Page 10 of The Otherworld

I rip my arm out of Dad’s grasp and shove the door open, bolting outside. I hear Dad shout my name, but Mom says, “Let him go, John.” And he does.

I race across the driveway to my Mustang, diving inside and starting the engine. It’s foggy as hell this morning, so I have to drive slower than usual to the port. Blankets of mist wrap every tree in sight. It’s cold for June. Or maybe that’s just my hands gripping the steering wheel. Knuckles white.

Memories rush back to me as I drive down the familiar winding road.

It was sunny that morning. Adam drove because I didn’t have my license yet. He rapped his fingertips on the steering wheel in time with “Fortunate Son” playing on the radio. We both wore aviator shades. Windows down. Sunlight on the dashboard, on the veins in his arms.

I hang a right, swerving into the driveway for the port. Everything is quiet, frozen in time. I check the dash clock. 8:34.

Hangars loom like watchmen in the fog, which is slowly thinning out. I park my car and get out, slamming the door shut. The sound is like a gunshot in the quiet of the sleepy port. Seagulls cry in the distance. Tidewater laps against the docks. Adam’s keys jangle in my hand.

“Let’s get up there,” Adam said, grinning as he slapped my shoulder. He was only two inches taller than me. Fifteen had shot me up to his level. I liked it there.

His de Havilland Beaver was already waiting for us, tied to the dock, her blue pinstriped wings ready to take flight. We’d done this so many times, the walk was routine. I’d been up there for dozens of hours, Adam, my instructor, telling me what to do—guiding my hands over the instruments. The more we went up together, the less he did for me, the less he even had to tell me.

I felt good. He made me good.

The dock bobs up and down as I walk out to Adam’s other plane—the one he uses for passenger flights. I stop at the end of the dock and gaze out over the water. Endless gray waves roll into the fog.

I wish I could believe the sun is burning it off, but there’s no way to know for sure. If I take off, pushing the weather, and the cloud base drops any lower…

I don’t care. I’m going up.

I need to.

Before I can change my mind, I start untying the Beaver from the dock, my hands slick with cold sweat.

I pulled open the door, sliding in first so Adam could sit beside me. But he hesitated. While I slid the key into the ignition, he just clung to the ladder, watching me with a knowing grin on his face. Standing there in that bomber jacket, he looked like a fighter pilot from World War II.

“Are you getting in, or what?” I asked.

Adam lowered his shades and looked at me, his blue eyes lit up with a spark I hadn’t seen before. “No… You’re on your own, Superman.”

My heart stopped. “W-what? No, wait—”

“First solo flight,” Adam declared.

My stomach somersaulted.

“Now? Today? You didn’t tell me—”

Adam laughed. “Of course I didn’t. You’d be a nervous wreck.”

Too late. My heart was pounding double time. “But I can’t,” I stammered. “I can’t do this, Adam. I need you.”

Adam shook his head. “No, you don’t,” he said. “You got this.” And he shut the door.

Slam. I’m alone inside the Beaver. I take a deep breath, sit back, and try to focus my mind.

Ignition switches: on. I listen as the engine rumbles to life. The propeller spins in front of me, slicing the fog. While waiting for the engine to warm up, I go through my checklist. Fuel levels, oil temp, pressure gauges, tank feeds. Everything is good to go.

I glance out the window at the empty dock.

Adam stood outside on the dock, his arms crossed over his chest, still grinning in the sunlight. A six-foot-one mountain. He always called me Superman, but it was a joke. I knew who the real hero was.

“Good luck,” he mouthed, and gave me a two-finger salute.

I saluted him back.

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