Chapter One
I hate airplanes. I hate the too-small seats and the forced proximity with strange people. I hate the double-thick plastic that separates me from the fluffy clouds and clean air outside. I hate the flimsy headphones and the in flight movies that I can never quite see. I hate the recycled, stale air, and the way every exhale comes back to me with every intake of breath. I hate the tray tables, cluttered the sticky, hollow rings of previous drinks, the deeper stains of previous spills, haunted by the people who used them before me. I hate airplanes. And I hate starting over.
This was my fault, my idea. My need to take care of my mother, my insistence on the change. I just wanted her to be happy, to get her smile back. I missed her smile. I knew she did, too. Her husband, my step-father, traveled constantly for work, and it was killing her to be apart from him. But it was a sacrifice she made willingly and without complaint… for me. And now I can make sacrifices, too. She was resistant, unwilling to let me go, but I convinced her. I would live with my father in Washington. I would leave Phoenix and our house with the blue front door at the end of the block. I would leave my room with the pale pink walls, unchanged since we had painted them together when I was a little girl. I would leave the sun and the desert and the hot breeze that would plaster my hair against my neck while my mother and I would take our nightly walk around the neighborhood, a habit leftover from one of her exercise obsessed phases. I would leave, and she would travel with Phil, and they would be happy. And I would start over. I hate starting over.
I sat back in my seat, my legs cramped from sitting too long, and let my head fall back against the cracked vinyl headrest. Exhaling sharply through pursed lips, I let my gaze drift towards the half-open window and thought about what would wait for me when I landed. This was the last leg of the trip, the quick flight to Port Angeles where my father, Charlie, would be waiting, smiling uncomfortably, I was sure. We would land soon, the plane would empty onto the tarmac, and there he would be, shifting his weight. We would load my trunks, mostly filled with knick knacks rather than clothes, as my new home would be much colder than my old one, into his car, and we would begin the hour long drive to the house my parents bought when I was born. The house I hadn't been to in years, because I insisted Charlie spend his vacations with me in warmer, sunnier places. The plane began to descend, the lone flight attendant walking the aisle to check seat belts and tray tables, a bored expression on her face. I leaned down to put my MP3 player away, sighing as I realized I had been too deep in thought to pay attention to the music that was meant to relax me. Straightening, I lifted the window shade, gazing intently at the approaching ground and saying my last goodbye to the sun as we dipped below the dull gray clouds. I bit my lip, feeling a small, tense knot develop in my stomach as we came closer and closer to the ground until, finally, the landing gear met the runway, the plane skidded to a stop, and it was all over. I was here. And it was too late to go back. I hate starting over.