God and Jetfire (49 page)
Authors: Amy Seek
“What's that?”
“Oh, that's a compass, and I'm not sure what that does; I don't think it's anything important.”
My son looks at me, smiling. My dad has so little energy, I'm glad Jonathan can detect levity in him. I'm glad there is still levity left in my father. He's never felt any obligation to admit he was kidding.
And who taught my son what a compass is? When? That he knows it so well he can know it would be a joke not to know what a compass is.
“⦠Do I have a parachute?”
“No. No, we don't fly with parachutes.”
My son looks at me again, to see if he should smile. That was not entirely a joke, I think, but I'll never know.
“Oh, you'll need to help me look out for aircraft.” My dad remembers an important part of copiloting. My son points his arm forward and says, “Twelve o'clock, one o'clock, two o'clock,” as he rotates it clockwise. This is how he will indicate the location of the other aircraft. We went over this at breakfast, but my son had already learned it, maybe from Paula's father, who was a commercial pilot.
“Six would be right behind you. Straight back. You won't see anything at six.”
My dad taught me to tell time, using a clock by the side of his bed whose entire face glowed pale peach. It seemed to me deeply illogical that for one hand, you take the clock at face value, but for the other hand, just because it's longer, you multiply the values it points to by five. And then you put them together or reverse them in a whole variety of acceptable ways. I remember my father's frustration and my own, and I try to imagine the knowledge of the face of the clock still rather new for my son.
“You'll be able to see from nine o'clock to three o clock,” I offer.
My dad cups his head in his hands.
“Dad, you feeling all right?”
“âOh yeah. I'm just resting.”
My knowledge about my dad's condition is like my knowledge of God. I know that my dad is dying, but I don't know what to do about it.
“âWhat if they're below us, then what do I say?”
My son is not bothered by my dad's weakness. He's always looking for the exception that makes the system fail. The single structural weakness that will make the entire bridge collapse.
A plane comes in for a landing and my dad takes advantage of the interruption to get up and inspect the canopy. The towplanes are always zipping around against the grain, to pick up gliders that are ready to go. I push a hat through Jonathan's little window as my dad lowers himself in and fastens his straps. I ask whether he's had enough to drink. He says he has a drink somewhere. He's not supposed to be drinking Gatorade; too much potassium and too many carcinogenic dyes, but his doctors say he can have whatever he wants now. I hand him the Gatorade that's sitting to the side of the plane. He breathes deliberately, audibly. Like someone who's getting ready to lift a heavy weight.
“All right, Andrew, I won't talkâ”
“Jonathan!”
I say.
“I won't talk much until after takeoff.” My dad is already too focused on flight to correct himself, but I want to make sure he knows who his passenger is.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Soon, I'd be struggling to understand the meaning of my father, the way I've always tried to make sense of my son. I'd be drawn to him like a lover, compelled to press my hand against his heart, feel my own rhythms moved by the power of its beat; it pounded hard, like he was determined to stay. Like I'd so often studied my son, I'd read the slightest shift in his eyebrows, to say he wanted something he didn't have the energy to ask for. I'd massage his neck for hours, a feast of forgetting myself. I'd want to touch the cold stillness creeping up on him, starting at his toes, and I'd pursue togetherness, perpetually receding into the cool, vast mystery of a separate body. We'd sit at his bedside, sending happy things afloat in his imagination; our beloved stories against the groundlessness of night. I would see him sorry to leave, death imparting no special wisdom to make it easier to let go. I'd press my hand to his heart until its last beat, and, still, the weight of his ashes would feel like a lover's touch, resonant with potential. And I'd find my heart doing leaps and bounds as it tried to make sense of an overwhelming new affection for himâbutterflies for my dead father.
It shouldn't surprise me that my heart malfunctions in these ways, with everything I've done to test it.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
The towplane pulls up. One of the other pilots, Ron, runs to grab the rope. Over the noise of the propeller, I hear my dad saying his prayers: “straps tight, controls free and clear.” He has his head in both hands. I walk to the wing and hear Ron say, “Perfect day!” as he approaches the canopy with the towrope. “Good as it gets,” my dad says, and smiles up at him. Ron makes a fist to tell my dad he has the towrope in place. “We lucked out,” my dad says. “It's not luck,” Ron says as he lowers the canopy, and my father sends both red latches forward. My dad and my son, my furthest extents, strapped tightly together in the tiny glass canopy, closed and locked.
My dad has shown me how to run the wing. I've done it many times, since I was little. Sweeping my arm in small arcs till the slack of the towrope is out, and then, when he gives the thumbs-up, in full circles. The towrope pulls taut, and I run alongside the plane, holding the wing level as the rubber wheels squeak and bound across the field. I'm running to keep the wing steady, running to weigh it down. I'm still running as it leaves my hands.
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This is a true story, though some names and details have been changed.
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I have many people to thank. My sister, for her patient rereadings. Paula Crossfield, for her relentlessness in reminding me to write this story. The many friends who alternately supported me and forgave my absence, most of all Miya, Tatiana, Heather, and David. My editors, Courtney Hodell and Alex Star. My physical therapist, Stephen Rodriguez, for making running and writing almost painless. My son's family, who are always, everywhere, doing immeasurably more than the least they could do. And everyone represented here, for being a part of this story.
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Amy Seek
is a landscape architect. She lives in London and New York. You can sign up for email updates
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CONTENTS
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Farrar, Straus and Giroux
18 West 18th Street, New York 10011
Copyright © 2015 by Amy Seek
All rights reserved
First edition, 2015
eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to [email protected].
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Seek, Amy, 1977â
    God and Jetfire: confessions of a birth mother / Amy Seek. â 1st Edition.
        pages cm
    ISBN 978-0-374-16445-4 (hardback) â ISBN 978-0-374-71382-9 (e-book)
    1.  Open adoption.  2.  Motherhood.  3.  Families.  I.  Title.
HV875 .S375 2015
306.874âdc23
[B]
2014044643
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