fast. I almost didn’t know what happened. But when I came to—oh, Sam, I knew instantly. I felt the pain, and saw the purple shadows on the water, saw little dots of light, the kind you see when you’re just passing out, because I hurt so much—and I wasn’t sure I could move. I just thought of Paul, those last minutes. What were his like, his last minutes?
This is what I don’t want to think—I don’t even want to write it. Sam, did he know the plane was crashing? Did he feel himself falling out of the sky? You said it was ice on the wings, making the plane too heavy. So that means it wasn’t sudden, right? There was time to think and react.
It means he knew what was coming, that’s what I don’t want to hear but have to know. Just tell me. Please, as soon as you can. Even though I’m not sure I can stand to hear it. I read a book once that said when planes crash and the black box picks up the last words of the pilots and anyone in the cockpit, they’re heard calling for their mothers. That’s what’s killing me, Sam—the idea that Paul died calling for me.
Julie is coming out here. She and I always like to see each other during the holidays, so she’s taking the ferry out from Port Clyde next week. I’m not prepared for her this year. Three years now and suddenly it seems harder than ever.
And that question I asked in my last letter—what do I want? How does it all add up? The painkiller has a strange side effect; it keeps me from being able to block out thoughts. I can’t censor or stem what’s coming up. I’m getting an answer I never thought I’d get. Chalk it up to the Vicodin, maybe…
I’m sending this to the most recent address you gave me—Laika Star—and don’t know when you’ll get it. Be careful, Sam. Life is dangerous.
Hadley
Hadley—
I’m back. Does that surprise you? Time is different for people when they are separated. I am back and I am safe and I have been to Paul’s last moment. I have a great deal to report.
I am not feeling well, Hadley. I considered not telling you, but I know how you would be if you found out I kept it from you. I have pneumonia by most accounts. I guess it settled into my lungs on the trip and I was not well for the return. I made it, though. We have been snowed in since just after we arrived back, so I have not been able to see a doctor. Gus, believe it or not, worked as a mortuary assistant for some years in Florida and he did the diagnosis. It may simply be a bad cold, though I admit it doesn’t feel like that right now. I cough and I am running a fever. Gus has been extremely attentive, so you have no worries. As soon as conditions improve, Cindy has promised to fly in and whisk me away to Anchorage.
I promise I will tell you if I don’t improve rapidly. Promise me that you won’t worry overmuch.
The last three-quarters of the trip—from the point, really, where I sent my last batch of letters—was no picnic. Even Martha, who is unflappable and as unyielding to her body as any human I have ever met, had difficulty. We got hit by two whiteouts, where the snow came so thick and so fast that dogs swirled around you and then disappeared, only to reemerge from a different angle. Every sight and sound seemed reinvented a moment after you saw or heard it. I can’t describe it adequately. It is nearly worse than having no sight—it is a shredded vision, and it lends a nightmarish quality to even the smallest movements.
I have to sleep. My hands still feel frozen. They have thawed, I’m sure, but they don’t feel as if they have. I am taking aspirin and drinking plenty of fluids. Starve a fever, feed a cold? Or is it the other way around? I can never remember.
I’ll write again later. I know you are impatient to hear about Paul…
Sam
Hadley—
I am still sorting my emotions about the trip. And what I saw. And what I felt. It was more than you can
This is what I don’t want to think—I don’t even want to write it. Sam, did he know the plane was crashing? Did he feel himself falling out of the sky? You said it was ice on the wings, making the plane too heavy. So that means it wasn’t sudden, right? There was time to think and react.
It means he knew what was coming, that’s what I don’t want to hear but have to know. Just tell me. Please, as soon as you can. Even though I’m not sure I can stand to hear it. I read a book once that said when planes crash and the black box picks up the last words of the pilots and anyone in the cockpit, they’re heard calling for their mothers. That’s what’s killing me, Sam—the idea that Paul died calling for me.
Julie is coming out here. She and I always like to see each other during the holidays, so she’s taking the ferry out from Port Clyde next week. I’m not prepared for her this year. Three years now and suddenly it seems harder than ever.
And that question I asked in my last letter—what do I want? How does it all add up? The painkiller has a strange side effect; it keeps me from being able to block out thoughts. I can’t censor or stem what’s coming up. I’m getting an answer I never thought I’d get. Chalk it up to the Vicodin, maybe…
I’m sending this to the most recent address you gave me—Laika Star—and don’t know when you’ll get it. Be careful, Sam. Life is dangerous.
Hadley
Hadley—
I’m back. Does that surprise you? Time is different for people when they are separated. I am back and I am safe and I have been to Paul’s last moment. I have a great deal to report.
I am not feeling well, Hadley. I considered not telling you, but I know how you would be if you found out I kept it from you. I have pneumonia by most accounts. I guess it settled into my lungs on the trip and I was not well for the return. I made it, though. We have been snowed in since just after we arrived back, so I have not been able to see a doctor. Gus, believe it or not, worked as a mortuary assistant for some years in Florida and he did the diagnosis. It may simply be a bad cold, though I admit it doesn’t feel like that right now. I cough and I am running a fever. Gus has been extremely attentive, so you have no worries. As soon as conditions improve, Cindy has promised to fly in and whisk me away to Anchorage.
I promise I will tell you if I don’t improve rapidly. Promise me that you won’t worry overmuch.
The last three-quarters of the trip—from the point, really, where I sent my last batch of letters—was no picnic. Even Martha, who is unflappable and as unyielding to her body as any human I have ever met, had difficulty. We got hit by two whiteouts, where the snow came so thick and so fast that dogs swirled around you and then disappeared, only to reemerge from a different angle. Every sight and sound seemed reinvented a moment after you saw or heard it. I can’t describe it adequately. It is nearly worse than having no sight—it is a shredded vision, and it lends a nightmarish quality to even the smallest movements.
I have to sleep. My hands still feel frozen. They have thawed, I’m sure, but they don’t feel as if they have. I am taking aspirin and drinking plenty of fluids. Starve a fever, feed a cold? Or is it the other way around? I can never remember.
I’ll write again later. I know you are impatient to hear about Paul…
Sam
Hadley—
I am still sorting my emotions about the trip. And what I saw. And what I felt. It was more than you can
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