My Soul to Keep

My Soul to Keep

by

Melissa Solis

Hot tears streaming down my cool face awakens me. I sweep them away with my fingers and slowly make my way out of bed. It’s early morning, and the birds are already serenading the dawn. Still half-asleep, I trudge to my bathroom and wash my tear-stained face. Every night for seven years, I’ve had the same nightmare. If only it were a dream. If only I could forget that it ever happened. I close my eyes, and try to force the memory of the stranger’s face, but nothing comes. He is only a mist, a shadow here, a blur there.

I turn on the shower and allow the warm steam to envelop me and melt my headache away. Most of my mornings start on this somber note. What I wouldn’t give just once to wake up all sunshine and butterflies. Heck, I’d even settle for misty and moths.

My dream always begins with the same crystal clarity. It’s the first day of my summer vacation. I am ten years old and leaving my home in San Diego for Dallas to spend the summer with my mother, as I always did after their divorce. I often dreaded the trip for weeks leading up to it, and that year was no different. It wasn’t that I didn’t love my mother but I had grown accustomed to our estranged relationship. The dream always starts with my leaving my bedroom that morning.

~ I cling to my crystal doorknob for a moment before pulling it shut. I listen as the waves outside break methodically along the shoreline. I inhale the scent of maple syrup, bacon mixed with the salty sea air, for the last time. This dulcet scent is the smell of home, and I want to savor it for just one second longer.

“Brennen,” my dad yells from the car while honking out the obnoxious melody of “Shave and a Haircut.” The man lives to embarrass me. What can I say?

“Coming, Dad—keep your panties on!”  I sling my leather bag over my shoulder and pull my long blond mane out from under the strap. I stomp out of the front door, slamming it good and hard to announce my frustration to the neighborhood, namely my dad. I’ll miss this house and the beach so much this summer. My dad stands by the car smirking at me. As I glare at him, I think to myself how much I will miss him more than anything. He is a large, well-built machine of a man. At over six feet tall, he towers next to the small V.W. bug. His surfer’s tan and his balding head give him a distinguished yet approachable look.

“What?” he yells playfully while grinning, helpless against my temper. I pause at the open car door and take a mental snapshot of my beach — our beach — before I slump down in the car.

“This sucks you know.” I cross my arms and throw on a serious scowl.

“Aw, you want some cheese with that whine?” he quips yet another one of his outdated, overused clichés. I retaliate with an eye roll. Good-byes weren’t something either of us did well. I would think I’d be used to it by now, but in ten years, it hasn’t gotten any easier.

We arrive at the gate, and my dad kneels down beside me as I kiss the top of his bare head.

“Bye, old man!”

He wraps his gigantic arms around me into a bear hug that could crush a hippo. He is leaving next week for a classified three-month Navy Special Forces operation. As always, I am worried about him. I know his job is dangerous—deadly even—but he always makes light of it for my sake.

“I’m gonna miss you, baby girl.”

“Can’t breathe, need air,” I squeak out. He sighs and kisses my cheek.

“Fine, later daughter-o-mine,” he says with a dubious Irish accent. 

“Love you.” I squirm out of his tactical hold.

“Love you too.”

I board the plane as if walking the plank, one desultory step at a time. I’m guided to my seat by one cheerful young blond-haired, blue-eyed attendant, the epitome of a Cali girl if I’ve ever met one.

“Can I get you anything, Ms. Hale?” Her voice is sincere and syrupy, just shy of nauseating.

“No, I’m fine. Thank you,” I reply in my own sweet tone. I plop into my window seat and pass the time by people watching. A woman with a young baby boy sits in front of me. I can tell she is worried about how he’ll do. Trust me: we’re all worried about how he’ll do. Two elderly ladies are sit in my row; they introduce themselves as May and Evelyn. They chat about visiting their great-grandchildren.  I get the impression they’re sisters. Both wear the same teased football helmet coif my grandmother does. Lots of men in slacks and ties, each looking as if he did this all too frequently.

 A group of high school boys come down the aisle. They could fill up the whole rear section—a soccer team perhaps? They’re rowdy and obnoxiously brazen, whistling catcalls to the attendants like middle-aged construction workers. Their chaperone is a rail-thin speck of a woman, who looks like she would blow over if the wind rose above stagnant. Her feeble attempt to quiet the brats has loosened her already frazzled bun.  An equally chubby couple takes a seat in my row. I gather from their conversation that she’s afraid to fly and her husband points me out.

“See, even that little girl isn’t afraid. There is nothing to worry about, honey.” He gives me a wink. I feel obliged to help in some way. She did look like she was sweating bullets after all.

“Yes, ma’am—I fly this way every summer and that old pilot keeps getting better at it every time,” I manage to say with a straight face. She titters and flags down the first attendant she sees and orders a rum and coke.  I get cozy in my seat and pull out the book my dad gave me to read, The Eyes of the Dragon by Stephen King. It captures my attention right away.

About an hour into the flight, the attendant passes by, and I ask her if the plane is flying higher than normal today because my ears are having a rough time adjusting. She confirms it and says it’s to avoid turbulence. There are tears in my eyes from the pain. I feel as if any moment my head is going to explode all over May and Evelyn. The attendant keeps bringing me water to sip on, swearing swallowing will help to pressurize my ears. I hope she is right, because brains would not look so good on May’s periwinkle twin sweater-set.  I peek over at the lady afraid to fly; she is well into what’s probably her fifth cocktail by now and happy as a clam. The baby is fast asleep for now—lucky.

By the time we reach Texas I have downed about a gallon of water and repeatedly had to climb over the elderly sisters to use the restroom. Thanks for the window seat, Dad. On my nineteenth trip to the tiny coffin-like chamber, I vow to let my head explode before drinking another drop of water. I turn the handle to “Occupied” and once again sit. I check my reflection in the mirror half-expecting my eye color to have been diluted. My eyes return the stare, still green as the emerald mountains of Kauai.

Suddenly the plane shudders hard. I grip the counter, widening my stance so that I won’t fall into the toilet. I don’t care how many times I’ve flown, when I hit turbulence I at least have the glancing thought—this could be it. The End! The seat belt warning chime is dinging outside my door. I’d better get out of here before my rear end ends up in the electric blue sludge. I reach for the lock but the plane shudders violently again, tossing me back into the sink where I nail my elbow. Yep, that hurts.  I hear gasps and screams coming from outside, probably the soccer team, bunch of pansies.

Before I can steady myself, I lurch forward into the door. Well, at least it is in the right direction this time. However, my knees give way under misdirection from me and I end up crumpling to the floor. Maybe this is for the best. I resign my bottom to stay on the ground.

 The surface is strumming unnaturally beneath me like an overloaded washing machine that’s agitated itself off its base, and honest fear floods into my chest. This is not good. Tears began streaming down my face. Great, even better.

 I hear luggage falling out of overhead bins and more screams. Stupid plane, stupid divorce, stupid bladder. I can’t believe I am going to die in a freaking bathroom.

 I hug my knees and bury my head in my sleeves. The room dims to black and back to light, flickering out its own eerie Morse code.

As I look up, the door lock shifts to “Vacant” and the door eases open. Relief washes over me. The chaos from outside is deafening. I am frozen as I lock eyes with the stranger. He steps in, closes and locks the door behind him. No. No!

 My eyes grow large, I shoot up, while backing away, but there is nowhere to go. He is tall and built like a brick wall. Panic floods my brain as I try to make a choice between fight and flight.

“Hey, it’s okay. I am not going to hurt you—alright?” He speaks in that take-somebody-off-of-the-ledge voice. His palms are up, the universal sign to inform me he has no ill intent.

“I’m only here to help, and right now the plane is having some problems and you need to stay in here.” His voice is calming and sounds like smooth cashmere. I nod and begin to feel safer than I did a moment ago. The plane rocks and tosses me right into his arms.

“Whoa, I’ve got you.” He wraps his sure arms around me. They feel impenetrable, like a steel cage, my reprieve from the impending collision with the rock-hard Texas clay I am sure we’re barreling toward at breakneck speeds. Somehow my terror melts away and I decide this is as good as any place to be right now. My hot tears still flow freely, dampening his blue shirt, and he holds me tighter. The floor bucks forcefully under our feet. We should be bouncing off the walls like a ping pong ball; however we are not. We are still, steady, even – oddly serene in this damn coffin of a bathroom.

The screams outside grow desperate and alarming. I bury my head into the stranger as far as I can. The baby boy cries and I want to pull him in here with us, I want to save him. The captain is saying something over the intercom but I can’t make out what it is. The arms of my steel cage mute their pleas. I feel gravity pulling me toward the sink once again, and I am bewildered as to why we aren’t falling with its pull.

“Shh, shh,” the stranger whispers. I hadn’t realized until then that I was sobbing uncontrollably.

I quiet myself, and with a ragged breath I ask, “Are we going to crash?” My little fingers wind around his T-shirt for insurance.

“Now don’t you worry about that, Brennen—I will always keep you safe.” His voice is a soft whisper. Sadness washes over me when I realize I can no longer hear the cries of the others. How does he know my name, I wonder?

“But…we’re going to die,” I whisper back. He shakes his head no. It is then that I begin to smell the scent of home—pancakes dripping with syrup, bacon, and salty sea air. It comforts me somehow. I want to go home, now. “I want my daddy,” is my last thought before the world around me fades to black.

A deafening reverberation causes me to open my eyes, but bright light forces them shut again. I brace myself for the impact. It never comes. I’m afraid to open my eyes. I peek out of one. Darkness surrounds me like a moonless night; the loneliness of it is consuming. Everything is now perfectly quiet. Have I died? I hope this is not my final resting place. All of eternity in a black room. Lovely, I think.

“Hello, is anyone there?” I listen but hear nothing; no one answers. Great, this is super cool. How the heck did I get in here? Okay, I was on a plane, a crashing plane, with a big guy wrapped around me. Where did he go?

“Guy?” I shout. Okay, crashing plane logically means I’m dead. Ten years—is that all I get? I haven’t even been to Disney World yet. I sigh with frustration. With my hands outstretched, I walk around the room for a long time looking for a way out. Each step I take echoes, bouncing around the cavernous room. The resonating sound makes my arm hair stand at attention.  This is beyond creepy.

“I think I found one!” I hear a man’s voice say, as my ears prick back.

“I’m in here,” I call out, but my voice is faint.

“Help me—I’m in here.” I try to be more audible; it too comes as a whisper. I hear more noises and they’re getting closer.

“Oh my God—she’s alive!” I hear him say right next to me. I feel hands on my body, but when I look around I see nothing. I close my eyes and feel the warmth of the sun on my skin. I think I’m outside. I seal my eyes shut even tighter. The light is too bright after being in the pitch black.  I go to shield my eyes from the sun with my arm and find it’s already been restrained.  The air smells foul. I’m on a gurney being wheeled somewhere fast. I can’t look around either; my head and neck are also restrained. The air is beginning to clear but the smell still lingers, thick with the stench of death. No! Not all those people.

“You are going to be okay, little one,” I hear the medic say. They lift me into an ambulance. My eyes adjust and I am finally able to see. The men slam the doors and we’re on our way. They hook my finger to a monitor and check my blood pressure. I hear numbers that don’t mean anything to me. Their voices are laden with stress. 

“Where is the guy that was with me? Did you find him?” I manage to get out, though my voice sounds harsh and broken. The medic nearest my head looks at me with sorrow written on his face as he checks my pupils for dilation.

“Are you in any pain?” he asks, and I think about it.

“No!” I blurt out with an angry tone. He stares at me in disbelief.

“It could be the adrenaline,” he says to another medic.

“Can you feel this?” He pinches my toe. I wiggle my foot.

“Yes,” I growl, growing more annoyed that my question never got answered. He continues his evaluation all the way to the hospital, where it is all thoroughly repeated by a barrage of doctors. I am fine. How in the world am I fine?

“Did we crash?” I keep asking, but no one answers any questions I have. I still didn’t know if we just had a rough landing, if we crashed, or if anyone else from the plane was here with me. My anxiety grows with my frustration. As soon as my restraints are undone, I spring free of the bed. I stagger on my feet, and a dozen hands move to steady me, causing me to crouch down like a feral cat on defense.

            “Will someone please tell me what the hell happened?” They all freeze for a second, staring at me with wide-eyed disbelief. The older doctor lowers his lids, and I can tell by the pity in his eyes that he will divulge the truth. He puts his arm around my shoulder and guides me back to the bed, dismissing the crew with a wave of his hand.

“Brennen, is it?” His voice is laden with sorrow. I nod and take in a lungful of air to ready myself for whatever he may tell me.

“Your plane went down just outside El Paso—they believe there was a fire on board. They don’t know the cause, but according to the local authorities, the captain managed to get as close to the ground as he could before he perished. You are the only one we found alive. You were found under a large piece of metal debris. We think it’s a miracle you survived such a horrific crash, and yet, you don’t have a single broken bone, not even a scratch or bruise anywhere. I have never seen anything like it, in all my years. Do you remember anything?”

“I remember everything...” I trail off, except now I didn’t. Now I don’t remember his face. My steel cage is now just a blur, a shadow, a mist. I do however remember every other face, and as I take in the catastrophic fact that two hundred and forty three people will never make it to their final destination, I weep. That little baby boy, his momma, the elderly sisters, an entire soccer team—all dead. And I get to live. Hot tears run down my cool face as the doctor holds me in a comforting embrace. Then I wake up with new tears that I shed every morning for the lost souls of Flight Two Oh Six.

Nearly eight years have passed, and I have no more answers than I did back then. I still remember all of their faces except for one. “Did he really even exist?” I ask myself every day, and I still don’t know for sure. My therapist believes I hit my head and passed out, and that he was just a vivid dream, my mind’s way of coping with survivor’s guilt. Except, they didn’t find any bumps on my head. 

***

I stand in my room wrapped in a towel, trying to decide what to wear on the first day of my senior year, in this way too big of a house, all by myself. I pull a peach floral sundress from the hanger and slip it over my head.  I tug on my well-worn brown leather boots. My dad always preferred me to wear dresses, so this one’s for you, Dad.

      I’ve come to like Virginia a lot. My grandmother bought this grand five-bedroom house when my dad was stationed here for a brief stint, before I was born.  It has a stunning oceanfront view right on Sandbridge Beach, a small town just south of Virginia Beach. I’ve moved around so much with my dad being in the service that this is the one place that always felt like a real home to me. I like the small town vibe here. Everyone knows everyone’s business, except mine I hope. I drive forty-five minutes to Norfolk to go to a magnet school for politically minded individuals.

      I pull my V.W. Beetle into the lot at school and apply a touch of gloss to my lips. My grandmother generously gifted me the car for my birthday last year. She was never one to try and buy your love, no, she was more likely to engorge you every Sunday with homemade buttered biscuits, sausage gravy, and other artery-clogging feasts to show you just how much she loved you. She couldn’t drive me anymore, so the car was more of a necessity than a grand show of her assets.

Inside, Emily Reed bounds over to me and wraps her arms around my neck. She was the first person to acknowledge my existence when I enrolled here last year, at the beginning of my junior year. We’re still in the “getting to know you” phase of our friendship. She wears her mahogany hair in a loose braid today; it suits her. She’s on the heavy side but carries herself with confidence and grace. I admire that about her.

“Bren, oh my goodness look at you! You’re so tan! How was your summer?”

      “Emily, hi, you look amazing. My summer was nice.” I shrug. I catch the small turn of her brow. She spots something off.  I am a horrible liar. “I’ll see you at lunch,” I tell her, trailing off as I turn and hurry in the other direction, pretending to be late for class. I make a B-line to my first class. Mrs. Cohen. My English Literature teacher is at her desk fiddling with the projector.

“Good morning, Miss. Hale.” The teacher speaks in a very proper sounding British accent. I am going to love hearing Jane Austen in that inflection.

“And to you, Mrs. Cohen,” I respond.

 I walk down the center row of student desks and take a seat in the rear of the class. The room is bright and cheery. She has made it her own with posters of Victorian garden parties. On her desk sits a vase of fresh pink roses positioned on a lace doily. As the classroom begins to fill, the most popular girl in school, Ari Campbell, sits in front of me. As she primps herself, her long unnaturally black locks almost slap me in the face. I back away, knitting my brows together.

 A very tall, golden-haired boy takes the seat next to mine. I think he’s new here, but I can’t be sure because I am relatively new too.  He brushes his feral waves back with his fingers as he smiles at me. His well-worn jeans look soft and hug him in that way that makes me wonder things I shouldn’t be wondering about at seventeen. He is in a plain gray T-shirt and black, scuffed-as-hell western boots. Simple, understated, he has no clue that every girl in this room is mentally caressing his lean torso right now. I return a small smile and quickly look away. Wow, his eyes are rich amber brown, the color of maple leaves in fall. They add charm and kindness to his face. He has an athletic build for being so tall. I wonder what sport he plays.

It’s apparent that Ari notices him right away too. She whips around, almost sideswiping me with her hair again. I give her a look that screams girl, you are about to get a new style if I have to unpack my scissors. She notices this time and apologizes by mouthing “sorry” to me. I retract my claws as she turns to the new guy.

“Hello, I’m Ari. Are you new here?” She flashes her full red-lipped megawatt smile at him. Jeez, Ari—subtle much?

I watch as he takes her all in. Yep, she’s every guy’s fantasy. In a barely there tank and short red skirt that shouts I’m not a hooker but I play one on TV! 

“Sam, and yes I am.” He stretches those long legs out as he relaxes in his seat. He has a thick southern accent that I guess came from…

“Texas?”

      Did I just speak? Yes, you did. Well, own it then. I look up at him. The heat that fills my face is alarming. Why? Why are you doing this to me? I scold my betraying body. He grabs his lower lip, suppressing a smile.

“Fort Worth—is it that obvious?” he asks with a half-smile pulled to one side.  Oh my goodness, he is adorable. His molten eyes soften as he resumes his languid gaze back up to me.

I nod and giggle. Are you kidding me? I did not just giggle like some giddy schoolgirl with her first crush. What is wrong with me?

“My apologies—it seems you have me at a disadvantage,” he says as he lowers his head and awaits my response.

“Oh, sorry. Brennen Hale.” I flush ten shades of crimson, which I never do. I do not blush, giggle, or fawn over boys.

“That’s a pretty name,” he says with his full attention on me. His compliment causes my mouth to go unexpectedly parched. I feel like a road kill frog that has baked on the hot southern asphalt all afternoon. Yes, Sam has reduced me to frog chips.

I notice how a light smile highlights his kind eyes. It’s all very charming. While trying to advert my eyes to somewhere other than the fit of his T-shirt, I also observe that Ari doesn’t like how much attention he’s paying me at the moment. She shifts in her seat so that her skirt rides up, showing a little more thigh —she is proposing a challenge. Hmm, God help him, he’s all yours, Ari.

“Thank you,” I reply to him and fix my gaze back to the whiteboard where it belongs. I don’t know why my hormones are all ramped up over that guy. The last thing I need is to draw any further attention to myself this year. I need to keep people way out of my business. If anyone finds out what I am hiding, my life could be ruined. I need to be invisible, or at least stay under the radar.

Sensing my defeat, Ari bombards him with questions until the bell rings. I learn from her inquisition he is in the horse ranching business, on the swim team, and hopes to make baseball in the spring. He has two younger sisters— twins—ten years old. His favorite music is country but he likes a little bit of everything. And he thinks Ari is annoying. I can hear it in his voice; she is too self-absorbed to notice. I smile inside at the small victory: maybe she’s not every guy’s fantasy.