Hover (15 page)

This would be an impossibility for me now, of course, since … well, since Ian. At the time—I was only eleven—I had thought I'd bring my own kids back to Lake Anna. But now, a vacation like this would hold little appeal. Even the notion of having kids—a given for my eleven-year-old self—has deserted me. I was so young, and yet my life's path was so clear then—college, husband, kids.… It's just what girls were supposed to do.

“Ahh! Stop it!” I screech, holding my hands in front of my face, as Emily splashes me.

“Hello, in there,” she says.

“What?”

“Denning, you're completely zoning on me.”

“Oh,” I say, trying in vain to brush the water off my shirt before it soaks through.

Em pushes against the deck, straightening her arms and pulling her feet up underneath her. She pops to a stand in a single movement. I follow as she walks to our lounge chairs and grabs the Coppertone out of her bag.

“Can you help me out with the sunscreen?” she asks.

Emily confounds me. This pool is teeming with men, ones we serve in uniform with every day, and yet, I watch as she casually unclasps the back of her bikini top, lies facedown, and picks up the latest issue of
Cosmo
.

“Em, you can't…” I wave my hand up and down the length of the lounge chair, at a loss for words.

“Can't
what
?”

“Just … just this! It's not—”

“Don't tell me it's not professional!” she snaps. She reaches behind her, hooks her bikini top back together, and sits up to face me. “You know, Sara, I've had it with this! Listen to you! ‘My way is the only way!' ‘I'm professional and you're not!' If you think you're the only woman trying to prove herself on this deployment, I've got news for you. Just because I wear short skirts and swim in a bikini doesn't make me any less of a naval officer than you. Nor does it have anything remotely to do with my ability as a pilot. I mean, where the hell do you get off? You're the one who always screams about equality, that it shouldn't matter who's flying as long as they get the job done.”

“But—”

“But nothing! You can't have it both ways!”

I cross my arms, pursing my lips. I force the air in and out of my nose as I grapple with the guiding tenet that has influenced every thought, action, and behavior since I earned my wings.
If you're competent, it shouldn't matter who's behind the visor.

“And here's a news flash,” she continues. “Femininity and professionalism aren't mutually exclusive! So stop looking down your nose and turn that condescending stare somewhere else!”

I open my mouth to argue, but she cuts me off.

“And while we're at it, for someone who thinks men and women should be equal, you sure do a damn fine job of telling me I'm not. I don't know who's worse, you or Claggett!”

She pulls up the back to the lounge chair, leans against it, and cracks her magazine open, blocking her face from view.

“You need to take a good, hard look at yourself, Sara Denning,” she says from behind the magazine, “because only one of us is being true to herself.”

I stand, stock-still, reeling from the assault. Emily and I have had our moments, to be sure, and our relationship has been a bit strained on the ship lately, but she's never unloaded like this, not in all the years I've known her.

I raise my eyes, scanning the pool deck, where people are laughing, splashing, joking, drinking … enjoying. And it strikes me that I stand very alone in this. What am I missing…?

“I, um, I'll see you in the room,” I mumble.

“Hey, it's your liberty,” she says. With a flick of the hand, she shoos me away.

*   *   *

Crimson comforters with crisscrossed gold stitching adorn the two queen-size beds in our hotel room. I lie on the one closest to the curtained window, staring at the trompe l'oeil ceiling. As intended, its gilded panels appear to float, pulling my eyes up and up, into an illusory three-dimensional heaven. I hover here, studying the figure on the bed far below, wondering why she appears so sad. So I ask her.
Why?

She tells me this is the only way she knows how. That she must remain focused and concentrated in order to live up to her family's expectations. To prove to her father, a decorated navy pilot, that she is up to task. That she can do whatever her brother would have done. Should have done.

But you can still be you. Look at Emily. Does she not meet expectations? Is she not one of the most outstanding naval officers and pilots you know?

The forlorn figure on the bed shifts uncomfortably.
Yes,
she answers.
But Emily is … is …

What? True to herself? Happy?

The figure hesitates, but finally answers.
Yes.

Are
you
happy?

The figure is still. Silent.

I float like a leaf, swirling, spinning, light, dropping until I join the figure, and become heavily weighted once more.

*   *   *

I'm not sure how much time has passed, but when Emily finally returns to our room, it's been long enough to realize that I owe her an apology. Try as I might, though, I can't seem to say it right. I stumble. I start over. I say it again. “Em, really, I just—”

“Sara, stop,” Emily says, turning from the mirror. “Listen, you've apologized. I've apologized. We're good, okay? So can we just put this behind us and try to enjoy our liberty? Please?”

And that's it. Em moves on. She's good that way. No brooding or sulking. Besides, she has more pressing things on her mind. For the next two hours, she remains in constant motion, trying on various outfits, experimenting with umpteen clothing combinations, attempting to decide what to wear tonight. She's downright giddy, and this has lifted my spirits considerably.

If only it would help with the nerves.

The Hail and Farewell begins at seven o'clock, and the closer we draw to the hour, the more nervous I become. Nervously excited, I should say, which is a strange feeling for me. I hate getting “up” for anything. But after I decided I was going to enjoy my liberty just like Emily, I've allowed a thought that I had shut out earlier. Eric might be here. Since then, I've secretly buzzed, unable to shut off the anticipation.

“Okay, how about this?” Em says, flaunting an extremely mini miniskirt.

She turns a slow circle, ensuring I have a comprehensive view and adequate time to form my appraisal.

“They've all looked great. Too short, in my opinion, but you don't really care about my opinion, so I'd say you're safe with any of them.”

She rolls her eyes. “Okay, I think I'm going with this.”

She does a quick spin in front of the long closet mirror, pink chiffon layers levitating around her. She wears a form-fitting black sleeveless top, holds her head high, and radiates confidence.

As I watch her, I wonder for the thousandth time how she can stand hanging out with me. I'm so much more comfortable in my uniform, which is lame, I know. But at a function like this, I'm naked—approached by men with drinks in their hands who only see the woman before them. Not the officer. I've spent so much time learning how to be the always-professional, gender-neutral officer that I don't know how to act otherwise. It's social awkwardness at the highest level.

And like two worlds colliding, everything will be ratcheted up a notch tonight if Eric is here.

Em adds layers of jewelry and I marvel at her. She doesn't have this problem. Completely at ease, uniform or no.

“Em, how do you do it?”

“How do I do what?” she says defensively. She's prepping for another one of my lectures, I can tell.

“That,” I say, motioning up and down her body, from perfect hair and makeup to miniskirt and heels. “You're just so … comfortable.”

She stops, turning to face me, realizing I've asked her an honest question, no barbs attached.

I receive a long, pointed look before she speaks. “I'm not trying to be something I'm not,” she says.

I stare back.

I stare back some more.

Growing up, I had never considered a career in the navy, despite being raised by my father, a pilot and twenty-four-year Navy veteran. He would regale Ian and me with tales of his around-the-world adventures, and while we were both enthralled, it was only Ian who wanted to follow in our father's footsteps. I had set my sights elsewhere until that fateful day nine years ago, when life as I knew it ended. When I made Ian's dream my own.

I was woefully ill-prepared for what lay ahead. Even though my father treated Ian and me equally, imparting lessons learned from his time in the navy to both of us, my teenage self lingered in the Mall of America, devoured the latest issues of
Vogue,
and even donned a white lace gown with elbow-length gloves for the Minneapolis Honors Cotillion.

The grief from losing Ian overwhelmed my carefree soul, but entering the Naval Academy crushed it altogether. I was irrevocably changed through that experience, withdrawing into myself to survive, knowing I couldn't quit because Ian wouldn't have quit. To succeed at the Academy, you
really
have to want to be there. And as a woman, immersed in an invisible, insidiously misogynistic culture, it's doubly true.

Somehow, I managed. Somehow, I graduated. And then, a strange thing happened. I did well in flight school. Really well. And one day, it dawned on me that I was enjoying what I was doing. The training, the missions, the stick and rudder skills. I was growing and melding and succeeding in the navy without even realizing it. I wasn't just doing this for Ian anymore. His dream had truly become mine. I had found what I was meant to do.

“But I
know
who I am,” I say. “I'm a pilot. I'm—”

She holds up a hand. “I'm not talking about being a pilot.”

She gives me a knowing look, pausing well before continuing. “Sometimes I get glimpses of the real Sara, like when we're at home. But I tell you what, at the squadron and out here, you're different. I mean,
really
different.”

The real Sara …
Em is right. Even though I've found something I do well, something I enjoy, it has come at a steep price. In the deepest depths of my damaged soul, I know that the real Sara is lost. She has been for a long time, hidden behind so many defensive layers, I can't find her anymore.

I deny it anyway. “No, it—”

The hand goes up again. “I'm not saying that this
different
you is a
bad
you. But you don't have to suffocate all that's Sara. Like now. We're going to a party and it's fun to dress up. So why not?”

“I don't know, Em. I just … I don't know.”

She reaches into one of several shopping bags lined under the bathroom counter, and I throw my arms up in front of my face as she draws something back like a rubber band and flings it toward me. A pair of lacy black underwear lands on my extended fingers. I look up as a black bra follows, landing on my shoulder.

“What the—”

“I'm telling you,” she says, her playful tone returning. “You need these.”

“When did you—”

“While you were in one of the fitting rooms. Come on, Sara. No one will know.”

“
I'll
know. I just can't do this. Not yet, anyway.”

“Suit yourself,” she says, turning her attention back to the mirror.

“I'm sorry, Em. But thanks anyway.”

“Hey, you're a work in progress, but I'm patient.”

I climb out of bed and don my new blue blouse, tying the wrap myself. It doesn't look as good as when Em did it, but close enough. After brushing my hair, I'm about to pull it into a ponytail when I feel a hand on my arm.

“Please,” she begs. “Don't ruin it.”

“Ruin what?”

“Your hair. Keep it long.”

“I don't know. I don't like it in my face, and with who we'll be seeing tonight … I mean, just wearing something like this is on the edge for me.”

“Okay, just humor me for a second.” She turns to the dressing area counter and rummages through her toiletries bag. “Here, stand still and let me see how this looks.”

She slides a brown, wooden headband over my head, pulling my hair back on the sides in the process. “What do you think?”

I look in the mirror. At least my hair would be out of my eyes.

“It's sort of not too bad,” I admit.

“Oh, thank fuckin' god.”

She makes a few last-minute additions to her makeup and final touch-ups to her hair.

“Okay, let's get outta here,” she says. “I need a drink.”

 

18

Emily has timed our arrival to be exactly forty-five minutes late. We walk into the Crystal Ballroom, just off the lobby, into a sizeable crowd. The strike group officers here number in the hundreds when you include the pilots from the carrier air wing. And the women? Like moths to flame. They're everywhere. And they're gorgeous, too. I don't know where they came from, but they all look like they've just stepped off a runway. I don't think I could look or feel any more plain.

Emily fits in perfectly with this group of women who wear bright colors, strapless dresses, and perfect makeup. And if they were looking to meet up with someone, they picked the perfect place. The men outnumber the women easily five to one.

Just like the scene at the pool, it's obvious that this group has been imbibing for hours prior to our arrival, probably hitting several pubs en route to this event. The conversation is loud, the laughter excessive. I stealthily scan the room for Eric as I follow Em, who makes a beeline for the bar.

It's not long before she twirls a half-emptied drink in her hand, holding court with two male admirers—officers from another ship. Soon, several more men join our little gathering. Emily gives them all a grand hello, happy drunk style.