job.” Trent sighed, “I appreciate what you have done for him, even if he doesn’t.” 

“I will talk to you later.” Dr. Wagner waved as he left the room.

“Who the hell was that?” Lloyd said as if he had woken from a dream. 

“Dr. Wagner.” Trent answered dutifully.

“Dr. who?”

Trent went to the house overlooking the inlet near Palmer where he once called home.  Opening the front door, Trent walked inside the two story home of his childhood.  The first thing he did was text his wife so Debbie knew where he was in case she needed to get a hold of him.  She responded with a heart emoji. He smiled for the first time in a while before proceeding to the upstairs rooms where he would begin to remove items he wanted to donate.  There wasn’t much of value as most of the furniture was dilapidated and worn beyond further use. 

The things in his room were from a long time ago that only he would understand anymore.  Slowly he put the things in the middle of the room so the crew that would come tomorrow morning would be able to move out without any hindrance.  So long Axl.  Goodbye Joe.  You will join each other in the black trash bag on the bed. 

As a boy, entering his parents room was forbidden territory, but he was no longer a boy.  The canopy bed would most likely be the first to leave the Goodwill Donation Center.  Some of the other antique furnishings might be taken as well.  

Tears were constantly trying to invade his eyes as he continued to put the things in the center of the room.  

“This plane will always be there to serve you if you keep her maintained.” He said over Trent’s shoulder as he began his descent into a village that wasn’t even on the map his father was holding, “I remember this place.  The villagers dug a runway out of the snow and ice.  Now remember when you put her down, ease up on the throttle.  Nice and gentle or you will go into a skid and you don’t want that.” 

“Sure thing, dad.” Trent saw the runway, but it blended into the snow and ice surrounding it.

“You’re doing just fine.” His father assured him as he felt the nose point down the runway.  There was a bump as the tires made contact with the runway followed by a slight pull to the right, but he had eased up the throttle.  The large Arctic tires bounced along the uneven runway, but holding tight to the stick, Trent was able to control the Cessna until it came to a stop. He saw some of the villagers walking toward the plane.

“Great job, son.  You handled it like a true pro.” He beamed.

Like a true pro. The words echoed in his head.  There were some memories he knew he’d never be able to let go of even as his father slipped deeper and deeper into his ailment. Dr. Wagner once said that Alzheimer's was genetic which worried Trent.  Would his day come when he could not even recognize his own children, Dane and Rose? Life was made up of memories, but once the memories started to disappear into a foggy cloud, what then?

He stood at the attic door.  His trepidation to enter this unexplored cavern made him hesitate before opening the door.  He climbed the steep stairs and stood in the gabled room staring at a few dozen boxes and crates.  If it was useful, his father felt throwing something away was wasteful, so he had accumulated all sorts of meaningless junk over the years.  Now it was Trent’s job to go through this odd collection and decide what stayed and what was discarded. 

After going through the contents of about six boxes, Trent seemed to be making a dent.  But when he opened the box near the attic window, everything came to a sudden stop.  In a shoebox tied in simple twine was crammed full of hand-written letters. At first glance, the letters seemed like love letters, but Lloyd did not meet Nora until he returned from Korea.  Lloyd had indeed written the letters, but the salutation was to his father Ralph who had served in World War I.  Lloyd had never mentioned his father except to say he was the reason Lloyd had decided to come to Alaska, ending each memory by saying, “I came to Alaska to get as far away from that scoundrel as I could.” 

As he read the letters, not a single one mentioned this sentiment about the rift that had developed between them.  Instead, Lloyd had written about how much he missed being at home and doing chores around the family farm.  If Lloyd had a grudge to bear against his father, these letters did not state it anywhere.  Each of them bore “With Love, Lloyd.” 

He was through about half of them when his cellphone rang.  Trent pushed the button, “Hello.” 

“Trent?” A familiar voice sounded.

“Yeah, Dr. Wagner.” He sighed.

“I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you, but your father passed away at four this evening.” His voice was heavy as he spoke.

“I’ll be right down.” Trent nodded.

“No hurry.  We just have a few forms to fill out before we can release his body.  Do you have a place in mind for final services?” Dr. Wagner asked.

“Yes, I will contact them after I hang up.  I’ll be down after that.” He felt as if someone or something was pressing against his chest. 

“Trent, I am so sorry.” Dr. Wagner said.

“Me too.” He pressed the red button and then dialed Mumford Mortuary where he would have his father’s remains cremated.

There was nothing more soothing than to be cruising at ten thousand feet above the crystal blue ocean where the winds would not push you until you felt as if you were holding on to thin air.  All you could hear was the buzz of the engine as it sang happily along with the blue sky hovering overhead.  He was on his way to Nome to deliver some needed medical supplies.  Below he could see the fishing boat bob like toy boats in the Bering Sea.  One of his friends had taken him on one of those boats.  After that awful experience, Trent preferred dancing with the fluffy clouds where he could almost hear his father’s voice giving him guidance through some of the turbulence he encountered as moved along.  He loved being a bush pilot where most of the vastness of Alaska could only be reached by air. 

The day after his father’s service, Trent burned the letters in a metal trash can he used to burn waste paper.  He did it after sunset so he could watch the sparks float toward Heaven where he was sure his father would be holding on to thin air. 

Aunt Stella, his father’s younger sister, told him there was an argument between them because Lloyd became restless after a year on the farm.  

“A lot of the boys returning from war in Europe got itchy feet when they got home.” She told him on the phone when he called to let her know about her brother. “He done what his heart told him to do.”   

Truer words have never been spoken.