Emma walked into the catastrophe known as her dorm room in her usual state of twitchy fatigue after a day spent in lecture halls and a library cubicle. She’d taken a wind-down walk by Sunset Lake on her way back from the College Center but hadn’t taken in much of this windswept fall day. She’d been absorbed in listening to Higher than Heaven with intense interest, something she wouldn’t admit to.
Emma had seen her mother off to Italy in the customary Hurricane Tabbie style — a swirling vortex of arms, scarves, and hair accompanied by broken fragments of instruction and reminders. Tight as the two were, Emma always felt a rush of relief when the taxi drove away, late again. Weirdly, it also gave her more time with the father she’d never met. Lately, she’d been looking him up on various search engines, getting into his music and seeing then not seeing a resemblance in his photos.
Roc’s music was far from anything else she listened to, like Doves, Turin Brakes, or Björk, but it brought her the closest to him, and his new solo record gave her the feeling that she could see into him in a new way.
Tossing her book bag on the bed, she dropped the headphones around her neck and grabbed a Diet Coke from the fridge under the desk. She booted up the Mac and yanked an oversized plastic clip from her head. Flyaway slices of sandy hair framed a face that revealed her genetic debts — her father’s cheekbones and her mother’s Chagall-blue eyes. She spun slowly in her chair, decompressing, sipping on her drink, and waited for the Earthlink welcome page to open.
In the midst of her mom’s frenzy, Emma knew she’d been dropping a depth charge into Tabbie’s day when she’d said she wanted to meet her father. She’d tried to explain that she felt this primal urge to go to California. Maybe she should’ve left out the part about taking a semester off from Vassar. She didn’t know when, but it had to be soon.
When the screen came on, she glanced past the first two headlines: “Mars Scandal Paints White House Red” and “Amtrak Worker Admits To Goat Prank,” but the third one stopped her cold. With a catch in her breath, she clicked on “Rocker Vanishes Over Pacific” and found herself staring at a photo of her father and reading “Skyjinks Lead To Tragedy: Roc Molotov, 38, Presumed Dead.” She felt fingers pressing on her throat and moving quickly to her heart as the details unwound. She fought back the burning in her eyes as she clicked on “MTV” from “Favorites.” She watched the footage from that morning’s Beach Blast, followed by host Chad Sparx going on about how uncool death is, man. She stared unblinking, uncomprehending, at the shaky images of the parachute and its occupant flapping and dancing, then receding into the clouds.
Emma refused to accept what she saw and read. She knew she had to go to California, as if by going back those three time zones, she could somehow prevent the inevitability of Roc’s death.
Through her tears, she stabbed at her keyboard. Burbank on Southwest at 9:50 a.m. That would work. She entered her credit card info then closed her eyes, sitting perfectly still as her mind careened wildly. The sky had darkened by the time she sent an email to her mom, knowing it would be received after her departure.
I’ll call you when I get to L.A.
Love,
Em