Lift: A Serial

by Cynthia Closkey

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Part Seven

June 27

No entries for a few days. Not much to report. I've been at home. Watching lots of TV. I haven't left the property. This morning Dad asked for help in the yard, so I weeded. There are always new weeds.

Today I feel a little more myself. I think what happened the other night was that I had some kind of power surge. It's hard to articulate. Just moving around made me feel elated. That's the best word I can come up with. Like I could fly. I don't know why it was so disorienting. And clearly I can't fly—there's no way these wings could support my weight, given their structure. Then again, why would I have them if they weren't good for something? Then again, who has wings?

I'd be tempted to ask my parents if they were ever involved in government-sponsored experiments in the 1960s if they seemed at all the kind of people who would do that, which they aren't. And besides, if they had, they'd be a lot more helpful now—they'd have some clue as to what is going on.

I think that's the big issue. I have no clue.

June 28

I have decided I have to simply resume my life, at least as much as I've started to rebuild a life in these odd circumstances. What's done is done, I am who I am, and I will have to make what I can with it. This is the track I was on, and it's a good one, I think. Time to get back on it.

I stopped by to say hi to Mrs. Weinstein again, and enjoyed another fabulous lunch. The lady can cook. I complimented her culinary skill and Mr. W agreed with me, but Mrs. W said it was nothing.

"You don't realize how good all this is," I told her. "You could serve this stuff in a deli here and you'd have people lined up around the block."

I could see she was flattered, although she said I was just puffing her up. Mr. W picked up on the idea and asked me if I really meant it.

I told him I thought this town could use a good deli, someplace for a nice sandwich and some fine soup. But, the restaurant business is a tricky one. Low margins, long hours, supplier worries, marketing issues. Not a thing one should take on lightly. Mr. W was caught up already though, and so we spent the afternoon speculating what the place might be like and how such a business is run. I enjoyed thinking through the angles of it. Mrs. W brought out some iced tea and cookies, and then we got into the whole desserts concept, catering, special occasion foods. We talked about location, staffing. Nothing deep, just a brainstorming session.

Mrs. W also lent me a few books, paperback thrillers mostly. She seems to get through almost a book a day. I said I'd bring them back, but she told me to pass them on. She leaves them in waiting rooms, she said, for anyone who forgot to bring something to pass the time.

June 30

I have at last met the other Weinstein, the son, and I can't say I'm better for it. I was in the backyard, reading under the tree, and this guy comes walking up. People are friendly in this neighborhood, but they also have a sense of space and property, and it struck me as odd that someone would come wandering around to the back of the house. But then, maybe he was a friend of my parents' and so felt welcome. So I said hi.

He was not nearly as friendly. He said he was Jake Weinstein. And then, before I so much as introduce myself or even stand up, he launches in on this speech about how I shouldn't be upsetting them. How his dad has heart problems and mustn't be excited, and his mom worries about everything, and the last thing they need is some big-time consultant coming in and getting them worked up over a business proposition.

It took me a minute to figure out what he meant. I sat looking up at him, getting angry because he was attacking me and I couldn't even stand up — it's awkward to get up from sitting at the base of a tree when you have huge wings to maneuver — and plus he was completely misrepresenting the situation. And then, before I said anything, he said he had wanted me to know what the situation was and he felt confident that now that I did I would leave his parents alone. Then he turned and left.

By the time I realized what he had said and got to my feet, he was out of sight, and by the time I got to the front lawn he was gone. I watched his car pull away.

I wished I could fly then, to catch up with him and give him my opinion.

But instead, I went back to my tree and did some calming stretches. At least, they were intended to be calming. They had very little effect on my mood. They felt good though, and afterward I had a clearer picture of what I'll say to this Jake, next time he drops by.

Part Eight

July 1

Today I took measurements again:

Width (tip to tip): 10' 5"
Width (shoulder to joint): 2' 9"
Height: 4' 5"

So the growth has slowed since I started tracking it. However, the wings themselves are a lot stronger — the muscles have more mass. The joints are more rounded. They've changed the way my shoulders did when I started lifting weights. I think I am able to control them more now, but I don't have a baseline to measure against. Like the number of times I bump into things, which seems to have dropped. Maybe I could track the number of bruises.

Speaking of bruises: Even if I have improved, I'm sick of bumping into things, so today I cleared a few things out of my bedroom to make more open space. I put the old knickknacks into a box, and took a useless/decorative chair out. Then I slid the bed over to a wall, so now the center of the room is open. I like it. Moving furniture also exposed a bunch of dust bunnies, and it felt good to clean those out too. It smells hospital-fresh in there now—perhaps too much so. Time to open a window and let summer in.

Also today, I dropped in on Mrs. W, and Mr. W came out of the den to talk about the deli idea some more. He had made some spreadsheets of expenses and revenues. Although I thought he was underestimating the startup costs, he had done a nice job of covering the bases.

But after that weird encounter with their son Jake, I was not sure how to deal with the conversation. On the one hand, I am enjoying the brainstorming, and they clearly are too. Mrs. W keeps describing delicious and economical items that she could make, and it makes my mouth water. On the other hand, there's no getting around the fact that running a deli is serious business, and these two are retired and not spring chickens (as Mrs. W keeps mentioning). And on yet another hand (if I can have three hands—or maybe on a wing), I don't like how this guy came shouting at me. I feel like starting this venture to spite him. Which is clearly not the right reaction, and yet is the hardest to view calmly.

Eventually I had to say something, so I said, "You know, as much as I'm enjoying our planning, I do have doubts about whether we could really pull this off."

Mr. W looked at me. "Jacob talked to you, didn't he?"

The looks on both their faces were unreadable. I said, "He stopped by, yes."

"And I imagine he was not so enthusiastic that we should open a deli."

"That would be an understatement."

They talked to each other about how he was interfering, how he meant well, how he had no room to talk, and so on. Finally they remembered I was sitting there. "You shouldn't take him too hard. He's a good boy," Mr. W said. He shrugged and smiled. "A little more faith in his parents he could have, but he means well."

July 2

I got an email from Kelly today. I haven't heard from her in months. My fault, that, since I haven't been good about responding to her efforts to stay in touch since I left the firm.

It seems now that she's coming to town to meet with a prospective client, and she wants to visit. I'm excited. And nervous—I haven't tried to tell anyone from my old life about my latest "developments." I haven't been sure how to. But I will need to give her some kind of warning before she sees me, in all my winged glory.

July 3

I asked Dad to take a photo of me, with the idea of sending it to Kelly after I talk with her on the phone. I need to get going, because she'll be here next week, after the holiday.

Dad absolutely dove into the photography project—apparently amateur photography was his big hobby before he took up the gardening/yardscaping. He has a variety of lenses and flash units and cameras. He wanted to take some artistic black and white shots of the wings, but I convinced him to start with a few documentary-type color shots, and that we could later have a more extended session. He concluded that he wanted some time to work out the lighting anyway, and right now the yard leaves him little time for anything else.

From something he said I infer that he has been thinking of taking B/W shots of the wings for a few months: He noticed them some morning at breakfast, he said, how the light from the window created interesting shadows and the translucence of the membranes between the bones and muscles. I felt a little creepy about the idea that he's been composing photos of my wings in his mind. But I suppose it's just the artist in him looking for outlets.

Anyway, we did take a few shots for now. He took them to the one-hour place in the mall. I have them scanned and ready to email. I just have to figure out what to say about them.