Fly Away by Kristin Hannah Page A

“You were the glue that held us together.
     Without you…”
    There is a long silence; in it, I wonder if she is remembering her life, her loves.
     How does it feel to know that people couldn’t handle living without you? How does
     it feel to know you were loved by so many people?
    What happened to you after he moved to Los Angeles?
    I sigh. “Can’t I just walk into the damned light and be done with all this?”
    You yelled for me, remember? You said you needed me. I’m here. And this is why: you
     need to remember. This is it. So, talk.
    I lean back in the chair, staring up at a votive candle burning within the rounded
     glass sides of the Mason jar. Rough twine holds the jar in place; an impossible breeze
     touches it every now and then, splashing light into the dark lower branches of the
     tree. “After you died, Johnny and the kids moved to Los Angeles. It happened fast,
     that moving. Your husband just up and decided he was going to Los Angeles, and the
     next thing I knew, he and the kids were gone. I remember saying goodbye in November
     of 2006, standing with your mom and dad in the driveway, waving goodbye. After that,
     I went home and crawled …
    into bed. I know I need to go back to work, but I can’t do it. Honestly, the very
     idea is overwhelming. I can’t summon the strength to begin the process of starting
     my life over without a best friend. At that, loss weighs me down and I close my eyes.
     It’s okay to be depressed for a while, who wouldn’t be?
    Somehow I lose two weeks. I mean, I don’t really lose them. I know where they are, and where I am. I am like some wounded animal in a darkened
     lair, nursing the thorn in my paw, unable to find anyone to pull it out. I call Marah
     every night at eleven o’clock. I know that she can’t sleep, either. I lie in my bed,
     listening to her complain about her father’s decision to move, and I tell her that
     it will be okay, but neither of us believes it. I promise to visit soon.
    Finally, I can’t stand it anymore. I throw the covers off me and go through my condo,
     turning on lights and opening containers. Light fills the rooms, and in its glare
     I see myself for the first time: my hair is tangled and dirty, my eyes are glazed-looking,
     and my clothes are a wrinkled mess.
    I look like my mother. I am ashamed and embarrassed that I have fallen so far and
     so fast.
    It is time to recover.
    There it is. My goal. I can’t just lie around missing my best friend and grieving
     for what is gone. I have to put all of this behind me and go on.
    I know how to do that. I’ve been doing it all my life. I call my agent, make an appointment
     to see him. He is in Los Angeles: I will see my agent, get back to work, and surprise
     Johnny and the kids with a visit.
    Yes. Perfect. A plan.
    With an appointment made, I feel better. I take a shower and style my hair with care.
     I notice that I am gray at the roots.
    When did that happen?
    Frowning, I try to hide it by pulling my hair back into a ponytail. I apply makeup
     with a heavy hand. I’m going out into the world, after all, and there are cameras
     everywhere these days. I dress in the only thing that fits comfortably over my widening
     hips—a black knit pencil skirt, knee-length boots, and a black silk fitted blouse
     with an asymmetrical collar.
    I do well—I mean, I call my travel agent and make reservations and get dressed, and
     all the while I am smiling, thinking, I can do this, of course I can —and then I open the door of my condo and I feel a flash of panic. My throat goes
     dry, my forehead prickles with sweat, my heartbeat speeds up.
    I am afraid to leave my house.
    I don’t know what in the hell is wrong with me, but I won’t stand for it. I take a
     deep breath and plunge forward. All the way to the elevator, and down to my car, and
     into the driver’s seat. I can feel my heart thudding in my chest.
    I start the car and drive out into the busy, bustling Seattle street. A heavy