Just Like February by Deborah Batterman

Author:Deborah Batterman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: SparkPress
Published: 2018-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

postscript

“Would you like something to drink?” the stewardess asks.

“I’ll have a Coke.” I look at my watch, thinking, If it’s 11:00 a.m. in Los Angeles, what time is it in New York? I move the hour hand to two o’clock. If my mother doesn’t like me to have soda before lunch but it’s already two in the afternoon, am I doing anything wrong? I smile, savoring every sip.

I take my new diary, handmade in China, out of my knapsack, rub my fingers over the silk threads woven into a pattern of flowers and pagodas. I like the turquoise cover and the way the corners are reinforced in small triangles of red leather. And I like the feeling of permanence. I open the diary to the first page.

August 28, 1979

Jake’s friend Gary was waiting for us at the entrance to Disneyland. He lives in Los Angeles and he writes screenplays, but he took the day off to be with us. Everyone needs to take a day off once in a while to go to Disneyland, he said.

Space Mountain was one of the scariest experiences of my life, though it helped to have Gary sitting in front of me and Jake behind. Thankfully, it’s a very short ride.

Late in the day we went to Gary’s house, where Jake and I are spending the night. He lives in a little house a block from the beach. The guest room is tiny, though it’s big enough for two beds, and you can see the ocean from the window. As soon as we arrived, I met the cat he was holding in the picture. The cat’s name is Dylan, and he was curled in a corner of the couch and started purring when I went over to pet him. After dinner Jake and Gary said they had a surprise for me, but I had to go out on the back porch to wait for it. Then they brought out a cake with a sparkler in it and a beautiful diary from Gary and a small bouquet of zinnias from Jake. In the language of flowers, he said, “zinnia” stands for “thoughts of absent friends.” When the petals start to fall, he said, I should crush them in my notebook.

The zinnias, which I’ve placed in the magazine slot of the seat in front of me, are starting to wilt. By tomorrow, the petals will be dropping like confetti. I riffle through the starchy pages of the journal, imagining them filled. How long will it take? What will I write?

August 29, 1979

I’m sitting in seat G3 of a 747, looking out the window at orange clouds. They seem to be making a circle of pollution in the sky over Los Angeles. A voice from the airplane radio tells me to pay attention to the stewardess, whose hands are doing a kind of dance. Her props are a seat belt and an oxygen mask, and her movements are graceful, synchronized to a very calm, very gentle voice that

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