Above Us Only Sky by Michele Young-Stone Page B

of the benches halfway between the beach and my falling-off point.
    He rolled over to pull his coat tighter where his zipper was broken, and seeing something in the distance, crawled out from beneath the bench to try and make out what it was. At one time, he’d worn glasses for astigmatism, but hadn’t worn them in many years. Reportedly, he saw a giant bird perched on the ledge. Then he rubbed his eyes and saw a person standing there. He claims that I stepped off the edge. Hearing the splash, he went to the pay phone at the pier’s entrance and called the operator. He told her, “At first, I thought I saw a bird, but then it had arms and legs.” The operator notified the Coast Guard and the police, and they notified the local hospital.
    Coast Guard helicopters were dispatched to search the choppy water. Because of the dangerous surf, I was presumed dead. I don’t remember being pulled from the water or flying in a helicopter to the hospital in Jacksonville. “She’s not a bird,” the Coast Guard men joked, but I was surprisingly easy to spot beneath their searchlight. Covered in bioluminescent plankton, I was a five-point star. Jellyfish tentacles were strung across my arms and legs.
    When I woke in the hospital, I was examined by a smiling nurse and an icy doctor, who only made contact when he shined a light in my eye. At two a.m., I told the nurse my name and phone number. They telephoned Veronica. My next visitors were policemen. They told me that committing suicide was illegal, not just with the Catholics but also with the local government. At five a.m., I saw Veronica. She was pale, the crunchiness washed clean from her hair. Already she’d telephoned Freddie, who was still in Brooklyn. My room had its own phone, and while the nurse checked my temperature, Veronica was on with Freddie again. She told him that I would be okay, whispering, “I don’t know what happened.” She felt guilty, I think, for telling me that my grandparents only wanted to meet me because they were old.
    Freddie wanted to talk to me. Veronica handed me the phone. I remember telling him, point-blank, “I didn’t jump off the pier. I fell or something.”
    He said, “We’re coming to see you. We’re driving.”
    â€œI’m going home tomorrow.” I started to tell him our address.
    â€œHoney,” he said, his voice cracking, “I know where you live.” He said, “I love you very much.” I refused to cry. Then he explained that my Oma had a propensity toward blood clots, so they’d have to stop every two or three hours for her to stretch her legs. He said, “I’m sorry that I didn’t call on your birthday,” and then he started crying. “I love you so much, little bird.” He was crying so hard that it sounded like he was hyperventilating. I was callous, a little satisfied by his tears. He could cry, but I wouldn’t.
    The nurses were kind. They told me, “No more night swimming.” They laughed a lot, squeezing my forearm, feeling sorry for me. Then a social worker came to interview me. I didn’t mention my wings. I had learned from Wheaton not to say anything surprising or unusual, lest I get thrown into some institution like the Gardens. Instead, I told the social worker that I’d gone for a walk. I wanted to see what it felt like to stand over a dark ocean. I was pensive because I knew that my grandparents were coming. It was windy. I slipped. Basically, everything was true, except that I wanted to see what it felt like to fly. Maybe, for those three seconds, I did fly. Like Freddie and the Old Man’s old man, I was an optimist. I was born with wings. How could I be otherwise?
    On the afternoon of May seventeenth, a Wednesday, I was released into Veronica’s care. I pretended to sleep on the car ride home. When we pulled into the driveway, Wheaton was waiting. I emerged from the car, stiff and