The Moment of Letting Go - J. A. Redmerski Page 0,56
at him.
“Now, please just listen to what I have to say,” he begins; an intense look rests on his face, which initially puts me on edge. “I know you’re afraid. I understand that fear because I was there once, but I promise you everything’ll be OK. I’m not going to tell you what everybody else tells you, all that stuff about how being in a car is more dangerous than flying, or give you statistics, or whatever—that’s cookie-cutter bullshit advice that people give because they think it’s what they’re supposed to say.” He shakes his head. His hands are still fitted about my upper arms. I can smell his minty breath and feel my heart beating in my arms underneath his strong fingers. “Most people never let their feet leave the ground,” he goes on. “Whether they’re afraid of heights, or afraid of hospitals, or they stay in the same place all their life because they’re afraid of change—so many people go through life on the ground and die without ever knowing that they can fly.”
My mind hangs on every one of Luke’s words, as if he were some kind of remarkable mystery; I feel like I want to say something, but my heart wants to just listen.
“Where did your fear of heights come from anyway?” His hands slide away from my arms as he gazes at me with focus.
I have to think about it for a moment. I’ve been asked this question a few times, but I’ve never been able to give anyone a solid answer.
“Was it a bad experience like I had with my brother on that camping trip?”
I shake my head absently. “No … it’s not because of anything like that …” I stop to ponder, never sure of the only answer I’ve ever been able to come up with. “The second I step on a plane, I’m handing my life over to the pilot, and once I’m in the air I can’t change my mind. I can’t tell him to pull over and let me out.” My mind begins to drift, and my gaze strays from Luke’s.
“Fear will kill you,” he goes on. “A natural fear is good, but the kind of fear that you have, Sienna”—his hands squeeze my arms gently—“it’s the unhealthy kind, the terminal-disease kind.” Then he raises his chin importantly; a playful manner swaps with the serious one. “And as of today I’m making it my mission to cure you of it.”
“Terminal diseases have no cure,” I tell him smartly.
“Every disease has a cure,” he comes back. “They’re just waiting to be found is all.”
How does he do that—make me question my own stubborn thoughts?
Finally I begin to nod slowly. “OK, I’ll go. I mean it’s not that big a deal—I’ve been on a plane several times.”
“But have you ever been on a plane and not been afraid the whole flight?”
“No.”
“And have you ever sat by the window and looked down at the landscape without feeling like you might faint?”
A nervous knot moves halfway down the center of my throat and it takes me a moment longer to answer him because it wedges there stubbornly.
“I’ve never sat by the window,” I confess, “or looked out of one while the plane was in the air.”
Luke’s left brow rises just a little and he looks at me in a searching sidelong glance.
“Never? Not once?”
I shake my head slowly and switch my big orange purse onto the opposite shoulder.
“Then today will be your first time,” he says.
My heart falls into the pit of my empty stomach, and now I feel more nauseous than ever.
“No, Luke, I really can’t do that.” I take a step back and sit down on a nearby plastic chair to catch my breath. “I-I can get on the plane and fly over to the other island with you, but”—my head is still shaking, I realize—“but there’s no way I can sit in the window seat or look out … That’s a really bad idea.”
He sits on the edge of the empty seat beside me, his body turned at an angle so he can face me, our knees touching.
“Why is it a bad idea?” He looks thoughtful, concerned.
“Because, seriously … it’s just … Luke, really, I draw the line right there. I’m sorry.”
He peers in at me, ensnaring my unsteady gaze; his eyes are so sincere and comforting and I want to give in to him, but I know that this time I can’t. I just can’t.