Chapter 12: Nonna's Birthday

We took off from the Valley airfield at 7:40 on the morning of the thirtieth, in a clear gold light.

Fred sat in the right seat with his headset on and his hands folded in his lap.

Hayes sat in the back with the urn on his knees, because I had asked him to hold it.

He had said almost nothing since we left the hangar, and he was keeping that promise with his whole body.

My hands were wrapped again, in the thinnest dressings the doctor would allow.

I laid them on the yoke the way my first instructor had taught me, lightly, with the palms open.

Four years.

The engine caught and settled.

The runway rolled under the nose.

"Rotate," Fred said quietly.

I eased the wheel back.

The wheels left the ground, and the whole valley fell away in front of me.

I flew north.

I had expected to cry, and I didn't.

My hands remembered everything.

The turn, the trim, the small correction for the wind off the hills.

I flew over Santa Barbara and up the long gold coast, and Fred stayed quiet.

Over the Central Valley, Hayes leaned forward in the back seat and said, very gently, "Lena."

"You're supposed to be silent."

"I know. I only wanted to say that you're good at this."

"Don't talk."

"I'll stop."

He sat back.

In the mirror I saw him wipe his eyes with the heel of his hand.

At 8:50 the vineyards opened below us, row after row of green vines on rolling hills, with a pale mist sitting in the low places.

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